50/50 (2011)

“50/50” dares to make a raunchy comedy about a 27-year-old man facing the Big C. Its odds are far better than the film’s title. Seattle radio producer Adam (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) is OCC about health and the planet: I don’t smoke, I don’t drink, I recycle, he says. Yet, his doctor has grim news: A tumor on his spine means a half-shot at living. Mom (Angelica Houston) frets. Girlfriend (Bryce Dallas Howard) reels away. Best pal (Seth Rogan) sees cancer as a means to pity sex and pot. Based on a true story (writer Will Reiser is Adam), “50” has plenty of drama (a fellow cancer patient dies, Adam’s father has dementia) to balance the rude humor and drugs. JGL and Rogen have fine moments together, as when Adam shaves his head, yet the latter’s Kyle is such a depraved misogynist that it begs the question: How are these men friends? If Kyle ever breaks his man-child streak and weeps for Adam, we never know. That sucks. As a preteen, a best pal had cancer. It profoundly affected me. Levitt rules as self-assured, in-control Adam is reduced to tears, reaching for his mom as possible death awaits. B+

This Means War (2012)

“This Means War” exists for one reason: Make college girls debate who’s hotter, the guy who was Kirk in the new “Star Trek,” or the Brit guy from “Inception.” My wife and I heard the chatter as the credits rolled. So, in a sense, “War” succeeds. Not for me. This ugly flick requires smart, self-assured actress Reese Witherspoon to play the fool, and she is no fool. The plot: Chris Pine (Kirk) and Tom Hardy (Brit guy) play “GQ” blowhard CIA agents both wooing a lonely commercial market researcher (Witherspoon) for sport. Lauren is so shocked that two men (!) would pay her amorous attention that she falls oblivious to each man’s outlandish lies and eerily perfect dates, so we in the audience snicker at what a slack-jawed, wide-eyed rube she is. Of course, Lauren learns the truth and forgives instantly. Toss in much nonsensical guns and chases, boom, movie! Try and get past the following: Pine’s lothario meets Lauren at a DVD rental store; the men stalk and spy on Lauren, and it’s meant to be funny; and Pine and Hardy spark hotter chemistry with each other than with Wiherspoon. Hmm. McG directs, without mercy. C-

Pi (1998)

Darren Aronfsky knows how to work a theme: The artist/lover/addict who drives himself/herself mad or dead with dark passion. “Pi” is his first chapter in his seemingly endless, bottomless Bible of Woe. Made in 1998, filmed in stark black and while and featuring unknowns, our story focus on Max (Sean Gullette), a paranoid math genius obsessed with breaking a hidden code within the Stock Market. Max’s story begins with him already long broken: When he was six, he stared at the sun, and it blinded him for days, and fried his brain. Forever. He fears about every human being (a bad trait in New York City), and ingests meds by the handful to calm his nerves and quiet the metal-grinding sound in his brain. He owns a power drill. When some shady people come looking for Max, to get the coded secrets of Wall Street, his crumbled psyche shatters. This is a rough, messy, amazing film, shot on a shoestring budget, full of razor ends, a work of pure art. The audience has its own code to break: When does Max sink into full madness, a prison as endless as 3.1415926535… A

Tower Heist (2011)

With “Tower Heist,” director Brett Ratner has quite the timely revenge story: Employees at a high-end NYC apartment building (Trump Tower, actually) seek payback when the owner (Alan Alda) turns out to be a Ponzi-pushing Madoff maggot. The plan: Steal $20 million in stolen loot said to be hidden in Money Bags’ penthouse during the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade. Our Mad-as-Hell Occupy heroes are played by Ben Stiller, Casey Affleck, and Gabourey Sidibe, and their tempers are righteous: Why not strike back at the Wall Street pricks who steal from us every day? Yet all piss and blood get lost amid subpar “Ocean’s 11” shenanigans. Problems abound: The one-trick pony is predictable, we’re never sure who’s in on the Robin Hoodery as characters appear and disappear nonsensically, and either bad editing or worse writing (or both) kills scene after scene. Eddie Murphy (who concocted the story years ago with a nastier streak) owns the film as a local spitfire, loose-cannon crook brought in for the job. Too-stiff Ratner foolishly drops Murphy for long periods to focus on Stiller’s “Parents/Fockers” goof. (Remember when Stiller had balls?) Talk about robbery. B-

My Week with Marilyn (2011)

