The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug (2013)

Peter Jackson pushes on his with his uber-epic 9-hour adaptation of J.R.R. Tolkien’s “The Hobbit” with “The Desolation of Smaug,” a near-three hour action epic that -– behold, wonders –- improves from last year’s “An Unexpected Journey.” That film played crazy indulgent as it OD’d on “Lord of the Rings” nostalgia (Frodo checks the mailbox!) and eye-roll flashbacks. Here we again follow young Hobbit Bilbo (Martin Freeman) now in the middle of his adventure helping 13 dwarves recapture their mountain home from the monstrous dragon Smaug. (Smaug is voiced by Benedict Cumberbatch, making this a love-fest for BBC’s “Sherlock,” where Freeman is Watson to Cumberbatch’s Holmes.) Jackson and his team ramp up the action and add new material including a Errol Flynn-era Robin Hood-like female elf, played by Evangeline Lilly of “Lost.” Despite past grumblings of Jackson re-working Tolkien, this addition is welcome. I can’t recall a single female in the “Hobbit.” This middle chapter still is too long, far too “LotR” obsessed, and I still couldn’t care if most of the dwarves died by dragon fire, but Freeman carries it. He dazzles strong with physical comedy that could stand beside Chaplin. B

After Earth (2013)

“After Earth” must be mocked. How else to react to a sci-fi survivalist tale from once-great director/writer M. Night Shyamalan that is set on a desolated/abandoned future Earth, but one that looks like a commercial for a tropical adventure? (Cities? There are none.) This is absolute unintended comedy, a wonder of miscalculation. Despite MNS’s name, Will Smith is the man in charge as producer and story creator, and it isn’t even his vehicle. The star is Smith’s teenage son Jaden, who had better luck and better support in pop’s “Pursuit of Happyness” and the recent “Karate Kid” remake. The syrupy story has a “Great Santini” father (Will) and his green horn son (Jaden) all angry dinner scowls and then later crashing their space shuttle on said Earth. Naturally, the duo must bond as son serves as the “avatar” hero of his father, whose legs are shattered. Also in the shuttle and now loose on Earth because no space cliché can go untouched: A slimy monster that eats people. I can take hodge-podge films that wink at their theft, but “Earth” is blindly, awkwardly convinced of its own “inspirational” Hallmark gruel. It's just gruel. Younger Smith looks miserable. C-

Red 2 (2013)

The comic-book inspired “Red” from 2010 was an OK blast of time-waster fun, nothing special outside of the delicious sight of seeing classy senior citizens such as Morgan Freeman and Helen Mirren blast off guns and canons alongside Action Man himself Bruce Willis. And it had an Ernest Borgnine cameo. “Red 2” is very much all the same, minus Freeman and (RIP) Borgnine, as a pack of retired CIA killers -– led by John Malkovich -– again run after some McGuffin device as a tarted-up, evil, faceless Big Brother agency chases after them, bouncing bullets and plane tickets for foreign lands back and forth. The sought-after item here is an untraceable bomb developed by the USA lost decades ago and now likely to fall into the hands of terrorists. Anthony Hopkins pops by, making for at least one delicious scene where he and Brian Cox face off. That’s movie geek glory as each man played Hannibal Lector. But that’s it. The rest is paint by numbers and stale jokes. Here’s one: Have you seen the gag about the once cool bad-ass macho man reduced to shopping at Costco just like any consumer? No?!? Well, here’s your chance. C+

The Train (1964)

John Frankenheimer’s World War II “The Train” is a classic beyond compare. Maybe the grimy, sweaty black and white photography gets in the way? No idea. This film is perfect. Burt Lancaster plays French railway manager Labiche, a control freak who reluctantly and then obsessively plays out a suicide mission to stop a Nazi colonel (Paul Scofield) from looting France of its most treasured historic art -- irreplaceable Monets and Picassos, etc. The genius plot trick: Labiche and his fellow saboteurs don’t care a whit about the paintings. This is personal pride, and screwing the Nazis. At the end in eerie imagery, our star and director sternly ask if even one life violently sacrificed to save paintings or any other treasure, land, or national pride, is worth the toll. War is fruitless. Another reason to endlessly love this film: The destruction of a massive rail yard and a three-way way crash between three engines are shot in-camera, single takes. These scenes astound. You can near smell the ash and smoke. Lancaster does his own stunts, sliding down ladders and jumping trains, with Scofield’s villain as one for the ages. Quite possibly my favorite film ever. This is epic film-making. A+

The Phantom Tollbooth (1969)

I am a rabid Chuck Jones fan. There was or is no better animator, with Jones even surpassing Miyazaki and Disney in my book. No man has better drawn the way a dog stretches under a back scratch, or how any being –- man or beast -– can toss an askew glance at a Murphy moment of despair. So when I sat for Jones’ celebrated full-length “The Phantom Tollbooth,” I wanted to bask in childhood glory. Damn. This tale of a snotty child (Butch Patrick, Eddie of “The Munsters”) who drives a magical kiddie car through a magical tollbooth from live-action San Francisco into an animated world, is not just sparkless, it’s a text book lesson in how not to entertain children. It’s devastatingly preachy with slimy goblins warning of the dangers of doldrums, and kings and fairies warning of the sin of using too many words, or not enough, and watch your posture, and don’t complain! Well, I shall, thank you. Remember how cool those “School of Rock” shorts were? This is School of Impatience. The basic plot -– two kingdoms of letters and numbers are at war –- provides endless possibilities, and demands a smarter remake. C+

