True Grit (2010)

I’ve yet to see John Wayne‘s “True Grit.” If I saw it as a child, I have no memory of The Duke playing one-eyed alcoholic U.S. Marshal Rueben “Rooster” J. Coburn, who is hired as a bounty hunter by a 14-year-old to capture her father’s killer. Joel and Ethan Coen are behind this re-adaptation of Charles Portis’ book, and in mostly serious “No Country for Old Men” mode. This western isn’t as bloody violent or brilliant as the 2007 gem, it’s missing a mad anything-can-happen spark, but “Grit” is wildly entertaining. Jeff Bridges (“The Big Lebowski”) plays Coburn, and brilliantly so. Coburn is old and cantankerous. His brain drowned long ago in whiskey, so his speech is slurred and his motor skills awkward. These traits are hilarious and sad. This is more concerned about play of words, language and character than plot, and the Coens rock the proceedings. As the teen employer, Hailee Steinfeld is amazing, forceful and blunt. She not only gets the better of Coburn, but Bridges. Even Matt Damon, as a Texas Ranger, can’t match this teen. Give Steinfeld an Oscar. A-

Tron (1982) and Tron: Legacy (2010)

“Tron: Legacy” must be one of the longest-planned sequels in film history. It was 28 years ago that the legendary and infamous “Tron” -- the CGI-before-there-was-CGI Walt Disney thriller about computer malware run amok and a hacker hero, set inside a computer -– crashed at the box office. I saw it then, at age eight. I recall being enthralled and absolutely confused, my little noodle baked to a crisp. I went into “Tron: Legacy” with only faint memories from 1982, and re-watched the original a few days later. Here are my takes:

“Tron” has an eternal place in geek culture, it’s a thriller with a mind-warping zinger plot that still impresses. The gist: Jeff Bridges is Kevin Flynn, a young computer programmer booted out of monster corporation ENCOM. He is a hacker, living above the game arcade he runs in an on old L.A. neighborhood. When he’s not attacking ENCOM by computer, he might be sleeping with the girls who dig his joystick skills. (And this is Disney!) At ENCOM’s HQ, perennial villain David Warner is an evil suit who stole Flynn’s work, and yet is slave to Master Control Program, a HAL-like supercomputer bent on world domination as a computer game.

In a nifty bit of “Got you!,” Master Control zaps Flynn into its inner-computer world. There, byte-sized Flynn must battle for his life in a 1s and 0s version of “Spartacus,” with gladiator-style fights. He has a friend, Tron -– an anti-malware computer program warrior. That’s Bruce Boxleitner, who’s also a disgruntled ENCOM programmer and current lover to Flynn’s ex (Cindy Morgan) in the real world.

The special effects are terrible for today’s eyes, and the costumes may never have looked good -– they seem not much more than magic-marker drawings on cardboard attached to bicycle helmets. Some of the action gets fuzzy, and floating roofing staples (computer bracket marks?) are too goofy for words. But the film is damn smart, tech-wise. It foresaw avatars and “Avatar,” and computer warfare, and hackers commanding massive computer networks – taking down a company or country with the click of a mouse. It’s the father of “The Matrix.” When the heroes take up light cycles, the film rocks. The colors pop. I felt eight again.

All respect is due to director/creator Steven Lisberger. He may have been snickered at in 1982, the year of beloved sci-fi classics “E.T.” and “Blade Runner,” but now … “Told you so” is the phrase. B+

Which brings us to “Tron: Legacy,” which follows Kevin Flynn’s grown son Sam (Garrett Hedlund), a hacker who lives in an old warehouse by the river. Hey, it’s no van. Dad is missing, plucked away in 1989 by unknown circumstances. Mom (Morgan in photos) is dead. After busting the balls of ENCOM – now corporately evil again -- Sam is visited by Alan (Boxleitner), the programmer who created and on the grid was Spybot-like hero Tron. Alan sends Sam to Flynn’s old arcade, apparently dormant for three decades, but still cranking along with electricity. (Funny that, huh?)

As with his father, Sam is blasted by a laser into a computer world grid, an updated but dead-cold version of the inner programming that marked the 1982 film. Much is the same: Light cycles and flying roofing staples, gladiator games ala “Spartacus,” with kidnapped programs byting the dust. Of course, everything looks better, faster. (The special effects truly are amazing.) And, as any preview told you, dad is there. Kevin Flynn (Bridges again) is older, heavier and resigned to exile in a virtual Recycle Bin.

This universe is ruled by Clu, the avatar of the older Flynn briefly seen in “Tron.” Clu is un-aged, and power mad. He’s Master Control Program in the (sort of) flesh. Naturally, Sam has to rile dad into fighting himself. Sam has help: A warrior played by Olivia Wilde, who – in a shockingly sexist bit – describes herself as a “rescue.” A rescue what, dear? Cat? Dog?

That line is just a bit of the problems, aside from a blueprint rip-off of the first film’s plot. Tron appears in the briefest of flashbacks, and then as Clu’s enforcer, but always masked. For a film called “Tron: Legacy,” there isn’t much in the way of Tron. Talk about a rip-off. I think the phrase is “WTF?” Still, first-time director Joseph Kosinski hits home runs with the action, and the use of 2D in the “real-world” and 3D in the grid. The trick recalls “The Wizard of Oz,” and shows that 3D is not a marketing gimmick.

In a second instance of WTF, Michael Sheen has a cameo that is brilliant and yet painfully clichéd. He plays a mob-connected androgynous nightclub owner who may be the child of Frank-N-Furter and Ziggy Stardust. On the bright side: In the club are two DJs – played by the guys who provide the film’s score. Daft Punk is the duo’s name. Damn if it isn’t spectacular, and outpaces the film its supposed to support.

Bridges is awesome as always, even if his young Clu seems too CGI’d for any good. Or bad, as the plot dictates. When Clu opens his mouth, the character looks all plasticy. The eyes seem vacant. David Warner’s triple-villain from “Tron” was far more effective, even if he was a low-rent Darth Vadar. With no mask. Boxleitner, by the way, must be loved by God. Or a plastic surgeon. Dude looks good.

“Tron” is absolutely worth re-visiting. But all that planning and hundreds of millions of dollars in production for a sequel, I’m left wanting. Lisberger was ahead of the curve by a decade. Kosinski and his team are looking in the rear-view mirror. For a film with “Legacy” in the title, there isn’t much to be seen. B-

Cronos (1993)

Guillermo del Toro’s debut “Cronos” is a dark beauty: A vampire tale about a grandpa-granddaughter love straight from “Heidi,” but this old man licks snotty blood off bathroom floors and the girl can swing a skull-smashing club. This is nasty violent and funny as hell, a precursor to del Toro’s later genius work. We start in 1590s Spain as a watchmaker produces a device that gives eternal life, in all its eternal damnation. We jump to present day as an antiques seller (Federico Luppi) finds the mechanism – a gold-plated, egg-shaped spider -- inside a sculpture. The device turns the old man into Dracula, and freaks out young Aurora (Tamara Shanath). Meanwhile, a dapper thug (Ron Perlman of del Toro’s “Hellboy”) is hunting the device for his Howard Hughes-like uncle. Del Toro provides sick-minded visuals: Grandpa rips embalmer’s stitches from his mouth, and wears a taped-on suit backward. There are mind-blowing punches at religion: Risen grandpa –- full of wounds -– repeatedly declares his name, “I am Jesus. Jesus Gris!” Even the dialogue bleeds. A

Old Dogs (2009)

Billed as a family comedy, “Old Dogs” is offensively bad. No shocker, as it’s from Walt Becker, the guy responsible for “Wild Hogs.” That film starred John Travolta, who mugs here like a fool who long ago forgot “Pulp Fiction.” J.T. is co-partner of a NYC-based sports marketing firm co-run by life-long chum Robin Williams. The plot gets going when Williams’ tight-ass dweeb learns he fathered twins he never previously met. Nevermind that Wiliams' dip doesn't even ask for proof. He just bends. The mom is played by Kelly Preston, wife of Travolta. One of the twin brats is a Travolta. No wonder J.T. is all smiles. The film’s comedy relies on smashed, electrocuted and penguin-bitten balls, gay accusations, and rape-by-gorilla, and demeans fathers, homosexuals, the elderly, Japanese culture, and anyone with dark skin. Worse than the comedy is the lame swipe at emotional connections, with Williams looking pained. A full disaster, and sadly Bernie Mac's last film. F

Inside Job (2010)

Imagine you purchased a dishwasher from me. Later, after the dishwasher has shattered your dishes and torched the house, you learn that I knowing sold you a faulty dishwasher. And not only that, but I and my friends wagered and made money off the likelihood that the dishwasher would fail. You also learn I paid reviewers to praise the machine’s merits. Want to buy an oven from me? That’s “Inside Job,” a face slap to the U.S. financial system and how “too big to fail” banks and mortgage firms played with trillions of dollars as if it were “Monopoly” game night. It starts off with a rockin’ Peter Gabriel tune and ends in a seething fit. Director Charles Ferguson berates Dems and GOP’ers alike, shows talking heads wise and unrepentant, and uses news footage – ratings firms CEOs insisting that their opinions are not meant to be taken seriously – so outrageous, one can only laugh. This is about over-privileged men who, not unlike teenagers, insist they require no curfew and then never return home. “Job” is cold and calculating, as are all great heist films. A

The Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (2010)

“The Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader” is No. 3 in the seven-book series by Christian writer C.S. Lewis. I only read Book 1, “The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.” So, I shall not judge Mr. Lewis. I do know “Prince Caspian” was cinema dullness except for a cameo by Tilda Swinton, who rocked the first film as the temptress White Witch. She returns here for mere seconds as menacing smoke. (Also absent: Every actor of any merit.) “Treader” gives us the same plot as before at half-pace as two of the four Pevensie siblings (Georgie Henley and Skandar Kynes) are again zapped from war-torn England to Narnia for swashbuckling action on an old ship. The youngsters’ mission here involves a mysterious island and a smoke monster absolutely not meant to invoke “LOST,” but rather sin itself. “Dawn” smartly plays at the young audience Lewis was going after. It’s goofy fun and better than the recent “Harry Potter” dose of moodiness. Lessons of morality abound. There is a “Ghostbusters” reference so hilarious, it can’t be unintentional. B

The Warrior’s Way (2010)

Samurai warrior/cowboy mash-up “The Warrior’s Way” swings wide. Its goals are high: The grandeur and grit of classic 1960s epics by Sergio Leone and Akira Kurosawa, the mystical vision of “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,” and the violent, other-worldly feel of “300.” Plus slapstick comedy ala Looney Tunes. It fails on every level. “Warrior” is uncomfortably, offensively bad.

Here, a lone samurai warrior (Jang Dong Gun, as blank as a paper lunch bag) cuts down his familial enemies, but spares the life an infant girl. For his act of mercy, he is hunted by his own, and flees to Dust Bowl America. There he finds a derelict circus town ruled by outlaws (led by Danny Houston). If you’ve ever flipped past a Clint Eastwood film, you know what’s next. No cliche is left untouched.

There’s a woman, of course, an Annie Oakley orphan played by Kate Bosworth as if she were channeling Jesse from "Toy Story." The town’s mayor is a black midget (Tony Cox) named 8 Ball, who has an “8” stamped on his head. Racist much? Geoffrey Rush gets top billing and sucks up scenery as the town drunk, a former gunman with a broken heart. He gets in a few laughs.