Playing Marilyn Monroe is no small feat. She’s the definitive Hollywood icon of sex and tragedy, 40-plus years after her death. Yet, Michelle Williams nails the part with astounding skill, and not just of Marilyn Monroe, but the way Marilyn played “Marilyn” for cameras, for hangers-on, and adoring, endless fans. A role that seemingly even confused herself, according to the screenplay. The lyric “I’m not broken but you can see the cracks,” from U2, comes to mind. In 1957, Monroe arrived in England to make a film with Sir Laurence Olivier (Kenneth Branagh, eerily good), and the screen goddess created an instant clash with her wayward, unreliable off-screen ways. The “My” in the tile is Colin Clark, a young assistant director who befriends, and so much more, the star. A guy named Eddie Redmayne plays him. True story? Don’t know. If the real Colin lied in his books, he didn’t fib big, because he and Marilyn don’t go there. This is Williams’ film. It’s dull whenever she’s not onscreen. It’s a drama and a morality tale, so, yes, drugs are bad. Williams is a pure goddess on screen. Bravo, miss. B+

Shame (2011)

“Shame.” Call me crazy, but it’s all about the liquids inside us. Poison. The bodily fluid liquid Shame in all of us. A weight, a black hole, a soul crusher. The bodily fluids must be purged, at all costs. They. Must. As demons are exorcised, memories are downed in drugs and booze. Liquids purged. This crazy-daring-disturbing-beautiful art flick, from Brit director Steve McQueen (not the dead Hollywood star of the 1960s, but a young black Brit artist) follows Brandon, an Irish-born, American-raised 30-ish man in New York City. Some dub him a sex addict. Maybe. He certainly relentlessly, ceaselessly, and carelessly picks up sex partners where ever he can find them, or pays for the pleasure for quick encounters. And if no woman is available, porn via Web or magazine will do, and he can masturbate out the semen from his body. His rage, his demon. Men will do, too, to help get that liquid anchor out. What past he leads?

Rising star of 2011 Michael Fassbender, quickly becoming a favorite actor, should have landed an Oscar nomination for his Brandon, a tortured, lonely, angry soul, long past dead inside, who – in the long, wordless climax (I mean that many ways) – cannot fathom intimacy or love or a relationship, and during a three-way, looks as tortured as a man undergoing water-boarding. His one shot at intimacy, an actual relationship, is a full disaster, he calls the woman boring and denounces love, and fails in bed, sexually. It’s all about release, nothing more. There is no love in this world. Not here.

Brandon’s cold, hard, life, all the sex and porn, leftover take-out, and relentlessly repeated classical music played as white noise is thrown a devastating loop when his equally mentally unstable sister Sissy (Carey Mulligan) shows up in his shower, unexpected. Uninvited. Unwanted. Unbounded. She longs for a connection to Brandon. His openness at her nudity and she at his, hints at a dark, horrible childhood. Never explained. We don’t need to know, and maybe would be too horrified to know the truth. Their first run-in onscreen, I thought she was his ex-wife. I said dark and disturbing, and I meant it. Few films ever go this dark.

If Brandon ejaculated out his pain through sex, masturbation, or any stimulant, Sissy is a cutter. Blood. A long series of scars mark her wrists and arms, and she wants to lose more blood. And she will in the end. Pints. The whole movie is liquids -- blood, semen, music, fast-moving subway cars, and rain, never stopping, spinning in an endless circle, down a bottomless drain. Even the music is liquid. Always moving, flowing.

The final scenes mimic the first scenes. McQueen’s film is epic, and cold and small, and amazing, full of sex and nudity. That climatic three-way starts out explicit and erotic as hell, as porn, and then turns painful as Brandon shows nothing but misery, a cold, hard punch to audience-mandated expectations for such a NC-17 sex film. This is eroticism turned ugly, anti-erotic. If the screenplay, by McQueen and Abi Morgan (who wrote the lesser “Iron Lady”) is slight on details, McQueen’s camera – the cinematography is beautiful, and in ultra-wide screen – tells us so much more. Watch how, when Brandon and Sissy talk, the camera is behind them, their faces, eyes, expressions cut off. Cold. Only when they fight, scream, yell, and he attacks her, him fully naked, do we see their faces. As dark as this film goes, I want a re-watch. STAT.

Fassbender bares it all, literally. The rage inside him is barely contained, and when he stares down a woman, his flirtation by eye, masks something far darker. That’s acting. Art. Beauty, Danger. Sex. And ... bottomless doom. The character of Brandon barely speaks. Mulligan, she of “An Education” and “Drive,” will not not speak, and lays out a tortured version of “New York, New York,” so dark, so long, so painful and hopeless, I’m not certain what we saw on screen was reality within the film, but her singing/talking directly to her hardened, hard-on brother, how the cold, dark, big city -- life itself -- will kill them in the end. Brandon cries at the moment, by his sister’s beauty and pain, and is horrified to see that kind of liquid, a tear, come from inside him. Pulsating rage follows.