The Great Dictator (1940) and Dr. Strangelove: Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964)

The brilliance of satirical pitch and timing of  “The Great Dictator” – from Charlie Chaplin -- and “Dr. Strangelove: Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb” – from Stanley Kubrick, and starring Peter Sellers – cannot be summed up here. These are worthy of books. I saw these war comedies near back-to-back and sat awed, not just at the performances of their lead actors, but the sheer balls that both projects demanded from their creators. “Dictator” takes on Hitler as a buffoon just as the Third Reich roared into terrifying power, while “Strangelove” lampoons a world where nuclear war was considered a sensible tool to save lives. We have nothing in our present day to compare these films and real fears, so there’s no use fishing for analogies. Chaplin’s movie follows a barber rattled by war and a ruthlessly idiotic dictator, while Kubrick’s tale follows a crazed general (Sterling Hayden) who sets off World War III, rattling the U.S. President and entertaining a mad ex-Nazi rocket scientist turned U.S. war scientist. Chaplin and Sellers are so amazing, it boggles the mind. Watching these classics now, it shows the dearth of comedies we have now in cinemas, “Grown-Ups 2”? No. A+

12 Years a Slave (2013)

I don’t want to know anyone who doesn’t walk out of “12 Years a Slave” a crushed soul rebuilt from the ground up by the final and finally at-last hopeful moments of this true horror tale that is deft enough to show beautiful –- stunningly so -- landscapes amid recreations of terrifying acts of inhumanity that were the start of this great (and terrible) nation. 

These shots are clear: As they degrade the lives of those they see as less than themselves, the allegedly greatest of our kind –- rich, educated, and privileged beyond measure -– bring ruin to their own lives with the heinous need to control and take all treasure. 

Brit-born filmmaker Steve McQueen (“Shame”) has done what few American directors have dare tried: Tell the brutal story of slavery in the United States with unblinking detail and absolute you-are-there authority. 

This is the anti-“Gone with the Wind,” with its Southern celebration and happy slaves, and certainly the anti-let-us-have-fun-revenge-flick “Django Unchained,” which I like less and less the more I recall my two, one too many, viewings of it. 

Solomon Northup was a born free African-American in 1840s New York, a musician and engineer, until he was kidnapped and sold into bondage below the Northern line into death, rape, and forced labor that should shock anyone with a hair of decency. 

Chiwetel Ejiofor (“Children of Men”) plays Solomon, a man who must deny his own greatness and abilities, essentially his outright normalcy as a human, lest he be murdered or worse -- and yes there are worse fates -- by his white masters who will not see anyone of color as their equal. 

Solomon does this for 12 grueling years, his longest stretch as “property” of a sadistic drunkard (Michael Fassbender, a regular in McQueen’s films) who is abusive to all around him, including his own wife (Sarah Paulson) who can equal her husband’s acidic temper. 

This is an age when a black slave could be killed for learning to read or write, an act I cannot even muster in my head as a reality. But McQueen shows us many disturbing realities – including a brutal whipping that Solomon is forced to take part in – as every day, and as much a part of the American spirit as apple pie, George Washington and fireworks. 

To deny this, to ignore it, to wish it away as a past that should be forgotten and “get over it,” -– and I heard that a lot in Alabama and here in Virginia from racist cunts who then turn around and celebrate the rah-rah-rah spirit of the Robert E. Lee and the Confederacy, or what their university did in 1881 -- is a great as sin as those who meted out this disaster of inhumanity. 

Ejiofor truly, sorry this sounds cliché, this film has robbed me of most words, astounds in the lead role. I have been a fan of his for years, and now just stand in awe. He plays a freeman forced into not just slavery and near unspeakable cruelty an acting chore, a sick live stage act that lasts some 4,400 days, an educated, bright, angry, hopeful man who must show near none of those traits. 

That’s what sticks with me. Burying oneself as dead although you are yet alive, and long to see your wife and children, and parents, etc. 

In one bravo scene, three quarters, McQueen dishes out a scene that pulls no punches: Ejiofor as Northup looks out into the sky of his “home” and then directly into the camera at the audience, daring us to not just continue in his harrowing story but to never forget his suffering and the untold numbers of his fellow slave captives in an American that only called itself free, but in a blatant knowing lie, a wink as the rich and powerful killed hundreds of thousands, or more, of people of color, all for greed, and wealth, and land. 

The final moments, and this is no spoiler that Solomon lives, where he apologies –- apologies –- to his family for missing out on their lives, just laid waste to me. Can you imagine? I simply cannot, and have no words. McQueen and company have left me near silent. 

(Note: As with “The Butler,” a host of big names pop by for cameos, Brad Pitt among them, but these roles are mostly commoners, owners, bigots, and others, and the cameos do not stick in the crawl as, say, John Cusack does as Richard damn Nixon. OK, stop, hold on, Pitt almost grinds and pops too much a saint-like liberal progressive.)