Director Sngmoo Lee demands laughs for his violence. Bosworth’s cowpoke is tied to a bed for gang rape and the camera zooms in on her spread legs. Later, a pistol is held to the infant’s head. Laughing yet? Houston is at the crux of each scene, wearing a “Phantom of the Opera” mask. As for this CGI world, nothing feels remotely real or even ironically significant. This is a first-draft VFX reel in need of help. The fights are eyesore bad, every one. D-

Marmaduke (2010)

If “Garfield: The Movie” is to your movie world what “Apocalypse Now” is to mine, then you’ll still be disappointed by the CGI/live-action treatment of “Marmaduke,” the comic strip about a Great Dane and his family. Perma-stoner Owen Wilson voices the title dog, uprooted from Noname, Kansas, to Orange County, Calif., where he learns to surf. I’ll spare naming the actors who appear on screen. Most of the cast seem embarrassed, although William H. Macy is good as a pompous hippie boss. The CGI work is straight-to-video bad, and the dialogue and plot worse -- the guys who made this children’s flick seem never to have met a child. The film begins and ends with a dog fart, highlights of sorts. Older than 10? Run from this ugly mutt of a commercial flick. D+

Fame (1980 and 2009)

“I’m gonna live for ever. I’m gonna learn how to fly.” Those words are the soul and theme of 1980’s “Fame.” It is the almost-prayer that students at the N.Y. School of the Performing Arts send up as they dance impromptu atop cars and trucks in the busy streets. The reality, though, is harsh: Failure is more likely, or a desperate late-night abortion, or a self-imposed exile worthy of Michael Corleone. The young actors, especially Gene Anthony Ray as a homeless dancer, are amazing. The remake serves up synthetic fluff so square it wouldn’t disturb a single moral at a Family on the Focus meeting. In 2009, there are no open gays at a drama/arts school. Seriously. The young actors are OK, hired more for their magazine cover appeal rather than gritty talent. The teachers (Megan Mullally especially) rule the roost. Both films suffer from a rushed auditions-to-graduation timeline and a myriad of plots that get lost in the kitchen sink pace. 1980: B+ 2009: C-

The Usual Suspects (1995)

“The Usual Suspects” torched my film-freak brain 15 years ago. The smoke lingers. Haven’t seen it? Stop reading. I can’t talk about “Suspects” without spilling the end to this crooked crook’s tale. See, Bryan Singer is director and Christopher McQuarrie is writer, but Kevin Spacey is God here. The other characters and we in the audience are his chess pawns. We open on a cargo ship on fire with bodies everywhere before jumping to one survivor in an ER and another in police custody, getting grilled. Rhetorically. Not literally. We only think Spacey’s sickly conman Roger ‘Verbal’ Kint is spilling to the cops. But Kint is really Keyzer Söze, the devil himself. His whole confession is a mixture of truth and sly lies that can never be unraveled, and I gladly fall for the ruse every time. The ending is obvious now. It’s Kevin fhk’n Spacey. But in 1995, we still lived in a ‘Who is this guy?’ world, and Netscape didn’t help. Having an actor play chess master has never felt so damn good. A

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows, Part 1 (2010)

I was a rabid, wild fan of “LOST.” The TV show about crashed survivors trapped on a mysterious island was brilliant, fascinating, maddening and not a little frustrating. The most grating aspect of the show, though, was The Set-Up Episode. Every year, the drama’s momentum would stop dead as the writers struggled to move the myriad of characters to some exact point for no other reason than doing so helped set-up a big season finale shocker. Nothing of substance occurred. Not a “LOST” fan? How’s this for an analogy: Ever watch a choir or symphony enter and stumble around a stage, finding their assigned spots, and sit there thinking, “Get on with it!”

That’s “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows, Part 1,” a 2-hour, 30-minute, set-up episode for … you guessed it, “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows, Part 2.” How long will that film be? I read all the books by J.K. Rowling, and the series as a whole is brilliant, fascinating, maddening and not a little frustrating, and also wildly funny and satirical. Reading that final book, though, I slogged through a dreary and stretched-out opening. I kept thinking, “Get on with it.”

The action, if you want to call it action, in print and here consists of nothing but moving people in place. Ad nauseam. Rowling needed a harsh editor, and so does this film. If masterpiece novels such as “East of Eden” and “Dr. Zhivago” can be successfully cut to manageable film size, so can this. But Warner Bros. is quite happy to make $40 per couple rather than $20. That’s not magic.

Now I’ll get on with it, before this review runs 2 hours 30 minutes. In this 7.0 chapter, our young magical heroes – Harry (Daniel Radcliffe), Hermione (Emma Watson) and Ron (Rupert Grint) – are on the run. Or, rather, they are on the chase of a series of Horcruxes, objects that hold chunks of the soul of evil Lord Voldermort (Ralph Fiennes). Destroying the objects destroys Voldermort. (Have no idea what I’m talking about? These plots need flow charts to follow.)

The trio spends most of this chase not chasing, but hiding in a tent in either desolate woods, on a desolate beach and … yards away from the world’s most desolate trailer park not in Mississippi. As Rowling did, director David Yates and screenwriter Steve Kloves stretch out this wait camp for a good hour or more, when 20 minutes would do. When these young adults are not pondering and fretting what to do, they mourn their dead mentor Dumbledore (Michael Gambon). Then they wait some more.

This is the weakest of the “Potter” films, plot and momentum wise, but it’s not bad. Magic abounds. The cinematography by Eduardo Serra (“Defiance”) may be the best looking of the series, and the three leads carry their large portion of the film with great ease. The best is Watson, who nails the frustration of not just the Voldermort predicament, but also surviving the emotional roller coaster and sometimes childish ways teenagers act toward one another as they approach adulthood, and (hopefully) wise up. I’m still not sure about Grint, who could out pout any single character from (dare I say it?) “Twilight.” But that’s how poor Ron is written. Radcliffe is a growing star.

The best chunk by far: A short section of “Hollows” is dedicated to a tale of three brothers who challenge Death himself. Yates uses a wondrous Asian-ink-inspired animation that is a marvel to watch. It’s also scarier and more direct than any other scene in this “wait for it” installment.

Film watched, I now wait for “Part 7.5,” the finale. Bring it on and do it quickly. I hate waiting. B-

A Christmas Carol (2009)

“A Christmas Carol” is the second-most popular story concerning December 25, behind the whole Christ-Savior-manger thing. This version of Scrooge's awakening gives us Jim Carrey lording with wild amusement over an all-CGI animated spectacle from director Robert Zemeckis. The former Ace Ventura spins gold as the miser and his three ghosts, saying otherwise would make one a ba-humbug. As well, the animation is far better than Zemeckis’ other animated efforts, the “The Polar Express” and “Beowulf,” but that ain't saying much. Yes, eyes finally sparkle, and skin has creases and sags never seen before in this fare. But we are still talking mannequin herky-jerky inhuman bodies. A couple years worth of Christmases went into this flick, the best effects Disney can buy, and with that, the beautiful simplicity of Dickens’ tale is buried under razzle-dazzle fairy dust. Here’s hoping Zemeckis leaves the birth of Jesus alone. B-

A History of Violence (2005)

David Cronenberg returns to his seemingly favorite theme of fraternal rivalry in “A History of Violence.” Here, a small-town diner owner Tom (Viggo Mortensen) kills with scary precision two psychotic murderers – possibly father and son -- who mean harm. Tom, injured in the melee, becomes a national hero. TV news crews visit. So does a black car with a grisly-scarred face thug (Ed Harris, never creepier) in the backseat. Creepy Ed says Tom ain’t Tom, he’s Philly mob man Joey, and brother Richie (William Hurt) wants him back in -- irony alert -- The City of Brotherly Love. Shockingly violent, critics hailed this as some mirror of American values. That’s a bit too deep. This is about family, brothers and fathers and sons, and the cold stone fact that if one is bred in violence, he will never, ever, escape it. History always repeats itself. Where ever you are. The wife’s (Mario Bella) horror and then carnal desire of her violent hubby is raw, as is the son, who learns that a fist and a gun will get you further than a book and a joke. Fascinating throughout, the final silent scene is a beaut. A

The Social Network (2010)

“The Social Network” opens with a jaw-dropper slashing. Words are the weapons. Harvard nerd Mark Zuckerberg (Jesse Eisenberg) disses his Boston U. girlfriend (Rooney Mara): You ain’t as smart as me. She dishes back lines that could make James Ellroy faint. This is the start of an instant-classic movie from director David Fincher (“Se7en”) about the founding of Facebook. But only in part. It's really about the current Internet generation -– billionaires so young they can barely purchase a bottle of Jameson. Money? Boring. Six jets and a Manhattan pad? Dull. Oprah's couch is Mecca. These guys just want to be liked, in all senses of the word. The brilliant thou-shall-judge plot, of course, concerns whether Zuckerberg created or stole Facebook, and his one friend (Andrew Garfield) screwed in the process. Twenty years from now, after Facebook is gone, cinema fans still will point to this as the greatest autopsy of our fame-is-good era. This is almost 1975 “Network”-level good, and satirically funny. Eisenberg has never been better or colder, more desperate. Aaron Sorkin (“A Few Good Men”) penned the brain-candy screenplay. A

The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest (2010)

“The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest” finishes the so-called Millennium Trilogy not with a blast or a happy or even a grim conclusion. It is not what I hoped for in a Swiss-language series that started with a killer thriller (“The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo”) followed by a middling-by-comparison second-part bridge story (“The Girl Who Played With Fire”).

This deficit is not the fault of director Daniel Alfredson or his writers, though. It is apparent from Web stories that source book author and leftist-journalist Stieg Larson planned a 10-part series on his Superman alter-ego, a left-wing magazine editor named Mikael Blomkvist (Michael Nyqvist), and his punk/hacker lover-cum-daughter figure Lisbeth Salander (Noomi Rapace), a goth girl who would make Robert Smith cower. Alas, Larson died.

“Nest” brings the events of the first film full circle. “Tattoo” focused on a young woman who was brutalized by her father and brother, and a woefully corrupt government. As set up in “Fire,” it is Lisbeth who suffers a similar fate. Alas, in a twist that takes much of the sting – pardon the pun – out of Lisbeth, our heroine spends nearly the entire film hospitalized and then incarcerated, away from Mikael. It is he (again, Stieg) who must save Lisbeth’s life, and, I suppose by some weird symbolic effort, that of all women, against the Men Who Hate Women. (The original title of the first book/film. This third book’s Swedish title was “The Air Castle That Exploded.” I don’t know what it means.)

Love it or hate it, it’s been a hell of ride in a single year. I can’t recall another series of films that put one woman through such a hellish trip of beatings, rapes, near deaths and torture. Yet, they introduced a kick-ass, no-shit heroine. Lisbeth, as played by Rapace, has a singular fury and obsession normally reserved for Eastwood or Stallone of some French European hit man too cool for school. Alfredson improves on his direction here, the wheels don’t grind as much here.