Do not trust anyone says this film is dead and cold; it is about death and coldness, and sex, in all its glory, and pain and misery and Shame. And always about liquids, bodily fluids, escaping from the body, and the pain of an unexplained past. Pure fucking genius. Bravo, Mr. McQueen, and Mr. Fassbender.A

The Iron Lady (2011)

In “The Iron Lady,” a biopic about Britain’s MP Margaret Thatcher, Meryl Streep embodies the loved/hated prime minister with a voice and movements that are amazing to witness. The actress is more than a worthy Oscar winner here, for she is Atlas, hoisting a terrible film upon her shoulders. Director Phyllida Lloyd and writer Abi Morgan dedicate heaps of time to an Alzheimer’s-stricken Thatcher as she talks to her dead husband (Jim Broadbent), who mucks about as if Peter Pan. The undeniably fascinating life of Thatcher, from World War II-era teenager to leader of a superpower, is all rushed flashbacks, snippets with bold-font headlines, half-explanations, and historical characters that run by. The dementia scenes turn into a bad “Ghost” rehash as onscreen Thatcher literally packs a suitcase for dead hubby so he can go off into the light. What utter nonsense. Streep, thankfully, makes every scene she is in shine, from Parliament debates to her vicious and regretted attack of a second-in-command, to the sad elderly years. Nostalgic conservatives will cheer the speeches, cruel liberals will mock the woman chasing her ghost husband because he’s shoeless. B-

The Thing (2011)

The makers behind “The Thing” insisted from Day One they were not remaking John Carpenter’s classic 1982 horror-in-Antarctica thriller of the same name, but building a prequel story to tell us what happened before a creature attacked an American-led camp headed by Kurt Russell. But this is a remake in every scene and sense, ironic for a film about a mysterious, murderous alien force that perfectly replicates its victims. Joel Edgerton (a pilot) and Mary Elizabeth Winstead (a scientist) lead the cold cast, a camp full of interchangeable Norwegians who stumble upon a space ship and a seemingly dead creature. I didn’t wince or jump once, distracted to madness on how every idea on screen is tired and boxed-in, and how CGI will never equal the gross, hand-built physical effects of 30 years ago. First-time film director Matthijs van Heijningen Jr. is anti-John Carpenter, taking us out of the movie’s best spot – a mid-flight helicopter ride where the monster attacks -- just as it begins, and puts us on the ground. In the snow. Terrible. This Thing is bloodless, a Xerox. C-

Jack and Jill (2011)

“This must never be seen.” Al Pacino says this at the end of “Jack and Jill,” a degrading Adam Sandler flick that has the “SNL” vet playing twins, one Jack, one Jill, with Pacino (!) lusting for the latter. Sandler does drag as Jill and also as Jack in drag as Jill. That’s the plot. So, yes, Pacino continues his late-career burnout by playing himself in a way that can only be called turkey bacon. It’s beyond ham. He raps an onscreen Dunkin’ Dounts commercial, and it’s awful sad. At least Katie Holmes looks embarrassed as Jack’s autotron wife. Not Al. Sandler has been making brain-fuck films for years, to bore us and get rich quickly, and his self-satisfied smirk shows how much he cares. He spends 80 minutes mocking Jill as an overweight, sweaty, techno-clueless, socially inept wreck of shrill Jewish stereotypes, before going life-lesson soft, asking us to fall in love with her (him) as a person. I don’t know which is worse, that Sandler thinks he’s creating message movies, his constant product hawking, or that he thinks diarrhea is still funny. D

Dr. Seuss’ The Lorax (2012)

Conservative bobble (hot) heads are denouncing the CGI animated 3-D version of Dr. Seuss’ “The Lorax” as the second-worst thing in the universe since “The Communist Manifesto,” or third, behind Obama’s birth certificate. The book: Quick subtle lesson of conservation over consumerism by the late Theodore Geisel. Its plot simple: A boy from a treeless, polluted town seeks a real, life tree. But none are to be found, according to the Once-Ler, a recluse who long ago killed all the trees in the land to make bizarre products from the flowery tree tops. The Once-Ler did not heed the warnings of the Lorax, a short hairy beast that looks like (no really) Wilfred Brimley, but oranger and shorter and much hairier, and the self-proclaimed voice of the voiceless trees.