Lest we need proof this story must be told, loud and in every corner, lest it ever be forgotten, a darling of the right-wing conservative movement has written a review of “12” –- without seeing the film, and stating he has no intention to -– saying McQueen and the film are too “harsh” on slavery, which has economic merit and can actually be healthy…. That such thought still carries cultural weight today is truly paralyzing. 

And makes “12” all the more vital. (If you can, read the book source. STAT.) A

White House Down (2013)

It’s a tough year for 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Obama is tanking badly, and movie wise, North Korean terrorists attacked the White House in “Olympus Has Fallen,” and comic book flicks “Iron Man 3” and “G.I. Joe: Retaliation” both put the Executive Mansion under threat. So does “White House Down,” with the D.C. landmark falling (again) to terrorists. Hollywood sure likes a theme. This version concerns right-wing military fanatics going ape shit with a World War III plot that screams 1985, but with a Tea Party bent that somehow feels exactly like what Sarah Palin and her ilk must dream of at night. Who wants peace when war is so profitable? Self-righteous pricks. Channing Tatum has the heroic John McClane role, down to the tank top, while Jamie Foxx is the Prez. Foxx’s casting is key as he channels BO down to the Nicorette, while director Roland Emmerich (“Independence Day”) seems to be openly daring/baiting Obama, “Stand up and lead!” These veiled jabs of satire and several fourth-wall busting asides (“This is so stupid” our hero mutters to himself) make this dead-horse plot of White House distress fall smooth. B

Hanna Arendt (2013)

The banality of evil. The very notion that anyone can commit unspeakable evil under the oh-so-wrong “right” condition is something of a cliché now. But back in the early 1960s as philosopher/teacher/writer Hanna Arendt coined the phrase while covering the Eichmann trial for the New Yorker, she was met with a crushing ethical/academic flame war. As played by Barbara Sukowa, this European art-house take of “Hanna Arendt” has the Holocaust survivor and NYC resident shunned here and in Israel after she not only wrote that Eichmann was just a boring mediocre shit with no brains, but some Jewish leaders helped open the door of Nazi extermination through contrition. It’s relatively accepted now. Not then. Not when wounds and memories were so raw. The move is at its best at these moments of personal drama and inner torment. Yet, often I feel left cold by these New York intellectual dramas as they seem to take anyone not in the “know” to task for not being a member of the party. I look at these square-heads here and think, “Why be friends with them?” My tweed jacket diet only goes so far. B

This is the End (2013)

“This is the End” is a Hollywood-insider joke from the stoner club of Seth Rogen and pals, lathered in endless jokes about pot, jerking off, L.A. life, and bromances, with two running gags that make it worth at least one watch. First: James Franco stars as himself, playing up his apparent homosexuality by obsessing over Rogen (as himself) with scary devotion. The second: Emma Watson plays an ax-wielding bad-ass Emma Watson. “Hermione stole all our shit,” said by Danny McBride, has to be the funniest line of the year. The plot: Rogen and pot pal -– if you don’t like drug jokes, just stay away -– Jay Baruchel join a party thrown by Franco at the latter’s phallic-heavy home with booze and drugs free-flowing until the shit hits the world fan: Earthquakes, fires, monsters, and angry Watson. Typical Hollywood, every disaster here is from some other movie, borrowed and cleaned-up new, with the best riffs from “Ghostbusters” and “Rosemary's Baby.” Why not, eh? The end of “The End” may play a bit sacrilegious for some, but my worst beef came from the too self-satisfied smirk on everyone’s face. That said, I laughed my ass off. B+

Man of Steel (2013) and Superman: The Movie (1978)

A trippy back-to-back movie marathon for a long-time superhero geek: The new, troubled, cold dark blue “Man of Steel,” followed by the pop-art all-is-good bright “Superman: The Movie” from 1978. (The latter the first film I ever saw in a theater.) 

These films seen together should make some pop culture thesis about how far down the path of darkness America has gone, or realized it traveled long ago but could never quite admit. After all, damn it, Superman is America. (If you need back story, you are lost.)

Both films are origin stories of Superman, the only hero whose true identity is his super hero self, and his alter ego costume the normal guy next door, Clark Kent. He always is Superman. The older version is straight chronological order, the second splits about a quarter way through, rocketing, so to speak, from baby landing to adult Clark at work.

Richard Donner’s 1978 film is soaked in American nostalgia, even for a bygone era with Norman Rockwell vistas of farmland and cityscapes right out of comic books and the imaginations of children. Christopher Reeve is Superman as an adult, a Boy Scout with no doubt of his inner goodness and he dives in against bad guy Lex Luther (Gene Hackman) with no second of hesitation. 

This is the film for children of all ages. I was 4 when I saw it and was, for lack of a better term, in love. I wore a Superman shirt until it fell apart. Odd now, because I see the flaws now over the nostalgia. When the hell ever was the bit with the black pimp, “That is one bay-ad outfit!’, funny? It smacks of racism, to be fully blunt. I didn’t see that from my pre-kindergarten mind. 