A major sore spot opens up here. Larson has a killer lead heroine, hands down. But his other women are absolute doormats. It's Mikael's co-editor/fuck buddy (Lena Endre). Erika always has been the sicko male-fantasy doormat woman, always available and always willing and always forgiving, but here she goes over the top. Or under the bottom, so to speak. Mikael is an ass to her from frame one, and Erika runs back to him. Again and again. I hated this in Book 1, and it showed ugly bright here in silver screen film.

As with “Fire,” “Nest” is not bad, it has nasty, evil grandpops running about doing bad deeds, but it’s just lacking a true finale. A third-act confrontation between Lisbeth and her evil Bond-villain brother brings back a bit of the revenge kick from “Tattoo,” but this third supposed series closer remains just another bridge. One that with Larson’s death and no more books leads nowhere. So, a downgrade from thee second film. B-

The Crazies (1973 and 2009)

Remakes are shadows of their originals, right? Every once in a while, though, an exception appears. Such is the case of “The Crazies.” Both follow the same outline: A military plane crashes in a small town’s main water source (Pennsylvania in 1973, Iowa in 2009) and unleashes a chemical weapon. The insidious agent turns the locals into mad killers, and the Army steps in for control. Then extermination. The ’73 version is spearheaded by Zombie King George A. Romero, who also has a co-writer/producer credit on the remake (directed by Breck Eisner).

Version 1 is a herky-jerky K-Mart cheapie that bounces between two firefighters and one’s girlfriend, stiff military honchos and a desperate scientist. Way too many people. There’s precious little suspense and no ending. I dug the scenes with normal regular folk fighting for their lives when they are mistaken for zombie-like killers, but the commentary push on Kent State falls flat. C+

Version 2 is a grisly violent flick that focuses only on two lawmen and one’s wife, skipping the larger picture. A total lack of outside information and the fine actors drive the suspense. Several lapses in logic and a lack of satire hurt the film, but it’s wildly entertaining. Two scenes rock: A deranged principal with a pitchfork and an equally mad coroner with a bone saw. The violence is nasty, but emotional, too. B

Children of Men (2006)

“Children of Men’ is the movie 1984’s “Nineteen Eighty Four” wanted to be. It takes the DNA of P.D. James’ stellar dystopian sci-fi novel of the same name, and runs in a vastly different, but fascinating, direction.

On its bleak surface, it’s a nightmare about the collapse of civilization. Dig deep and pay attention, and it is apparent that director Alfonso Cuaron has made the redemptive film of our time, outpacing Mel Gibson’s torture-porn film, “The Passion of the Christ” by miles. "Children" also is one of the most pro-life films ever made despite the shocking violence. It is one of the best films of this young century.

Its 2027, London. The world has de-evolved into madness. No children have been born for 18+ years. The world’s youngest person has been stabbed to death. New York City has been obliterated. Entire nations have fallen. And the coffee shop that cubicle office worker Theo Faron (Clive Owen, robbed of an Oscar) has just walked out of explodes in a fireball. Theo drops his coffee cup. This is in the first amazing 5 minutes of “Children.” The film gets better, and remains mysterious. We never learn the cause of the infertility, and that unknown is vital. The unknown is ... vital. A must.

Faron is a dead walking soul who doesn’t give a fuck, living in a world that’s dying. Not even the sudden appearance of his radical ex-wife (Julianne Moore) spurs him to life. When she asks him for a favor – to help ferry a young African woman to safety – his only interest is money. In a quick scene of shocking violence along a rural highway, Theo’s world is turned upside down. I can’t give away the plot details here, but slowly and viciously, every one and thing in his life is ripped away. Even his shoes. As the film marches to its climax, though, Theo gains purpose. He finds his life and hope in a land of darkness.

Cuaron and his screenwriters use every ripped-from-the-headlines source they can, turning England into a Euro-Iraq, torn apart by terrorism. Mixed in are anti-immigrant mantras, Homeland Security and hate as a government-led religion and mafia, religious strife, privileged art collectors, and satisfaction guaranteed suicide pills.

That’s why this film is not just great, but masterful. It’s twisted mirror of our own existence, where some Fox News bonehead can tout his Christian faith in one breathe and call for the death of all Muslims in the next. I’m talking about O’Reilly, here. I’m not one to wax on about religion or church, but this truly seems to be the opposite approach: Love so strong, it's a sacrifice. In a world of madness, it’s the most lost soul who can save us.

The film's final chapter is among the greatest I've ever experienced. Heart-breaking, hopeful, shockingly violent, and unforgettable. Listen to that laughter. A+

Hereafter (2010)

Clint Eastwood, at the age of 80, is pushing out one film per year. That’s amazing for anyone, but not surprising for this film icon, a god of American cinema. Speaking of God, “Hereafter” is Eastwood’s latest dramatic effort, and not a small bit ironic. How so? It focuses on death and the afterlife, the hereafter, with almost no real mention of God or Allah or Buddah, Yahweh or Led Zeppelin. You know the song. Stairway blah blah. This one goes to hell.

Look, “Hereafter” is smart-looking and tackles issues -– including the death of children -– not found in most flicks. Applause! There are some beautiful segments, including a failed dinner date between a reluctant psychic (Matt Damon) and his cooking school partner (Bryce Dallas Howard), and a long montage where London grade-school twins (Frankie and George McLaren) desperately scramble about their crap London flat, trying to cover for their addict mother against two social welfare workers. They rock. They sparkle. That’s the problem. “Hereafter” has great parts scattered about long stretches of meaningless or forgettable tripe. Much like life.

Surprisingly, the script is written by Peter Morgan, the fine writer of “The Queen” and “Frost/Nixon.” The man’s writing has no known bounds until now. Toying with multi-stringed variations from “Crash” and “Babel,” this film -- finally, I get to the plot -- follows three separate arcs: Damon’s San Francisco spirit-talker, who’d rather silently push pallets than talk to the dead; the Brit twins, one of whom is killed in a street incident, while the other mourns; and a famous French TV journalist (Cecile de France), who drowns – then recovers via medical aid – in the 2004 tsunami that hit Thailand. All three souls ponder life and death, and are destined to meet by film’s end in a climax that plays like an American Express commercial, complete with sun glare.

Eastwood and Morgan are so intent on avoiding "Left Behind" style preaching, that they end up with nothing to say. Why should we believe Eastwood and Morgan if they seem to have such little belief themselves? Or even question of belief? In a key scene, a Rent-A-Preacher tells the surviving twin that his brother’s death is God’s will, nothing to be done. But why bloody not? Why can’t the kid get angry at God? On Damon’s side, he can’t touch a woman without seeing her life pain. Has he slept with one? We don’t know. Does that not drive a guy insane? No love, no sex, nothing? The female journo sets out to write a book on the afterlife. But what is in the book? We don’t really know. She also makes wild accusations that book publishers won’t discuss the afterlife. Has she been inside a bookstore, or online at Amazon? Pure crap.

Eastwood’s career is untouchable. “The Outlaw Josey Wales” and “Unforgiven” are among my all-time favorites, and “Mystic River” is a dark joy. But his latest output doesn’t hold. In “death” scenes, characters see fuzzy figures stumbling around in a mysteriously lit fog not out of place on that Jennifer Love-Hewitt show my wife considers guilty pleasure. That’s “Hereafter,” all fog, with no lighthouse to point the way, and yet no pleasure, guilty or otherwise. Final thought: Near the film’s end, single man Damon brings McLaren up to his dark London hotel room, alone, closes the door, and sits him on the bed. To hold hands. In the dark. It is a disgusting awful sick pervy scene that only a Catholic priest could cheer. Seriously, Mr. Eastwood? How did that get past the writing stage? It kills this movie dead. C-

The Girl Who Played With Fire (2010)

In most trilogies, the middle film is always awkward. Background info is required from the first entry, and the ending is wide open and bleak. Such is “The Girl Who Played With Fire,” which follows "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.” If you don't know the grisly past, you'll be lost. And it ends with a literal gaping hole in the head for a coming third chapter, which also has “Girl” in the title. (A fourth film should be called, “The Girl Who Screamed, ‘I’m a Damn Woman’”)

The pyro-player is punk/hacker Lisbeth Salander (Noomi Rapace), who is wanted by police for the slaying of two journalists, even as she hunts for the first man to ruin her life. This is her father, who she set on fire in a flashback in film one. Figuring into her life again is editor Mikael Blomkvist (Michael Nyqvist), employer of the slain journalists.

“Fire” lacks the spark that drove “Tattoo.” It smells of a TV police drama with dot connections galore, and sports an oddly placed body-builder villain from 007. Rapace as Lisbeth is one hell of a heroine -- silent, deadly and calculating. It’s not remotely a bad film, there just may have been no place to go but down. B

Zathura: A Space Adventure (2005)

Jon Favreau loves children. He also gets them. In “Zathura: A Space Adventure” – a sci-fi kid comedy from the creators of “Jumanji” – two brothers, ages 6 and 10, fight, bicker, shout all day, and butcher the word “cryogenic.” In other words, they are perfectly childish. The plot: The brothers stumble across a Sputnik-era board game at their divorced dad’s house. They turn a game-piece key, and – poof! - the house is in outer space. Yes, this is “Jumanji in Space.” But it’s better than “Jumanji,” despite story points that don’t gel. Favreau – a far better, more imaginative director than an actor -- never panders to his on-screen youngsters, or those in the audience. He happily swims in the mind of a fifth-grader, tossing in four-eyed goats during a wonderful silly-scary lizard alien encounter. “Twilight” sulk queen Kristin Stewart is funny as the teen sister. B+

Man on Wire (2008)

“Man on Wire” is many films in one: Heist-like flick, a stunt film that makes “Jackass” seem quaint as Quakers, a documentary with talking heads, and a history/celebration of the World Trade Center and American inspiration. The story is true: In 1974, French daredevil high-wire artist Philippe Petit and some co-conspirators scammed their way inside the world’s tallest skyscrapers, and for some 45 minutes, Petit traipsed a wire strung between the two buildings. The plan was and is mind-shattering; the images – the reality – more so. Director James Marsh lays out a brilliant film, using interviews, old film, still photos, printed police reports, TV snippets, brilliantly acted reconstruction and even animated maps, to tell this tale. Petit is mesmerizing, and his surname ironic. This heroically foolish guy stood on air in the middle of the Twin Towers. Amazing! Marsh never mentions 9/11. Thank God. Why give homage to mass killers? This is a celebration of life, lived on the edge, and between the edges. A

In Cold Blood (1967)

No film can top or even equal Truman Capote’s “In Cold Blood,” one of the greatest American nonfiction books ever printed. Yet in 1967, a film of “Cold” rattled America’s nerves with unprecedented harshness and profanity.

Writer/director Richard Brooks, using stark black and white cinematography, lays out an almost journalistic take on the massacre of a Kansas farm family by two low-level crooks (Robert Blake is Perry Smith, and Scott Wilson is Richard Hickcock). We follow the killers, the family and the police, with some vibrant editing as the actual shootings are put toward the end.

The movie is wildly faithful to the book except in one key area – Capote’s self-involved writer has been replaced by a crusty old alpha-male reporter. A homophobic slap against Capote? I don’t think so. As demonstrated in more recent films (“Capote”), the very short guy was larger than life. No, this film works. This needs a reporter to melt into the walls, not bang over the camera. This is about a senseless crime committed by two lost guys, who can just as easily give a ride to a stranded grandpa and a young boy on the road.