The “Lorax” movie, directed by Chris Renauld and Kyle Bald, is not quick nor subtle. It’s a sermon. Jonathan Edwards Spider kind, but leftist, and with brighter colors. I am quite liberal, and I fast grew tired of the tree-hugger brimstone drum beat, which is finished off by a disturbing and loud Tom Petty/MTV dirge that will scare the hell out of toddlers. It’s “The Day After the Day After Tomorrow,” but the lessons are not remotely “indoctrinating,” as the Fox critics cry. It’s telling kids to be smart, watch your resources. (I know, responsibility crazy right? I mean, wasn’t there a sentence of three in the Bible where God said, “Take care of the Earth. It’s mine. Not Yours.” Commie Bastard out to get Job, err, jobs.) For 90 minutes, yeah... OK, too damn long.

I digress, sorry. See, all the Seussian word plays, innocence, and childlike wonder of the book, are washed in a sea of redneck jokes, spoofs on the bottled water business (bottled air!) and “Too Big To Fail” gags, and this relentless dizzying, loud, nonstop mad dash to deliver a dozen jokes per minute. (The similarly CGI’d “Horton Hears a Who” is far, far better, a true treat.) That’s not to say “Lorax” is a bad, the animation pops with bright cotton candy colors, and many of the jokes are funny – just more akin to current TV fare. The voice talent is ace, especially Danny DeVito for The Lorax. It’s a joke all its own, such a cuddly creature with that Joizee guy mutter, but still warm.

As for the 1971 book, Corporate America did not like it here or there, or anywhere. They made their own book, “Truax” I recall, a tale that included the lesson that, hey, if some forest animals die in the name of progress, tough luck. In God We Trust. Who says who’s brainwashing children? Maybe Murdoch and Gingrich will fund a pro-multi-national-corporation cartoon, about the fun of mountain top removal, as long as it ends with money being made, it’s all good. “I am the Newt , I speak for the dollars…” Not that “Lorax” is any more pure. B-

P.S. I saw this in 3D. Not necessary. A few scenes, maybe. But overall, save your money. Skip the plastic glasses. But, loving Momma Earth, you knew that, eh?

Dream House (2011)

I saw an early trailer of “Dream House” that gave nearly the entire film away. What the ad didn’t spoil: This supernatural, “Oh, shit, we moved into a massacre house” film crashes at the one hour mark, leaving even the great Rachel Weisz acting shrill and lost. Pushing ahead spoiler-free: Daniel Craig plays Will Atenton, a book editor ditching NYC for the rural dream house with his wife (Weisz) and daughters. Pfft. Seems “family murdered” was left out of the realty ad. Directed by Jim Sheridan, with a solid cast of names, this not-horrifying “American Horror Story” story should rock and shock. It fails. “Dream” goes dead flat after that one-hour-mark reveal resets the plot, and then drops an endless series of awful gotch’yas. Worst offense, other than the writing and editing: The great Naomi Watts is wasted in a “helpless woman” role beneath her station. PSA hint: If your train-mate on the way to your new house is Elias Koteas, go the hell back to work. Stay there. C

Bound for Glory (1976)

“Bound for Glory” is a movie the GOP might wish banned, a tribute to the American Union spirit that defied billy-club work-crew bosses during the long Great Depression. Men such as Woody Guthrie and thousands of fruit pickers – paid pennies per bushel for exhausting work – were the first to Take Our Country Back, and “Glory” tells this biopic story of the leftist singer in such wonderful detail, one might think this a documentary. Hal Ashby (“Harold and Maude”) directs with a keen eye and ear, and as the man who wrote “This Land is Your Land,” David Carradine is soulful and serene. It’s a must-watch as we head toward an election held fast by corporate-controlled puppets that have no regard for anyone but their rich peers. Yet, this is no leftist orgy. Guthrie is a womanizer, too selfish to recognize his family. It’s a sharp message from Ashby and Carradine, troubled men themselves. Ronny Cox (“Total Recall”) as a unionizer dazzled by fame is marvelous. The cinematography recalls Dorothea Lange. A-

Dumbo (1941)

Before the words “Walt Disney” became synonymous with Corporate Giant, it was the name of an artist still unsurpassed in imagination and legend. Disney’s 1940s animated films still dazzle above and beyond anything produced now, and 71-year-old “Dumbo” is among his best works. It’s the story of a baby elephant with large ears, and his harsh circus life where mother is abused and imprisoned for protecting her young one. Dumbo, even this is a cruel nickname, must perform in clown makeup, and is placed atop a burning scaffold and forced to jump into a small pool of goop. Pure humiliation. This is classic dark Disney, a film about a broken child, mixed with much hope and magic. The plot borrows from “Pinocchio” with another tinier, smarter pal in Timothy B. Mouse, but it’s a clever twist, and a funny joke, too. The animation, story, and music are pure joy, even if the gang of crows almost flies into Jim Crow stereotyping. Note the use of watercolors, and the dazzling, still daring and freakishly scary Pink Elephant scene. A