I digress, though, for I still love the intent of this movie. More so than the results. The boy flipping through the comic book at the film’s start, post curtain, says it all. Even if I laugh more now at goofball, neutered Luther, who –- with Hackman on pure ham -– is a kitten compared to Zod. Oh, Zod. The anti-Superman from Krypton. Oh, sure he pops up in “Superman,” briefly in the form of Terrence Stamp, but he’s near the whole show in “Steel.” 

And forget that clunky insider-nerd title. This is “Superman Begins.” And from producer Christopher Nolan, no less. Except the studio could not use such an on-the-nose title. Not after Batman, 2005. 

Donner went Rockwell. Here, director Zack Snyder (“Watchman”) under Nolan goes full Terrence Malick, with an eye that calls out beauty shots such as swaying clothes in the breeze and farm fields, but he is is not afraid to show what lays underneath. It’s Superman by way of “Badlands.” It’s an insane move, really, and on my first move, I had no idea what to think. Nor my second. Months later, I’m still crazy lost and I’m not afraid to admit unsure. 

But I like that, I like that Superman can be created as a symbol of uncertainty and conflict. Do you beat back the bully, or try and save him? What’s it like it to be a child with x-ray vision and crazy-good hearing? Yes, Snyder and his writers take all those little boy Superman fantasies I had and turn them on their head. Do you really want those powers? Or would you go mad? 

As much as “Superman” of 1978 was a celebration of American greatness with comedy thrown in (Larry Hangman!), “Steel” is dead serious about an America with great powers that must ask just because we can intervene, should we? A scene has Superman ask that of a priest, of intervention and sacrifice on the part of Christ. Henry Cavil of “Immortals” is our hero, and purposefully not fully formed or the good guy that Reeve exemplifies. That will come later. (Let’s forget about that 2006 version, OK?)

The endings of these films are full theses in their own right: In the 1978 version, Luther slams California with nuclear missiles, killing Lois Lane (Margot Kidder, still the best in the role) by earthquake. Reeve as Superman is too late to save her and goes mad and -– can I say it’s unrealistic and not be slapped? -– flies into outer space, and spins backward against the Earth’s rotation, turning back time. 

Yes, turning back time. I cheered when I was 4. Now I think, were there drugs on set?

In “Steel,” Zod (Michael Shannon, seething and peeing on all the carpets) lays waste to Metropolis, Smallville, the Pacific, and untold other places, killing untold thousands of people as he attempts to reset Earth as Krypton. (Um, long story, better not to ask.) Lois doesn’t die, but Superman near goes mad here trying to save the world, committing an act that sent shock waves through Superman fans everywhere. I gasped my first time. 

But what a bold crazy move it is, and I won’t say. (Huge leeway: Did he not do it also in “Superman II,” twice?) As a whole “Steel” may not all work, just as “Superman” does not all fit together, but Snyder and Nolan are staking claim to a new legend. 

I pause just short of calling it ballsy, or brilliant. If I can cringe at anything in “Steel,” it’s that this film is not for any child of 4 or 10, and that is who Superman is for. Not adults. For children. My father took me to see the ’78 version. Big memory. 

Had I a child now, I would have taken him to see “Steel.” That cold dark blue may be too dark, certainly too violent with crashing cities. Is that our modern America, though?

Superman: B+, on nostalgia. Man of Steel: B, dependent on a third viewing.

The Hunger Games: Catching Fire (2013)

Katniss Everdeen goes “Godfather III” in “The Hunger Games: Catching Fire”: “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.” That’s the story here: One year after the Appalachian teen (Jennifer Lawrence) and her maybe platonic pal Peeta (Josh Hutcherson) survived an Orwellian government’s “Most Dangerous Game” for Youth, she’s sucked back into the blood sport for Round 2, up against fellow veterans that include Hutcherson back as the Cub Scout kid, and Sam Claflin (that awful fourth “Pirates’ film”) as a swashbuckler stud with a secret. Donald Sutherland as the dictator of this FUBAR USA still sparkles evil winks, knowing he’s the Actor King on set. Even Philip Seymour Hoffman as a new Game Master bows to his greatness. This sequel -– like its own source –- digs darker as Katniss finds herself a hero/pawn in a far-too-real game that has soldiers executing old men in public. Lawrence owns this film. Post “Silver Linings Playbook” Oscar win, she could phone it in. She seems the real deal. Truly. Director Francis Lawrence (“I am Legend”) may not have the heart-breaker moments that scored the first installment, but the final shot pumps the blood for more Games. A-

Sisters (1973)

During the finale of Brian De Palma’s “Sisters,” a bloody schizoid mind fuck love letter to Hitchcock, my jaw hung open. This riffs on Siamese sisters -- one alive, the other not quite, and both played by Margot Kidder –- and doesn’t just drive off the cliff. It launches off the road at rocket speed and explodes in a splatter of gore and brain pulp. We follow, as with any good Hitchcock film, a guy (Lisle Wilson) and a gal (Kidder) attracted to each other after a bizarre appearance on a TV game show that has unsuspecting men watching woman strip bare, with the latter in on the gag. The couple’s date goes bad fast: Her ex-husband (William Finley) prowls crazy and stalks the couple to her apartment, where things get icky and –- no spoiler –- bloody. De Palma then switches gears to a writer (Jennifer Salt) who sees the crazy deeds, before slamming back into drive, then reverse, then circles, burning out the engine for a finale that hit me far different than any plot synopsis I read. I loved every whacked red-soaked second. I still don’t know how to grasp it all, but obsess nonetheless. That’s addictive filmmaking. A 