The performances are amazing, the judgments harsh all around, with violence that still shocks despite being off screen. A

The Secret of the Kells (2009)

I may have missed the unique, Irish children’s tale “The Secret of the Kells” if it had not landed an Oscar nomination for Best Animated Feature for 2009. Thank goodness it did. “Kells” boasts some of the most innovative, out-there animation I’ve ever seen. The story is simple, playing like a first chapter: A young orphan boy is kept within the village walls by his paranoid, shockingly tall uncle. Young Brandon wants to visit the forbidden forest, and with the help of an elderly scribe, he does just that. I shall give away no more. Directors Tomm Moore and Nora Twomey have made one beautiful film. “Kells” pops with artwork inspired by ancient Bible margin art, Cubism, Expressionism, Japanese inks, water colors, chalk drawing, kaleidoscopes, etc. Inspired. Not charted to exceed CGI 3-D box office records. The dialogue is great and slyly funny, the themes dark and magical, the music hummable and ... what else is there to say? I’m ready for more Kells. A-

Wendy and Lucy (2008)

“Wendy and Lucy” is a short story of a film, which provides no pretense or even a clear future. Michelle Williams is Wendy. Lucy is her dog. Wendy is a 20-something woman making her way from Indiana to Alaska, stuck in Oregon. With no past, we only know that Lucy is desperate to stay off the grid, has precious little money and her car just died. Then Wendy is arrested in a sorry attempt at shoplifting. The next ax? Lucy goes missing. That’s it, but enough. This struggle of one woman is plenty drama enough, and damn heart-tugging, especially her interaction with a grandfatherly security guard. (And that dog!) Director/co-writer Kelly Reichardt never pushes any envelopes, even during a tense seen with a man in the woods at night, but shows life as it is … unknowable, confusing and harsh, but also quite nice when a stranger provides kindness. Williams is amazing. A-

Food Inc. (2009)

“Food Inc.” is unshakable. I almost became a vegetarian. A Farmer’s Market, buy local, vegan. I still may. Thank God it mixes hope with much horror. The horror is the food on our collective dinner tables, provided by multi-billion dollar corporations that have turned eating -- the essence of humanity – into a commodity with no value for life. A military industrial complex. To wit: We’re paying companies to kill us slowly through food that is not real: X-Men chickens, lab-made soy beans and tomatoes reddened with God knows what. Director Robert Kenner and his narrators, Michael Pollan and Eric Schlosser, show us the slaughterhouses and detail the grueling death of a toddler by food poisoning, but they also introduce a Virginia farmer who loves the land, and wants to do right by people and animals. Stellar interviews and vignettes go a long way in teaching us who we are, because as the cliché goes, we are what we eat. See this now because the big corps say it’s a lie, and see it before we follow the GOP/Tea Party into handing the keys of the kingdom over to companies that have no values but for stocks. Price, that is, not animal. A

Gamer (2009)

“Gamer” is the poster child for a Hollywood bankrupt of any new ideas and one remote soul. My God, I sound conservative. (Help!) Gerald Butler (“300”) scowls as a violent convict/loving poppa who is a pure and innocent soul who must fight his way to freedom via a world-televised bloodbath version of “Every Bad Futuristic Action Movie Ever Made.” No cliche is left unturned, and is, in fact, repeatedly groped and man-handled in the dark of this dark and seedy story. The sorriest attempt at wit in this witless shit-fest has Butler chug a fifth of vodka before battle, so he can later drunkenly vomit and piss the liquid out into a truck’s fuel tank. For his getaway. Because that works. Directors Mark Neveldine and Brian Taylor pretend to damn a world that enjoys watching rape and murder on TV and in film, yet take joy as their jackhammer camera hovers over a woman’s pelvis as she is sexually assaulted and uses slow-motion for every bloody flying skull and toe. Relentlessly vulgar, and not remotely interesting. D-

Defiance (2008)

Director Edward Zwick (“Glory”) has an amazing true story in “Defiance.” In 1939, two Belarusian brothers named Bielski (Daniel Craig and Liev Schreiber) lead a gun-and-blade rebellion against Nazi invaders, while shepherding hundreds of fleeing Jews deep into the dark forest to hide. At first only a handful of Jews come. Then hundreds arrive. For three years. The masses have much else to fear with disease, inner-rebellions, winter and matter-of-fact starvation hovering constantly, also promising death. Those are glorious origins, haunting and heroic, but Zwick still doesn’t trust this story enough. He plays Whack-a-Mole with war movie clichés, including an eye-roller scene where Mr. Bond rides a white horse (!) before his followers, bellowing aloud a maudlin “Braveheart” speech. My face turned blue. An “Exodus”-like retreat ends with our heroes using rifles to battle a full Nazi tank division, and thus history is truncated for “Red Dawn” stunts and action. C+

Troy (2004)

Imagine a film about Christ with no virgin birth, no miracles and no resurrection, nothing that requires belief. That is “Troy.” On my second viewing of this “Illiad”-inspired sword-and-sandals epic about Achilles and the Greek invasion of Troy, I realized that director Wolfgang Peterson (“Das Boot”) and his screenwriters never believed in this story. They scrap -– kill, if you will -- the Greek gods, the chess masters of this classic tale, for pompous romanticism and speechifying about evils of war, immediately before clicking into battle porn shots of half-naked men fighting and women fainting. As the now too-human Achilles, Brad Pitt is too many tics and longing glances ala “Legends of the Fall” to be a warrior, and his lofty dialogue (“It's too early in the day for killing princes”) doesn’t help. Two action scenes rock: A night attack involving flaming balls of straw, and Pitt vs. Eric Bana, all pumped up. The rest of the time, it’s hammy acting, obvious CGI and a giant wooden horse that holds no surprises inside. What a heel. C-

Pandorum (2009)

In space, no one can hear you sigh. “Pandorum” is one of those giddy sci-fi flicks where some monstrous species hunts the crew members of a vast ship, promising thrills, blood and madness. We start off smart with a claustrophobic nightmare as astronaut Bower (Ben Foster) awakens from hyper-sleep in a tube that resembles a coffin. He’s panicked, covered in dead skin tissue and his memory is a wiped-out mess. With the help of his equally dazed and confused commander (Dennis Quaid), Bower learns two things quickly: The ship is a last-ditch haven for the human race, and (!!!) they are not alone. Alas, the dye is cast the second Quaid recalls a story about previous space travelers wigging out crazy after hyper-sleep. Director Christian Alvart and his writers serve up 30-year-old shitty leftovers, from the self-sacrificing minority to the “shocker” betrayal that was obvious an hour before. I love the art design and the penultimate climax with Foster crawling to salvation, but in the end it’s all sighs, few screams. B-

The Sweet Smell of Success (1957)

“The Sweet Smell of Success” sizzles with the best dialogue -- “You’re dead, son. Get yourself buried”-- ever put to screen, a funky jazz score by Elmer Bernstein, and a sleazy night-owl view of New York so vibrant, it burns the eyes. It’s a pitch-black film noir about corruption, fame and journalism run amok even more relevant in 2010. Tony Curtis is Sidney Falco, a soulless PR hack slaved to J.J. Hunsecker (Burt Lancaster), a famous/vile newspaper Winchell-like columnist who spreads lies, innuendo and pure bullshit, all wrapped up in false American patriotism. He’s the Glenn Beck of his day, his own God. Hunsecker won’t print Falco’s news unless the latter breaks up the columnist’s kid sister and her musician lover. Hunsecker, you see, wants his sister so damn bad. Perv. Spineless Falco obliges and suffers greatly. Lancaster makes one scary demagogue, while Curtis blows his role out of the water. You can see the lies form in his mind before they slither out his mouth. Alexander Mackendrick’s direction is razor sharp, and the Clif Odets/Ernest Lehman screenplay draws blood. A+

The Town (2010)

Critics are falling over themselves to praise Ben Affleck’s “The Town,” his follow-up to the 2007 drama “Gone, Baby, Gone.” Me? Not loving it. It’s not Affleck’s direction –- tight and so localized, one feels like they just received a private, gritty tour of Boston’s Charlestown –- or even his acting. It’s the problematic script (co-written by Affleck) that dives from smart crime thriller into a contrived romance before falling into a vat of sentimentality. People who compare this film to 1970s gritty crime dramas need new eyeballs.

The story: Charleston, it is said, is home to the largest per capita population of bank and armored car thieves in the world. Children follow their fathers into a life of crime with no reservation. Doug MacRay is such a child, with an old man (Chris Cooper) in prison. The plot kicks off with Doug's group robbing a bank. In a panic, hot-headed leader Jem (Jeremy Renner) takes bank manager Claire (Rebecca Hall) hostage. She’s insurance, and once the guys are safely away, Claire is set free. But not for long. Jem decides to kill the woman. Doug, our Robin Hood, wants to save this distressed damsel. In the process, Doug falls in love with Claire. And she with him, not knowing her man was her captor. Meanwhile, an FBI agent (John Hamm) is on Doug’s tail. It all ends in a shoot out at Fenway Park and an eye-roller escape.

Look, the trailer laid out every plot detail to this film beforehand, so I have no problem dishing openly on the Bunker Hill-sized plot holes: 1) I did not buy the rich girl/poor boy relationship of Claire and Doug, nor its silly outcome. 2) Once Claire learns of Doug’s secret, she cries and yells, but then gives in. She loves this guy too darn much. Really?!!? 3) Once Hamm’s Fed gets wind of the tryst, he suspects Claire is an insider on the theft. “Get a lawyer,” he says. But the accusation is dropped. Not believable.

What saves “Town”? That local flair. The bartender, cops and the guys at an AA meeting are wonderfully true. This is no CW show full of anorexic models. These people don’t just know the Boston neighborhoods, they are the neighborhood. Renner, Cooper and Pete Postlethwaite rule in their roles, the last playing a crime boss florist who turns pruning roses into an act of menace. I also dug the car chases through Boston city streets. Every tight corner turn leaves a surprise for the getaway driver.

