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+