Notorious (1946)

His dames typically died harsh, and he had crazy Mommy Issues. But Alfred Hitchcock’s run of films is unchallenged. Dig “Notorious.” Made just after WWII and before the arrival of Better Dead Than Red! American patriotism crushed free thought, this plays damn smart if you look between the Hayes’ Code lines. Here, a CIA agent (Cary Grant) forces the American daughter (Ingrid Bergman) of a Nazi spy to romance another SS Bootlicker (Claude Rains) to get any secrets he has cooking. And that he does: Atomic bomb deeds. Straight plot. Melodrama. Suspense. The title is a twisted joke: Grant’s bosses sit and damn Bergman as unwomanly and quite expendable whether she gets the goods or not, for she likes sex and liquor, her notoriety. Never mind these men, Grant included, enjoy skirts and booze. (Look for the lady at the party who knows Grant.) Hitchcock lays American hypocrisy flat with a stealth punch. How can we look these men in the eye? On Grant, we cannot. He is consistently shown from behind, his face a mystery for long stretches until he finally sees the damage his spy gaming has wrought. The final scene is ambiguous and pure Hitchcock genius. A

The Human Centipede (2010)

Filmmaker Tom Six once made a joke of sewing a child-rapist perv’s mouth to a truck driver’s ass. Get it: When the fat hauler would crap, perv dude would get a meal. Somehow that crack, so to speak, gave Six the idea to make a horror movie about a whacky Nazi-inspired surgeon (Dieter Laser) who sews three youth (Ashley Williams, Ashlynn Yennie, and Akihiro Kitamura) together end to end, with the guy first in line. The whole affair is grisly, gross, and warped beyond measure, but Six smartly puts much of the gore and ick off screen and –- in a sly joke that somewhat backfires -- makes the mad doc the most boring horror villain one can imagine. This all comes apart, so to speak again, at the end when fat cops come knocking and the entire medical ordeal finally unravels as beyond preposterous: Mainly hydration and oxygen. There’s too little thrill here, the “Watch your back or else!” joke that forms the “Friday the 13^th” or “Elm Street” series, however campy they might be. It’s all just leaves a bad taste in the mouth.  Again, so to speak. B

Silkwood (1983)

True story “Silkwood,” directed by Mike Nichols and co-written by Nora Ephron, effortlessly plays like a captured documentary of Karen Silkwood, a lowly 28-year-old worker at a plutonium plant who died in an unexplained car crash after she started investigating safety violations at her thankless job. During her ordeal, Silkwood (Meryl Streep) found herself on the end of repeated, unlikely exposures that even reached her own home, shared with a boyfriend (Kurt Russell) and best friend (Cher), the latter a lonely gay woman. Nichols makes no saints, our three protagonists are all coworkers and flawed people. Karen strays. Russell’s boozer alpha male is loyal to the company, and so on. Money and family struggles, and the damning judgment of the unrealized American Dream are harsh. I first saw “Silkwood” at age 12 and was blown away by Nichols’ unforgiving realism of humiliating decom showers, and Streep’s stunning near naked performance. Political punches? Big money corporate corruption is bare knuckle, but so is the depiction of a union that seems far too hungry for media attention. Streep’s singing of “Amazing Grace” is the most pained and therefore perfect version I have ever heard. A

Badlands (1973)

In love with Terrence Malick’s “Days of Heaven” on my first viewing years back, I sought out his earlier effort, “Badlands.” Its brilliance knocked me off guard. Fictionalizing a true killing spree, “Badlands” has Martin Sheen and Sissy Spacek as lovers on the run in 1950s Midwest America, he a smooth, detached murderer, and she a teen who is more shockingly indifferent than innocent. Kit (Sheen) is late 20s and collects trash for a job until he no longer wants to, and he falls for high school teen Holly (Spacek). Her father objects and coldly kills the family pet as punishment, and that prompts Kit to kill him. Many more bodies pile up as the duo head from South Dakota to Montana, back roads and dirt. The killing of the dog hit hard this time: Holly has no reaction, and as Kit murders, she barely lodges a gasp, talking up pet birds with a gut-shot man who is bleeding out. Beyond all the romance, music and desert beauty on display, Malick has made a genius film about an America that stares unblinking and not a little amused at death. Forty years on, we’ve reached this stark reality every single day. A+

Rush (2013)