"Town" as a drama offers no such surprises. Affleck's Doug is too much an aw-shucks saint to make a full impact, and Hall –- a wonderful actress -– as Clarice is also too damn nice. Is it too much to ask for this woman to snap in seething anger? To claw out the eyes of the guy who robbed her, kidnapped her, lied to her –- and screwed her –- literally? Why must women in crime flicks be wilting wallflowers desperate for a man? I have large hopes for Affleck’s directing career, there’s much good here, and I dug “Gone, Baby, Gone.” But “Town” left me feeling robbed. B-

Devil (2010)

How long can a guy dig on a movie’s credit sequence without coming off as a bore? At the opening of “Devil,” a quickie horror film about Satan wrecking havoc in an office-tower, the camera races toward a topsy-turvy Philadelphia. Buildings hang above dark blue sky. The effect is gloriously spooky to a guy who calls The City of Brotherly Love home. Bravo! We quickly jump to the story: A cop (Chris Mencina) is nun-slapped by his AA sponsor into reaching out to God, just before the former is sent to investigate an odd death. We then jump to a stopped elevator, where five people – including a former Marine and a jerk salesman -- are trapped, Satan among and in one of them. The cases quickly cross paths as the audience and Detective AA race to figure out who is Number 666. M. Night Shyamalan (“The Sixth Sense”) provides the story, although he neither directs nor scripts. “Devil” is more giddy fun than scary, and has several dumb plot ticks, none more so than its treatment of religion. Non-believers are portrayed as blowhards destined to fail, while the sole Christian is played as a pansy who babbles like a whiny child. Still, better than I expected. B-

James and the Giant Peach (1996)

Stop-motion animation maestro Henry Selick gave us “The Nightmare Before Christmas” in 1993 and “Coraline” in 2009. Both are dark classics, more for child-like adults than children. Yet, his 1996 effort “James and the Giant Peach,” based on Roald Dahl’s book, has remained – sorry – a fuzzy memory. So, I gave it another watch. The set-up: Young orphan James (Paul Terry) escapes his cruel aunts via the giant fruit of the title, a massive, magical orb that houses friendly insects and spiders, and promises safe travel to New York City via land, sea and air. Selick surrounds this tale with a live-action opening and closing, both oddly foggy and painfully over-acted. But the animation is starkly beautiful – Selick takes us inside, around and over the peach, as puppet James and his friends cross the Atlantic. It’s the classic child-logic story every youngster, and some adults, wishes for. But “Peach” still is fuzzy, and never digs into the pit – sorry, again – of my brain. Jack Skellington appears in a good, scary bit. B

Paycheck (2003)

The joke is too easy. Why did Ben Affleck, Uma Thurman and Aaron Eckhart star in “Paycheck”? The money! (Crickets.) Based on a Philip K. Dick story, the plot follows Michael Jennings (Affleck), a square-jawed square who hires out his engineering skills to shady corporations. His job: Steal technology, reverse engineer it, and hand the results over. Upon payment, his memory is wiped. At a party, a mega-billionaire fiend (Eckhart) offers Michael a huge payday if he’ll give up three years to work on a secret project. Mike takes the job. He is told nothing will go wrong. Thurmon is the love interest who helps memory-wiped Michael after everything goes bad. John Woo directs with every cliché in his bag of tricks: Crossed guns, slow-mo birds and chase scenes that won’t quit. The three leads have zero spark, so maybe they did sign on for the cash. Only Paul Giamatti and Colm Feore have any presence. The plot is preposterous even for bad sci-fi. Ironically, “Paycheck” wipes from memory at film's end. C-

The Love Guru (2008)

Early in “The Love Guru,” Mike Myers appears to shove his head up his own ass. That is the perfect metaphor for this dismal comedy about America’s love for feel-good spiritual nonsense. Myers plays Guru Pitka, a India-raised Canadian who dives into the “heal thyself” shtick to meet girls. Ben Kingsley, always ready to befoul his “Gandhi” Oscar, is the mentor who makes his pupils fight with mops soaked in piss. That’s the level of humor here: Pee, poop, boobs, penises, fat people and everything else that makes third graders and Myers laugh. Jessica Alba, looking self-conscious, is the love interest. Myers can’t even find a point. Is he making fun of flakes like Deepak Chopra, or honoring them? Pitka is too idiotic to make any dent, while Chopra is treated as a star. Val Kilmer, Kanye West and Mariska Hargitay (whose name is a punch line) stop by for dead-air cameos. The entire film is tone deaf, and woefully unfunny. “Guru,” kill thyself. F

Shaun of the Dead (2004)

How long would it take a Londoner to realize his city has been taken over by zombies? In “Shaun of the Dead,” whole freakin’ days. Simon Pegg’s Shaun is a 29-year-old electronics retail clerk who is clueless about his girlfriend (Kate Ashfield) and best pals with flatmate Ed (Nick Frost), a fatty who farts on cue. The horror bits arrive ever so slow, a peek here, a fuzzy background shot there. Then the blood hits. Our heroes scramble, bicker and fight back. Director/co-writer Edgar Wright trashes everything about zombie flicks, London society and the media. Fantastic scenes abound: The best may be a fight where Shaun and Ed fling old records – but not their favorites – at two dead heads. I could drone on about my favorite bits: The “western bar” showdown, Bill Nighy as a (step!) dad who won’t let being dead marginalize his hatred of speed metal, and the not-subtle joke that Shaun is with the wrong girl. This satire plays smarter than most of the films it’s ripping. Pegg is brilliant as the exasperated hero. Whatever that means. A

The Dirty Dozen (1967)

World War II suicide mission classic “The Dirty Dozen” is mean, violent, carries enough cruelty and anti-PC credentials to offend everyone from patriotic zealots to liberal pacifists, and lays absolute waste to its stellar tough guy cast. The ass kickers include Lee Marvin, John Cassavetes, Jim Brown, Terry Savalas, Donald Sutherland and Charles Bronson. The puppet masters include Robert Ryan, George Kennedy and Ernest Borgnine. What a cast! This is the kind of film guys drink scotch – straight – to, and stare in awe. From the first scene of a weeping soldier being hanged to the raid-the-castle finale, director Robert Aldrich makes this action flick a subversive 1960s social drama: God takes a beating, Jim Brown smiles as he kills rich whites, all military brass are pompous idiots. We are essentially rooting for killers and scum to walk away free. The violence still plays tough, including a hairy scene where one of the 12 goes Judas bonkers. It seems common place now, but “Dozen” may be the first American film to say if you’re not dirty going into war, it’ll sure as hell grind you down into the muck and mire. Classic. A

‘The Illusionist’ and ‘The Prestige’ (Both 2006)

I saw the magic-themed “The Illusionist” and “The Prestige” back-to-back in 2006, on purpose. Just recently, I re-watched them within a week of each other by mere coincidence. My reactions remain just about the same.

“Illusionist” is a star-crossed love story about a wildly imaginative magician and the love of his life. Magic man Eisenheim (Edward Norton) and princess-to-be Sophie (Jessica Biel) loved each other as children, but life shit happened. They split. Decades later Eisenheim arrives in Vienna, ready to woo Sophie from the cruel prick Crown Price Leopold (eternal bad guy Rufus Sewell). To grind Eisenheim down, the prince has a lapdog policeman (Paul Giamatti) who is corrupt, but yet a fan of showmanship and art. This is Giamatti’s film. He outclasses everyone, without raising his voice or getting all puppy-eyed. Norton and Biel provide kennels full of puppy eyes. The film tosses out a “gotchya” plot that’s not nearly as clever as it wishes to be. Norton’s stage presence as Eisenheim is winning, even if the magic is too CGI-heavy. The much-praised cinematography is a pitch too arty even for me. B

“Prestige” is based on a favorite book, so it has a lot to live up to. The plot concerns two rival magicians in London who start as friends, but soon enter a game of one-upmanship and then deadly, bloody games on and off stage. The instigation: An on-stage death of one’s beloved. Angier (Hugh Jackman) is a stage natural, but needs help pushing the core of his trade. Borden (Christian Bale) is the opposite: He is genius at magic design, but a boorish stage presence. Merged in one body and soul, the men would make one hell of a talent. Director Christopher Nolan has a long obsession with what forms a person’s identity, or breaks it. The reveals of “Prestige” allow Nolan to play large. But this isn’t “Memento” or “Inception.” It’s too cold and calculated, and in need of magic dust. So to speak. Nolan avoids supernatural themes that ruled the book, and some acts don’t come off justified: When a major character commits suicide, it seems only blasé inevitable. B+

The American (2010)

At one point in “The American,” George Clooney’s cold-hearted assassin desperately asks his handler, “How did they find me!?!” Clooney’s Jack is talking about the relentless thugs gunning for his ass. I thought, “Cause, damn, man, you the only fhking American within 300 miles.” Indeed, killer-for-hire Jack is the only apple pie eater hiding out in a tiny Italian village. Every resident spots Jack from a mile away and yells, "Bonjorno American!" His enemies can’t not find him. (Why the hell not stay in Rome? I've been there. It's easy to get lost.) Jack is rightfully paranoid, frisky and ready to give up the job, but not before assembling a rifle for a mysterious hit-woman (Thekla Reuten) who -– as does Jack -– digs butterflies. Directed by Anton Corbijn, the photographer famous for U2 album covers, “American” recalls a dozen old French or Italian dramas about the thug who emerges from his self-made hellish life just before the clock stops. The film is nearly saved by gorgeous camera work and Clooney’s performance, all cold, raw and grounded. B-

Winter’s Bone (2010)

“Winter’s Bone” is as bleak as a film can get. It makes one long for the small joys found in such fare as “The Road.” Set amid the rural mountains of Missouri’s Ozarks, this is the tale of a 17-year-old girl desperately trying to crawl out of a hole of absolute poverty while dodging a constant threat of violence. It is a far-distant cousin to last year’s “Precious,” but without the lofty dreams. Don't let this opening be an interest killer. "Bone" is among the year's best films. It kicked butt at Sundance, and also should win some awards-time love.

Jennifer Lawrence stars as Ree Dolly, the teen who might as well be 35. Her meth-maker father is either dead or running from the law. Her mother is lost in a mental void, caused by stress or maybe bad drugs. There are no doctors to help. The Dolly family has two more children, six and 10. Ree is their substitute mother. The film follows Ree as she hunts her missing father’s whereabouts, going from one relative to another. In this forgotten landscape of America, everyone is related somehow by blood. But meth, cocaine and booze are thicker than blood. They count. Kin don't.

Ree is repeatedly told, “Don’t bother. Don’t look. Shut up.” She refuses. The first major threat comes from her uncle (John Hawkes), also a drug user/supplier. Ree is scared of this man, who could break her neck or set her on the path of a better life. There is no good life. Only shades of bad, and better than bad. (Hawkes of TV’s “Lost” is amazing in the role.) The men rule with absolute authority, to the point that women will visit violence upon one another to prevent their men’s rage from uncorking.

At one point a man tells Ree not to tell “stories” about him. She retorts: “I never talk about you men.” Ree knows her place, and that of all women, here. She is no fool. A clueless right-wing writer at “American Spectator” slammed the film as “feminist” and anti-man. Since when did a woman wanting to live and feed children become “feminist”? That doesn’t mean there is no commentary here. At the Dolly house, an American flag hangs forgotten and tattered. I think it’s meant to represent the American dream for such desperate people. This is not a red state/blue state issue. We have poor in both states, and in both political parties.

Few films capture how some people can crawl up or slide down the pole of humanity. Characters here move, grow and change. Director Debra Granik, who co-wrote the screenplay from a book, makes every detail real –cluttered houses, yards and emotions. She provides sinking-stomach suspense, with no tricky editing, music or gun play. A late-night car ride that climaxes in a cold river needs no such help. That a chainsaw is involved makes it all the more harrowing.

Lawrence gives a forceful but quiet performance. If a big name were in this film, much ink and 1s and 0s would be spilled over how Ms. X went grungy and starved to give the performance of a lifetime. Lawrence will never get such lofty accolades. Similar to Gabourey Sidibe in “Precious,” Lawrence is too unknown, real and convincing in her environment to let us see her “acting.” Her last line is a heart-breaker, but beautifully told.

“Bone” is no box office firecracker, but it’s a must-see for anyone interested in the most hidden parts of America and the people stuck there. A

The Expendables (2010)

If you have not seen “The Expendables,” stop reading now. I’m about to throw a snit fit about the ending to this rehashed 1980s brainless action flick that goes further retro with a 1960s “Dirty Dozen” suicide mission homage. But not a single one of Expendables is … expendable. None. This is a G.I. Joe cartoon, AARP style. A suicide mission flick without a suicide. Like porn without skin, useless. WTF!?!