What got into Ron Howard’s blood? After two too many Dan Brown movies, the man who made “Apollo 13” back when I was in college has made a knockout film that torches the screen with a bristling, heart-puncher drama about 1970s European Formula One racing. On track, it screams loud with men relentlessly chancing death for sport, and off track it screams ego and misery, excess, and raw sex. Sex from Opie? Yes. The true story: Brit James Hunt (Chris Hemsworth of “Thor”) and Austrian Niki Lauda (Daniel Brühl of “Inglorious Basterds”) were deep bitter rivals of the world racing circuit, each eyeing a championship as if it were the fingertip of God Himself. Hunt has Playgirl looks, charisma to spare, and reckless arrogant attitude, while rich boy Lauda obsesses cold stats and logic, profit margin,  and is an asshole to spare. In the eyes of Howard and screenwriter Peter Morgan, a horrific accident literally burns one into a new realization of life, but dooms the other to his chosen path. Howard’s depiction of racing kicks and horror is a blast as he drops us behind wheels and inside engines at every moment, revving our pulse and dread.  A-

Monsters, Inc. (2001) and Monsters University (2013)

Animation wise, Pixar was knocking out instant classic year after year in the early 2000s, and “Monsters Inc.” stood tall among many gems. The fantastic story: All those shadowy monsters we saw in our closets and under our beds as children are real, and they live in monster city powered by the screams of bed-frightened youth. The kicker: The monsters fear children. Kids are considered toxic, and woe the hairy freak who gets a toddler’s sock stuck to his back. 

The top “scarer” is James “Sully” Sullivan, a massive blue-and-purple horned guy with the voice of John Goodman and a sidekick/manager/BFF named Mike Wazowski that looks like a giant eyeball with legs and arms, and the voice of Billy Crystal. (Just dig the names: Right out of any Philly neighborhood from my childhood.) All is well for these guys until Mike lets in a babbling toddler who mistakes our scary man for a big kitty. Mayhem ensues, with smart genre spoofing and asides as Ray Harryhausen’s name becomes that of the top spot to eat in town and medusa is, umm, a hot lady at work. For Mike no less. 

Every moment – especially John Ratzenburger as an Abominable Snowman with self-esteem issues – is magic, and the film empowers children to not cry but laugh at the dark. How unfathomably cool is that? Besides “Incredibles,” Pixar has no better action scene than a long fight between our heroes against a lizard-like color shifter snidely voiced by Steve Buscemi among thousands of racing, shifting closet doors, each leading to the “real” world. 

 “Inc.” pops and crackles with glee, with Randy Newman’s jazz score tying the knot on the present. The last scene kills.

The sequel, “Monsters University,” is a prequel as we jump back in time to see James and Mike meet during their freshman year of college. Are they pals? No. Rivals. The gist of the story: Our heroes are at college to major in scaring children to land jobs at the power company Monsters Inc. James is a natural, coasting in on his family name, while Mike has mud in his eye, not the slightest bit scary. 

The duo find themselves on academic skids after destroying a prize possession of the dean (Helen Mirren, turning on the intimidation to full blast as a dragon-like scorpion). Along the way Mike and James join the Omega Kappa (O.K.!) fraternity, a bottom drawer of geeks who live with one of their own mothers. Will Mike and James and the team succeed against all odds? Yes! They will. (Debate: Is cheating OK? Well…) 

Pixar is coasting here, railing on “Revenge of the Nerds” jokes and our own love for the first film. Oh, there are laughs -- I dug the old lady librarian from Mordor – but the jazz pop of “Inc.” is sophomoric.

Inc.:  A University:  B+

Ghostbusters (1984)

I love “Ghostbusters” more now than when I was 10 and bowled over by special effects, action, and dirty jokes meant for adults. Sure, this is still a kid’s flick, but it’s brilliantly written and peppered with wicked satire. The plot relies on digs at the EPA and IRBs! Name another Hollywood movie that trusting of the audience to get the jokes? Dan Aykroyd, Harold Ramis, and Bill Murray are the heroes, fired academics who take to hunting the ghosts that plague New York City. And why not, it’s New York. Heaven for hell. And if they get laid along the way, go for it. Their proton pack arrival is perfectly timed as a Manhattan apartment high-rise with Sigourney Weaver as a tenant has just popped open a portal to a demonic realm. From the start in a library with book cards tossed all crazy right up to the finale with a white puffy giant ghoul with a grin, “Ghostbusters” rocks with never-better New York “F” the system eternal cool. Those days are gone. Conformity reigns now. Dig Murray riffing strong improve on the street, or Rick Moranis’ apartment geek king, and that dangling cigarette trick Aykroyd beautifully pulls… Classic! A+

House of Wax (1953) and House on Haunted Hill (1959)

Vincent Price, with his abyss of a voice and those dead-stare eyes that play like daggers, remains the King of Horror Movies in my book. He has no successor. Two of his earliest flicks are “House of Wax” and “House on Haunted Hill,” with Price as an oddball NYC artist driven to sinister deeds after his wax museum is torched and he builds anew with a shocking sicko canvas, and then as a rich mystery host to a party at a haunted California mansion that promises $10,000 to any guest who survives a creepy lock-in. “Wax” -– itself a remake remade many times -– is classic with its ghoulish madman taking bodies, alive and not, and how the camera just sits on wax faces as they melt in fire. The then-new 3-D gimmicks may once have dazzled but now only seem silly, but never mind that. Imagine 1950s kids screaming horror at this nasty fun tale. “House” is too wink-wink meta, from its dumb opening to the nudge-nudge fourth-wall-busting asides. Sure it has several scares, and Price struts around deflating every other man within range, but even for corn, it’s all quite lame and forgetful. Not “Wax.” Wax: A- House: B-

Hard Target (1993)

Jean Claude Van Damme and John Woo went Hollywood pro in “Hard Target,” a grisly, loud, and corny 1990s action blast that takes on the short story “The Most Dangerous Game” with a GOP spin. You know the original: Men are hunted as sport by other men with guns. Here, the hunted are New Orleans poor and homeless, while the hunters are rich white CEO types with a kill dreams and a copy of “Atlas Shrugged” by the bedside. The poor are leeches on society right? Republican cheer! Sorry. Could not resist. The plot kicks off with a young woman (Yancy Butler) searching for her vet pop who turns up a corpse from such a hunt. With police useless, she hires a drifter –- that’s Van Damme –- to catch the killers. Luckily this guy has crazy martial arts skills to fight all wrongdoers who mean her harm. Woo’s style -- doves, fireworks, ballet jumps with guns -– is plentiful and spectacular. But the slo-mo shots of Van Damme tossing around his filthy swamp boy mullet as if he were in a trailer park shampoo commercial just cringes, and brings unintended laughs. Quibbles aside, “Target” is remains Van Damme’s sharpest American effort. B+

Prisoners (2013)

Dark dramas about child kidnapping do not make for Hollywood fare. “Prisoners” breaks that mold with its unsettling story one that remains gripping –- for the most part -- to the end, with a cast that digs deep. It centers on a Pennsylvania family (an excellent Hugh Jackman as father and Mario Bello as mother) that believes in God, guns, and “be ready” survivalist skills. Their all-American spirit shatters when their young daughter disappears on Thanksgiving Day, along with the child of an African-American family (Terrence Howard and Viola Davis). Jackman’s father who demands self-control loses himself to rage and takes hostage and savagely tortures a suspect (Paul Dano) cut loose by police for lack of evidence. What would Jesus do? Does it matter? Meanwhile, a detective (Jake Gyllenhaal) searches for the girls, hitting roadblocks and errors: He causes a jailhouse death, a move that shatters not his confidence, but the story’s logic flow. Ugly move: Director Denis Villeneuve marginalizes the mothers as they play to weeping clichés as the men do Manly Things. I fumed. But I also loved many details: The turkey and pie leftovers sitting uncollected for days and the sheer dullness of next-door evil in our America. B

Captain Phillips (2013)

Great directors re-tell history through image. Paul Greengrass puts viewers inside history, as if the drama is happening in real time. His 9/11 tragedy “United 93” buckled me. “Captain Phillips” reaches higher -- despite clunky family babble talk at the opening -- at every moment and then after the action ends, our director lets the stench of violence smother as our hero (Tom Hanks) openly sobs in shell shock. You know the story: In 2009, four Somali bandit pirates took command of a U.S. cargo ship off the horn of Africa, and when their shit hijack plan went south, they jumped in a lifeboat with New Englander and freighter captain Richard Phillips (Hanks). Assured as death, the men invite the full force of the U.S Navy. Don’t fuck with America. Greengrass shows the pirates as desperate men out for mere money, clueless to the animal they unleashed, and Americans as trapped in first-world glory. Intense and highly claustrophobic, Greengrass captures the terrible, unknowable toll of crime -– terrorism, whatever you call it -– on body and soul. As the pirate leader, American immigrant and film newcomer Barkhad Abdi equals Hanks’ astonishing performance. His character may be outgunned. Not the actor. A

The Fifth Estate (2013)

Working on the “Twilight” films must have sent director Bill Condon to an eternal junior high hell of filmdom because his new drama “The Fifth Estate” –- about Julian Assange -– plays to the lowest IQ who will walk into a cinema, expecting history retold. This is history for people who don’t read. We all know of Assange and his WikiLeaks website and the mass files he unleashed, gutting U.S. bravado with footage of an army helicopter crew mowing down innocents, and dumping State Department files on U.S. spy infrastructure. Condon assumes we don’t and goes for obvious at every turn. When an Assange protégé (Daniel Brühl) dumps WikiLeaks’ main server, we flash to the man smashing up make-believe desks and computers, setting fire to all around him. Just in case anyone fails to grasp “delete.” I was done before the end, tired of drivel talk such as “He’s bigger than the New York Times!,” but Condon has more. Benedict Cumberbatch -– smartly cast and a shade creepy as Assange -- breaks the screen wall, stares out, and tells us to get angry and find the truth, and I was glad to get up. And go out the door. C

The Postman Always Rings Twice (1946)

“The Postman Always Rings Twice” comes from the same writer who gave us “Double Indemnity,” and the film plots play similar games: A guy (John Garfied) with no ties finds himself tied up with the married woman (Lana Turner) of a much older man who seems more Daddy than Hubby, and Daddy’s gotta go. For money and sex. Back up on that sentence, there’s just kissing here. This was the 40s after all. The first shot shows “Man Wanted” sign outside a roadside diner/ gas station, a riotous gag as the husband (Cecil Kellaway) is looking for help to run the quaint business, while wife is looking to take over the place and trade up her bed partner. Turner’s broad is playing from the go: When she drops her lipstick at Garfield’s feet in her introductory scene, it’s no accident it rolls far. The acting is aces and daggers, with Hume Cronyn (“Coccoon”) slashing deepest as a sleazy lawyer. True classic? Ehh. I hate the final scene as someone must morally and logically flip-flop with out-of-this-world gymnastic skills in order to meet the Hayes Code of the day that all criminals must be contrite, and then die. This was the 40s... A-