Director/co-writer/star Sylvester Stallone is Barney Ross, leader of the Expendables, a pack of tough-as-leather American mercenary soldiers out to save a woman and topple an evil Latin dictator. Which they do. Quite easily. Like I said, they all live to clink beers, throw knives and assure each other that none of them is gay, despite the fact that none of them can live with a (eww, girls!) woman. And they constantly talk about each other’s bodies without end, cause all guys do that, right? We are talking “Top Gun” territory here, without the volley balls.

I just sat dumb struck as Stallone missed the entire freakin’ absolute point of the iron-clad, Suicide Mission genre. Heroes die. I remember watching “Dozen” and “Bridge on River Kwai” plus “Predator” as a teen, gripped, thinking … Who will die next? (Alec Guinness! Noooooo! Run Carl Weathers! Run!) There are zero surprises. Zero reasons to pay attention. Zero reasons to call this “The Expendables.”

This is a dullsville. That’s wild to say, with Jason Statham, Dolph Lundgren, Jet Li, Terry Crews, Eric Roberts and Randy Couture among the beefed-up mother farmers, good and bad. (Steven Seagal, where art thou?) Look, it’s not a terrible film. The carnage is over-the-top 1980s bad. Meaning good and bloody. Of the cast, Lundgren has the most spark. A better word: hunger. The former “Rocky IV” boxer looks hungry for new stardom. Mickey Rourke wonders in as an ex-Expendable turned artist, and then wonders out, quickly. Why?

Teeth grinding abounds. We get the villain’s obligatory and endless half-mile run to the escape helicopter, helpless woman in tow, and, by God, did any one – CIA included – get a memo that it’s 2010, not 1984? No one even has a Word Processor. Motion sensors? Oh, wait, what, David Lee Roth quit “Van Halen”? Damn! You don’t say. See what I’m sayin’? And can we get a Linda Hamilton/Sigourney Weaver shout out? No. This film is Rush Limbaugh approved. Women are near mute with submission.

Now the worst part. “The Expendables” delivers a scene featuring the Holy Trinity of 1980s Action Stars: Stallone, Schwarzenegger and Willis. It falls flat. Set inside a church, Willis is another CIA goon, pitching the suicide mission to the former Rambo and ex-Terminator. The scene took months to schedule and film, by all accounts. Yet, it plays slapped together, uneven and meanders to a crap ending. Schwarzenegger plays it awfully sarcastic. Stallone appears exhausted. Lastly, Mr. John McClane suggests oral sex all around. (Huh? Oh, yeah, homophobic jokes were funny 30 years ago, too.) No one does it. There’s a sequel coming, though. Maybe one of our heroes will get blown away. One way or another. C

Terminator 2: Judgment Day (1991)

James Cameron again proves himself King of Action Cinema with “Terminator 2: Judgment Day,” the follow-up to the 1984 hit that launched Cameron and Arnold Schwarzenegger to stardom. This film still rocks with ace special effects, a relentless pace, and show-stopper moments such as a tractor trailer chasing a child on a dirt bike through Los Angeles, the near-leveling of an office building, and a climatic freeway chase that ends in a steel plant. It also has what is now a Cameron standard: A woman stronger and more ruthless than anything else on screen.

The story in case you don’t know: In 1995, a shape-shifting, liquid-metal assassin (Robert Patrick) is sent to kill young John Conner (Edward Furlong), who decades later will lead a revolt against Skynet, a self-aware humanity-destroying supercomputer. In a twist of irony, a second cybernetic robot (Arnold Schwarzenegger) is tasked with saving John. This is the same model that was the assassin in the first film. The two robots battle each other over the boy and his mentally warped, bad ass mother (Linda Hamilton), nearly destroying Los Angeles along the way.

Every action scene aims to top the one before it, but Cameron leaves room for character development. His mildly satirical touches are sharp. Early on, the T-100 strides naked into a biker bar and orders a man to hand over his clothes. The patrons stare. Several women smile big. Every person is crack-an-hour-glass ugly. (If this were a Michael Bay film, it'd be the hottest boob bar in California, with 150 Playboy bunnies.)

I also love how Schwarzenegger’s shall we say “limited” acting chops are spun into a slight joke. The T-100 is an outdated, outclassed robot, fighting a top of the line model. And as that adversary, Robert Patrick steals the movie. Look how hard that guy works: The running, the steel trap mind and eyes, the utter lack on emotion. He’s a liquid Jaws on two legs, sporting a police uniform. Void of life.

Look, Cameron can’t do dialogue. “In an insane world, it was the sanest choice” is high-school clunky, and one more “fate is a highway” analogy could make me convulse. And the whole time travel thing is bunk. But Cameron knows people, and he knows how to destroy millions of dollars on screen and make it look like joie de verve. A

City of Lost Children (1995)

“City of Lost Children” is an amazing-looking, mind-screw of a film. A dark, wet, sewer-level nightmare of and about children intended only for adults from French directors Marc Caro and Jean-Pierre Jeunet. In this alternate past, a grim-looking megalomaniac (Daniel Emilfork) kidnaps children from a local city and brings them to his water-bound tower of doom. Krank is a crank. He is dreamless, therefore he is sleepless. He steals the dreams of children as compensation, seemingly commanded by a talking brain in a fish tank that could be HAL’s grandpop. Among Krank’s victims is a boy (Joseph Lucien) with a much older brother who can pop chains and lift huge weights. That’s French-speaking Ron Pearlman, he of future “Hellboy.” Pearlman's character befriends a local girl named Miette (Judith Vittet), and here’s where the film gets creepy. They snuggle on burlap sacks in a back alley, and he gives her a deep, long foot massage. Nothing untoward happens, really, but the hints, the insinuations … linger. They make the film squirmy. Me squirmy. There’s not much otherwise depth or feeling to compensate. Those French. B

Planet 51 (2009)

Despite a full crop of Spanish creators, the CGI animated flick “Planet 51” is a very American spoof on the 1950s genre of space invasion flicks. The coin is flipped though: The invader is a NASA astronaut, and the victim planet an orb full of green creatures who live similar to the U.S. of A.’s population circa 1959. Dwayne Johnson voices Chuck Baker, the visitor who speaks in hyper sci-fi/jock/hero clichés as he tries to steal back his spaceship. Justin Long is the greenie who helps him, with Gary Oldman as the typical Army general with gun powder for brains. The movie is harmless fun and cute, but every gag is lifted from better sci-fi flicks. Disney could sue over the robot here that blatantly rip-offs WALL-E, melded with Eve. Speaking of that Pixar gem, “51” is as redundant as “WALL-E” is stirring. Good work by Johnson. C+

The Men Who Stare at Goats (2009)

“The Men Who Stare at Goats” is a spineless stab at the war satire genre -- war is irrational, why try and rationalize it? -- created by “Catch 22” (book) and “M*A*S*H” (film). “Men” skips bloodshed, offering a high (literal) concept story – the use of mind-control warfare and psychic drugs against the enemy.

Ewan McGregor is reporter Bob Wilton who flees an imploded marriage to Kuwait circa 2004. Bob’s hope: Write an epic story, become famous and win the missus back. His ticket is Lyn Cassady (George Clooney), a Special Forces operator who claims he can burst clouds and kill goats with his mind. As Bob and Lyn drive (alone) into Iraq, they meet kidnappers, IEDs, Kevin Spacey and a secret base.

The best satires give us a hook -– people to care about, a maddening danger, or an edge, they also allow us characters unaware they are the butt of a joke. (Everyone is dead serious in "Dr. Strangelove," after all. Classic.) You can see the actors smirking here. This amounts to a piss-poor Coens knockoff with Clooney as the heroic idiot, Jeff Bridges rehashing Lebowski, and Spacey going gaga for Twizzlers. “G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra” had more to say about war. (Clooney pal Grant Heslov directed, not the Coens. Or Kubrick.)

Every joke is a near-decade late: If you thought LSD gags died out with Timothy Leary, you’d be wrong. As for the McGregor/Jedi jokes, who wants to recall those prequel films? D+

The Bounty Hunter (2010)

There’s a nasty feel to the rom-com/thriller “The Bounty Hunter.” Gerard Butler is Milo Boyd, a crude, drunken ex-cop who strikes karma gold: The chance to haul his ex-wife (Jennifer Anniston) to jail for skipping bail. Nichole is a reporter at a NYC newspaper, hot on the trail of a big story.

In the course of a single day, Milo pulls a gun on his former spouse in a public before tossing her in a car trunk, manhandles her at a Jersey casino, and then later handcuffs her to a hotel bed to keep her still. This is romance? If Nichole were a real woman that I knew, I’d plead with her to drop this dick as quickly as possible.

But there’s nothing real here. Nichole wears a skintight mini-dress and stiletto heels to chase leads, because that’s what female reporters do in these movies. Chased by Z-grad villains, his car shot full of holes, Milo dishes some such nonsense as, “These guys are professionals!”

That I didn’t loathe Nichole’s character is a testament to Anniston’s charisma. All praises to Christine Baranski who shines comic gold as a martini swilling Atlantic City singer, and mom to Nichole. She should be the lead character. C-

Body of Lies (2008)

“Body of Lies” is a horrible title. But it sure beats “Generic, Unconvincing Middle Easy Spy Movie.” The name it deserves.

Ridley Scott’s thriller starts off with a bang – a busted group of Islamic Jihadists blow themselves up inside a block of English row houses without so much as a shrug. The scene shocks. Then we jump to hot, dangerous Iraq where super CIA spy Roger Ferris (Leonardo DiCaprio) is digging and running to nail a second cell of Jihadists. The mission goes to hell, and Roger is wounded. That’s the first half hour. I liked it.

Then the show falls apart. Roger is sent to Jordan by his boss (Russell Crowe) to bust another cell. The job goes to shit and injured again, Roger starts digging on a local nurse. Because that’s what white-as-rice American spies do in the hostile Middle East, date Muslim women in public and play grab hands, as to not get noticed. Everyone notices. Dogs even perk their ears. DiCaprio, sporting a beard that looks like arm pit hair, can’t push this slop to credibility. He’s too eager to please, and why is a war-scarred spy all gaga over a woman? And why does she believe his flimsy cover story? Because the script demands that the hero be compromised. No other reason.

Roger isn’t even actually a character, a person to root for. He’s an ideal – the young, pragmatic, justice-seeking American who wants to vanquish evil, but with utmost care for the innocent. Crowe also plays a symbol – the fat, pretentions, know-it-all American who doesn’t care if he’s right or wrong, and can’t tell the difference because he’s busy driving the minivan. Crowe is good, but his character is white noise. Debates about war far flat: Good guys want the war to end, but the bad guys don’t. Deep.

Scott’s best playing card is the might of tech-savvy U.S. surveillance, and the way terrorists stay out of sight by staying off the grid, all hand-written messages, bicycles and 1,000-B.C. hideouts. This is perfect entertainment for 2000. An unlikely dud from Scott. Bag this “Body.” C

Alien Trespass (2009)

“Alien Trespass” is a tribute and gentle spoof of the 1950s alien invasion flicks that promised “us vs. them” fights, spaceships, ray guns, damsels in distress and square-jawed Anglo-Saxon heroes. This has nearly all of those ingredients, except a reason to exist. And it’s in color. Horrible color. The simple gist: A spacecraft crashes outside a Texas town, and the unseen alien pilot seizes the body of a local genius (Eric McCormick) as it diddles about trying to capture its prisoner, a slimy zucchini with one eye ball. I loved the cast and slight tweaks at ’50s culture: The brain and his wife (Jody Thompson) have a rockin’ sex life, but sleep in separate twin beds. But here’s the thing, this has been done before: “Independence Day” is a fantastic subversive comedy spoof of space invasion flicks, with the heroes being Jewish and African-American. I laughed from start to finish at “ID4,” and got mean looks. There’s nothing interesting here. This is a yawner. B-

The Apple Dumpling Gang (1975)

The “Apple Dumpling Gang” is the equal of a sick beagle. You can’t not go, “Awww,” and smile. I must have seen this film a dozen times as a child, back when there was a “Disney Sunday Night Movie” on network TV, pre-cable. We have the Disney essentials: A trio of adorable orphans, an exasperated father figure (Bill Bixby), two bumbling thieves (Don Knotts and Tim Conway) who couldn’t steal bark from a tree, and a bad guy (Slim Pickens) so harmless, he’s huggable. The story: Bixby’s all-for-me gambler is hoodwinked into taking custody of the children, who in turn find a massive gold boulder in an abandoned mine. The gold brings much attention, but all the kids want is a dad. There’s a scene where Pickens says he’ll “blow a hole” in somebody “so big, you can throw a mule through it,” and that describes the plot. But this is harmless fun and still entertaining. Disney films from this era had amazing casts, hands down. B+

The Machinist (2004)

“The Machinist” is painful to watch. It’s not the story, another take on a man’s cracking sanity as he muddles hallucinations and reality, and rages. Nor is it the cinematography, all gas station greens and yellowish-whites. It’s Christian Bale. Dude lost 60 pounds to play Trevor Reznik, a severe insomniac who’s watching his weight drop by double digits and his eyes black out. Yes, the visage of his freakish, skeletal body is meant to shock, but it’s also overwhelming. He weighed more in “Empire of the Sun.” At 13. Jennifer Jason Leigh (“eXistenZ”) lowers herself and plays an aging prostitute. The only other woman is an airport waitress. Do screenwriter Scott Kosar and director Brad Anderson know of any other roles for women? The interesting bits come in parsing out how much of Reznik’s world is only in his head, and that I’m still undecided is a good mark. That the movie brings nothing new to the table other than Bale as Twiggy is a swift bad mark. B-

Inland Empire (2006)

“It’s kind of laid a mind fuck on me.” Laura Dern drops this non sequitur after the second hour in “Inland Empire,” a film that sees Mad Hatter filmmaker David Lynch dive gloriously off the cliff and deep into his own endless subconscious. And a deep dive it is.

This is Lynch’s most avant guard film since “Eraserhead,” but infinitely more complex and with a sprawling multi-language cast that touches on infidelity, Hollywood, Poland, a killer hypnotist, screwdriver murders, and giant talking rabbits that live in an old urban apartment. That’s not a typo. It is a fascinating, maddening, over-long, never-boring trip that is brilliant, both horrific and hilarious, and just plain WTF strange.

Diving into the plot may be pointless, but here goes: The film opens on a Polish man and woman, faces blurred, as they enter a hotel room for sex. We then switch to a crying woman watching TV. Cue the bunnies. Then we focus on a L.A. film star (Dern) as she is visited by a neighbor (Grace Zabriskie), just before the former starts work on a film with a cad actor (Justin Theroux). From there … it’s down, or rather up, Lynch’s twisted brain stem, and onto his cinematic themes of identity, multiple bodies in one persona and the way Hollywood splatters, not realizes, dreams.

This all makes the story of “Mulholland Dr.” seem as daring as “Horton Hears a Who.” And that fact actually lends the films its surrealist Dali-on-film kinetic kick. This is art. Hands down. A Lynch regular, Dern’s multi-arc performance here is an amazing to behold, on par with Daniel Day-Lewis in “There Will Be Blood.” She’s in virtually every scene, and plays characters playing other people who, in fact, may be an entirely different third person.

Not all of “Inland” scores: At three hours, the film takes far too many side trips into nowhere, and the cheap film stock used by Lynch can be frustratingly blurry in darkness and blown out in bright light, rendering many scenes indecipherable. But when the credits roll, one can’t deny that they just took a singular trip. B+

Suspiria (1977)

I’ve long heard of Dario Argento’s “Suspiria” as one of the Best Horror Movies Ever Made in film snob magazines. Its Italian pedigree only added to the allure. My verdict: One of the craziest, blood-chilling movies I’ve ever watched. The plot is not just simple, but a sketch: American ballet student (Jessica Harper) takes a plane to Munich, Germany, grabs a cab and heads out to her new school: An ultra-European, gothic dance academy. In pouring rain, she arrives at the school only to watch a hysterical girl flee in terror out the front door. Nevertheless, our heroine enters on. That same night, the fleeing girl is attacked, suffocated on a window pane, stabbed, strangled, smashed through a stained glass ceiling, and then hung. That’s 10 minutes of film. The rest of the 80 minutes is a hell ride with mad dogs, maggots, and a barbed wire murder so nasty, it cannot be described. Filmed in wildly bright Technicolor on eye-throbbing sets, this wild, bloody artistic stunt blew my mind. The proceedings are fueled by the single most disturbing and bizarre film score I’ve ever heard, created by the director and Italian prog rock band Goblin. A

The Big Lebowski (1998)

I dismissed “The Big Lebowski” the first time I saw it in 1998. Following “Fargo,” I wanted a substantial work of art from brothers Ethan and Joel Coen. But that’s not how they play. So, with my now third viewing, I’m a Believer. Jeff Bridges is Jeff “The Dude” Lebowski, an unemployed stoner who leaves his house for only two reasons: To bowl, and to buy supplies for White Russians, dressed in a robe and boxers. When goons (Hey! It’s Jacob from “LOST”!) mistake The Dude for a rich old man with the same name, our hero finds himself involved in a film noir caper normally reserved for tough-guy cops, private detectives or journalists. And that’s the joy of this funny, endlessly quotable satirical tale, with stand-out performances by John Goodman as a Vietnam Vet still stuck in his own time warp, and Steve Buscemi as a guy who couldn’t follow a “Peanuts” strip. I still think “Lebowski” is too long and serves up too much zaniness for its own good, but The Dude is so wonderfully written and performed, that he’s become an icon. Bridges is Lebowski, and Lebowski is Bridges. Abide. A-

Warlock (1989)

“Warlock” is a Satan-themed horror spin on “Highlander,” where two warring men, one evil and one good, zap from their mid-20th century world to present day America. Here, it’s a male witch (Julian Sands) and a Pilgrim-employed witch hunter (Richard E. Grant) that bounce from early Boston to modern L.A. (huh?) and then back to modern Boston. This “horror” movie is too silly to provide a single scare, and drops more logic balls than a first- grade basketball team. So let’s skip talk of suspense. Sands milks devilish charm as the pony-tailed blond Errand Boy of Satan, while Grant is deadly serious (and therefore hilarious) as the ’80s-rock- hair-dressed-as-a-squirrel Man of God. The best bits are on an airplane, as Grant’s MofG goes hysterical at the sight of creamer mini-cups and cigarette lighters. “Witchcraft!” he yells. Funny. But scary? No. C

Run Lola Run (1999)

Recall the adrenaline shot in “Pulp Fiction”? Where Uma Thurman shot up awake, crazy eyes and screams? The whole film jumped. That’s “Run Lola Run,” an 80-minute rush about a red-haired German punk (Franka Potente) who has exactly 20 minutes to find 100,000 Deutsche Mark, or her Z-Level mobster boyfriend (Moritz Bleibtreu) likely gets capped. Out the door she goes, over to poppa’s bank to get the money and – FAIL. She dies. As she bleeds out, she screams, “No!” And fate listens: Her quest -- and the movie -- begins again. And again. Director Tom Tykwer’s film is a blast. It tosses the rules for fun: Lola repeatedly passes the bum who caused all this mess, and as she passes other no-names – a bike thief, an old woman, and an office drone – we see their three cracks at fate. Before the whole gimmick becomes redundant, the film shuts down, heart still pounding as fast as Lola’s feet hit the pavement. A-

The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951)

The original “The Day the Earth Stood Still” is a cheesy 1950s space invasion flick with stiff acting, a condescending treatment of women and limited special effects, but it’s glorious. It’s an anti-war call for coming together that ought to be played around the world today. The plot: Human-looking alien Klaatu (Michael Rennie) comes to Earth, with robot Gort in tow, and lays out the facts: Bickering humans are out of control with their petty “my [god, country, skin color, way of life] is better than yours” wars and threaten the universe. Klaatu promises that if Earth keeps this pace, it’s going to get vaporized. (Tough love!) A White House flack sputters, and basically says, “Well, hell, other than killing each other, we don’t know what else to do.” Klaatu rolls his eyes. Gort gets mad. This film is 60 years old, and it’s more viable now than ever. Rennie, tall and emulating wisdom, rocks. Patricia Neal, a favorite 1950s actress of mine, is relegated to panic. Several plot mechanics grind my mind, especially the clueless military approach, but that’s the film’s weird, quaint charm. Skip the remake, which is neither quaint nor charming. A-

Bronson (2009)

Pulling from “The King of Comedy” and “Natural Born Killers,” the gonzo bipic “Bronson” tells the ultra-violent tale of Michael Peterson, a.k.a. Charles Bronson, a.k.a. Britain’s most violent criminal. Bronson (Tom Hardy of “Inception”) tells us he can’t sing or act, but wants fame. So he (successfully) chooses the route of unmitigated, pulverizing violence as his golden ticket. The destination: Prison. Behind bars is his world to play with, and that he does to the fullest extent for 35-and-counting years, and mostly in solitary confinement. Director/co-writer Nicolas Winding Refn uses a “King” trick to dramatize Bronson’s inner workings as the prisoner performs on a “stage” to an audience alive only in his head. It is fascinating and scary as Hardy gives a thundering, crushing performance. Even as Hardy as Bronson commits heinous acts fully naked and covered in any combination of blood, soap, oil and/or black paint, he can't not be watched. A mix of horror, comedy and blow-hard direction add kicks to the movie, which may only be playing in Bronson’s own mind. A-

La Vei en Rose (2007)

Biopics on artists are a dime a dozen, as prolific as superhero films. Edith Piaf gets her due in “La Vie en Rose,” the most ironically titled movie I’ve ever seen. Yes, it’s the title of her hit song, but there is no pink (French for rose) here. This is all dreary grays, browns and blacks, with a dash of American pop art near the end. Piaf was an absolute talent, for sure, but the film posits that her life began in astounding poverty and disease during World War I, and was forever littered with copious amounts of alcohol and drugs, and more disease. She died at 48, looking 78. “Rose” makes “Pollack” seem as joyful as “Yo Gabba Gabba.” The film’s use of fractured timelines goes too far, and I got lost among husbands and lovers, but star Marion Cotillard (“Inception”) is so amazing in the lead, all complaints are moot. She shrinks and contorts her body, and sings the hell out of every tune, under heavy makeup. I love the use of “Je ne regrette rien" ("No, I regret nothing") at the end. B+

Withnail & I (1986)

“Withnail & I” is near-perfect British art house cinema, best watched with a bottle of wine. This dark-as-night autobiographical farce from director Bruce Robinson is vulgar-funny from the start as two unemployed, starving London actors – Withnail (Richard E. Grant) and “I” (Paul McGann) – grow tired of living in their house of squalor. They bum the key to a countryside cottage owned by Withnail’s gay uncle (Richard Griffiths), and head out for R&R. If only. In a film full of great lines, the best is “We’ve gone on holiday by mistake!” The cottage is in ruins, there is neither food nor firewood, and the locals do not abide fools, and these actors are fools. Uncle Monty soon appears with food and wine in hand, and his eyes set on “I.” This is how you do a city-country farce, bare-knuckle satire all around with human follies roasted on a spit. The love–hate “bromance” between the leads is priceless; the ending sad. Griffiths (who now plays Harry Potter’s uncle) nearly steals the film from the brilliant Grant. Second best line: “We want the finest wines available to humanity, we want them here and we want them now!” A-men! A

The Boondock Saints II: All Saint’s Day (2009)

It took Troy Duffy 10 years to make “The Boondock Saints II: All Saint’s Day,” a sequel to his 1999 fascist romp about two devout Christian brothers (Norman Reedus and Sean Patrick Flanery) doing God’s work. If God we’re a White Master Race sociopath hell-bent on mass murder.

Part 1 was repugnant, sexist and cruelly anti-gay, on top of being a poorly made rip-off off of Tarantino, Woo, Scorsese and Coppola. One would hope that Duffy matured during the past decade. He did not. This is the same piss-poor film, only more offensive. Hate Mexicans? You’ll love this.

Here the brothers are self-exiled in Ireland until the vile murder of a priest in Boston calls them back into action. The boys soon find themselves in cahoots with an FBI agent (Julie Benz), very much in line with Willem Dafoe’s self-loathing gay agent from film one, as they hunt and kill. Benz’s agent dresses in stiletto heels and high-dollar call girl outfits, when she’s not imagining herself as an Annie Oakley stripper.

Her first line: “I’m so smart, I make smart people feel retarded.” Benz outdoes Dafoe in trash acting with the worst Dixie accent I’ve ever heard. Her character is not so much a woman of power (FBI agent), but a cartoon written by a man who hates (fears?) strong females. Added screen treats: Several close-ups of a fat man’s ass after he shits his pink panties. How subtle. Duffy is an anvil to intelligence. His fans, fuck them.

The first film’s only redeeming asset was Reedus and Flanery. Not here. Reedus is listless, while Flanery looks like a strung out Meth addict barely able to stay awake. I still can't decide if Duffy is, in fact, a self-loathing homosexual or a full-blown hater, the Fred Phelps/Bull Connor of trash cinema. In both films Duffy has his brothers shower together, and the camera stares in slo-mo awe at their naked bodies as water runs down. You decide.

The final scene promises a Part III, as the brothers mock-shoot a group of black men. Stay classy, Duffy.There is not one redeeming person of color in this film, which must play constant at Klan rallies and Tea Parties, gun nuts crying, “Take our country back, ” with dreams of  popping off minorities. Rarely has a film ever made me so sick in the soul, so ashamed of having watched to the end credits. F

Salt (2010)

“Salt” is a 5-Hour Energy Drink revamp of Cold War super-spy thrillers with Angelina Jolie as Evelyn Salt, a CIA agent who’s actually a Russian assassin tasked with doing in the U.S. of A. But, and this is no spoiler: She’s the hero. This is Jolie, after all, superstar and mother of no less than 14 children. Also, even with dozens of feds on her shoeless Soviet heels, Salt goes out of her way to leave her puppy with an African-America girl who lives nearby. Lee Harvey Oswald never did that. Oswald, by the way, figures into the film’s myriad plot twists and shockers, orchestrated by Phillip Noyce (“Patriot Games”). Yet all the “gotchya” moments are for naught. I pegged the real bad guy just by casting. Yet, I liked “Salt.” The action is wildly over the top but enjoyable, and Jolie is the match of Willis, Gibson or McQueen. One can always see the wheels turning behind her eyes: Dig the scene where Salt escapes from police, and she appears to plan every single move in one instant. And I'll take Jolie in action any day over sob stories such as "The Changeling." For summer flicks, this is good stuff. It’s high-time we get a cinematic female hero again. B

Hero (2004)

Yimou Zhang's "Hero" is about nothing less than the story behind the idea and the man who would become founder and first emperor of China, some 2,000 years ago. It also is one lush, gorgeous film from frame one: Landscapes recall Monet paintings and David Lean films, warriors clash in palaces decorated with huge flowing banners. Yet, I was unmoved. Bored. How many times can a person watch fantasy-laden martial arts warriors chase after each other, swords clanging, legs reaching like ballerinas, over lakes and tree tops ala "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon"? Too many, for me. I'm long past the gimmick. Jet Li stars as Nameless, a prefect who gains audience with the King of Qin to tell how he slew three assassins out to kill the ruler. But is Nameless there just to tell stories? The answer is very "Rushamon." Li is so stoic heroic, he's lifeless, and Ziyi Zhang is wasted in a ho-hum role. Yes, this film has beauty and colors galore, but it lacks blood – both in passion and violence – and skims the heart and brain much like its heroes skim lakes. Always over. Never diving in. B-

Exit Through the Gift Shop (2010)

Is “Exit Through the Gift Shop” a true documentary or a prank by all involved? I don’t know. I’ve never seen another documentary with so many one-liners, where even an old lady dishes out a LOL hilarious comment on a piece of street art. Ninety percent of this flick’s joy comes from wondering what’s real, what’s fictional, and where and when the satire comes and goes. The gist: French-American retailer and OCD video camera freak Thierry Guetta becomes obsessed with illegal street art and eventually crosses paths with the illusive and infamous artist Banksy (always in shadow). Guetta proposes a documentary film. Banksy agrees. But tables are turned, and Banksy turns the cameras on Guetta, who himself turns artist. Guetta is a fascinating character. I admired his passion for daredevil artists, hated his dismissal of wife and children, and laughed out loud at his brash pride at ripping off dead artists. Yet, all this may be a jokey stab at eccentric artists and the rich elite who pander to them. Deadpan narration by Rhys Ivans only adds to the intrigue. A

Inception (2010)

Christopher Nolan’s “Inception” is not for every movie-goer. It is a brain-expanding, mind-blowing trip so far down the hole of human consciousness it makes “Alice in Wonderland” and “The Matrix” seem quaint. This is a film for cinema lovers such as myself who obsessed over “LOST” because it wasn’t easy just entertainment, it required handing ourselves over body and soul to a unique visionary’s imagination, a story, and becoming part of a puzzle. This isn’t a film to ask, “What’s it about?” The question is: “What do you think it’s about?” As with "LOST" or David Lynch's best works, the answers are wide, complex and likely unanswerable.

As director and screenwriter, Nolan returns to the themes of his earliest films: “Following,” “Memento” and “Insomnia.” The plot is hung around a very basic genre concept – here, the haunted criminal on one final job – and turns the box inside out, and upside down. The mystery here lies in the seeker, the film’s protagonist, not in whatever crime he is trying solve, undo or commit. Even “Batman Begins” and “The Dark Knight” were warm ups to this game. Nolan asks the audience with “Inception,” What makes us us? Our memories, our past sins, or our dreams? All those together? Can a person’s dreams become so solidly entrenched in his or her mind, they become as real as the memories of schoolyard games and or one’s wedding? Take over his life? Swallow him whole?

Leonardo DiCaprio is Dominick Cobb, a thief who breaks into people’s minds as they dream while sedated, and sets out to trick or force their subconscious into letting loose vital secrets, data and ideas. He works for and against multi-billion dollar corporations, apparently for the highest bidder. Among his team are Joseph Gordon-Levitt (“G.I. Joe: the Rise of Cobra”) as a planner and Lukas Haas (“Witness”) as a dream architect, with Tom Hardy (“Bronson”) as a “forger” and weapons man.

The film opens with Dom and his crew targeting a wealthy Japanese business man (Ken Watanabe), who quickly turns the tables on the crew. The corker: He hires the group to usurp a rival up-and-coming tycoon (Cillian Murphy). The plan is not to steal an idea, but covertly plant one. Hence, inception. This is all just the set-up. The payoff cannot be described.

As with “Memento,” there is no central villain. The hero’s mind is a scrambled mess, and that is enough of an obstacle to overcome. Dom’s wife is dead, and he is self-exiled from America, where his young children live with his former in-laws. Nolan slowly pulls back the layers of Dom as his own memory-warped dreams smash into the custom-designed dreams of his targets. His wife (Marion Cottilard) appears, alternately seductive, desperate and completely unstable. When a train appears to crash out-of-control through L.A. traffic, it is only a hint of what’s going on inside Dom’s head, where his grip on reality is tenuous at best. Ellen Page (“Juno”) playa an alternate architect, who knows Dom’s troubles.

With the freedom of the unlimited dream-state imagination, Nolan creates cities that fold onto themselves as if they were paper boxes, entire buildings move and twist and tumble as the dreamer’s body is thrown about a moving car. Thankfully, he avoids the crappy, acid-sucking ruin of the dream-heavy "What Dreams May Come." In the movie’s tour-de-force action sequence, Gordon-Levitt fights several gunmen in a hotel hallway where the rules of gravity do not exist. Nolan also plays with time, knowing that the sleeping brain’s timer does not adhere to real, defined time. The further one sinks into dream states of subconscious -– three, four, five levels down -- time crawls. Minutes are decades, and can drive a man -– or a woman -– mad.

With “Memento,” Nolan shattered the rules on how a story can be presented, creating a murder mystery told backward and then sideways, from the perspective of a man with no apparent short-term memory. He shatters the rules again here, picking up on the unfulfilled promise of “The Matrix,” by making the characters on screen, and the audience as well, not only question the “reality” on screen but that of our own existence.

Hanz Zimmer’s buzzing, thumping score and the ironic use of Edith Piaf’s “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien” as a major plot device further breaks down the walls of reality on screen. Cottilard won a best Actress Oscar for playing Piaf in a French-language film. As well, a mysterious series of numbers – 528491 – take on the importance of those hatch numbers in “LOST.” As with that now-gone show, Nolan does not see the need to provide answers. Let the puzzle lay unsolved. DiCaprio’s most recent role in “Shutter Island” adds a weird layer as we grapple with trusting our protagonist in the first place.

All of this is mixed in with massive decaying cities, mind games and a snow-bound action sequence worthy of 1970s-era James Bond. With a sharp edge that is constantly off balance. Multiple viewings, I think, are required. The very final image will be debated among hardcore movie fans (nerds?) for years. The kicker isn’t the image itself, though. It’s the idea of the image. Love it or hate, or don’t get it, Nolan uses “Inception” to burrow deep inside our own heads. The movie isn’t about inception, it is an Inception. I've seen in three times, and still am awed. A