Night of the Living Dead (1968)

George Romero’s low-budget, non-Hollywood horror classic “Night of the Living Dead” is as shocking and brilliant and subversive as near any film ever made. It’s no midnight fright flick test-marketed to hit Farmville, USA, and score big bucks and TV play. This is why American Cinema rules, and why the best of the lot are almost always outside the kingdom’s gates. These creators who have no master also have no notes to follow, or stocks to please. 

Yes, Romero has made the modern Bible version of the zombie film, the capstone by which all others build upon, emulate, and fall short. The plot is basic –- even for its time -- following a small group of people trapped in a farm house as zombies (referred to as “ghouls”) attack from outside, first a handful, then a dozen, then a horde. Among the heroes are a woman (Judith O’Dea) who just watched her brother fall to an attack and will soon see him again, and a man named Ben (Duane Jones) who happens to be passing through town. 

Ben is African American, and a professor. Think about that. In 1968. Such an idea must have smoked Hollywood’s mind then, and owners of cinemas, too. No way “Dead” played south of the Mason-Dixie line. Not during American then. Hell, not now in some parts. Not when Ben is giving orders and slugging anyone who dare crosses him. 

So, take “Night” as allegory of a sick nation being turned upright, shocked out of its “Keep America White” brain dead coast of hate. Or take it as a freakishly brilliant “man’s got to do what a man’s got to do …” heroics of any horror story, brilliantly told. I fell the first way. You chose your path. 

Too, Romero lays out his graphic violence in stark back-and-white imagery that still sends a shudder. So many film rules die here, because Romero could kill them. Dig that little girl. Dig the first attack in a cemetery as a lone figure drifts in and out of the frame, barely in focus, like a dream. 

This is a ticking time bomb of survival, and when the sun rises and light blows out every shadow, Romero drops the hammer. See, I had not seen this movie until just now. (Go on, mock. I deserve it.) I watched stunned, convinced halfway through I found a new Top 10 Favorite, and dead certain at the very end. Genius. A+

In a World… (2013)

I vividly recall Lake Bell from the final episodes of TV’s “Practice” and its spin-off “Boston Legal.” New to me, she stood above a stellar cast of actor that included James Spader. Bell popped smart and darkly funny. Her big screen feature starring, writing, and directing debut is “In a World…,” a comedy about a 30ish woman smashing her way into the boys-only “Trailer Voice” club that her own mega-ego father (Fred Melamed) rules as semi-permanent king. Bell’s Carol’s voice talents have no end, even if she lives with pop and has love woes to make Juliet sulk. That’s a skim off the top of this tale that plays rom-com, flips comedy genre clichés 180, and blasts loud as testy feminist scream and future-looking let down as Carol learns that the farther she moves into Hollywood, the more she realizes that the capitalist big pigs care nothing about any woman’s breakthrough, only money. God Bless Rich America! Parts of “World” are long or buzz-free, but damn Bell has made a fine, funny project that spits in the eye of the world she likely seeks entry into.I want to see her next film now. B+

Lee Daniels’ The Butler (2013)

Perfect case of best intentions, and short results. “The Butler” aspires for Oscar glory and to do nothing less than tell the story of African-Americans and their plight to obtain true equality in America through the eyes of one White House butler (Forrest Whitaker) and his family (Oprah Winfrey as an alcoholic wife, and David Oyelloyo as an activist son). 

The titular butler is Cecil Gaines -– based ever so loosely by a thin thread on real-life figure Eugene Allen -– and his prideful job and moral millstone is to play silent witness to the terrible and great moments of the 20^th century Civil Rights movement as he serves tea and roast beef to a line of succeeding American presidents. Naturally, or so the film wants us to believe, each POTUS is won over to see the light of love and racial equality by Gaines’ stoic silence and dedication to the job, making sure the butter knife is just perfectly set so. 

Look, Whitaker knocks the part out, no surprise. He’s been a favorite actor of mine since “Platoon,” and his quiet anger and love shine through in scene after scene. But he’s still standing still for 99 percent of the film, like an end table. Mouth shut. It is Winfrey who near owns the film. Her rounded performance captures illness, anger, love, and jealous hate of the attention Cecil gives Jackie Kennedy, and is the sharp. The wife, though, barely leaves the house. That’s a mixed-bag. See, Daniels’ staging of those at-home scenes with Whitaker and Winfrey shine and sting as we finally see the American story through the hearts of our nation’s most belittled people. This is no “Leave it to Beaver” American Dream lie sold by conservative Tea Party drones. 

But, damn, “Butler,” is a mess. We get an eye-rolling list of Hollywood big names as those presidents, each one more miscast than the last: Robin Williams as a fuddy-duddy Ike, John Cusack as an “SNL” version of Nixon, and -– worst move ever -– Alan Rickman as a Reagan so piss-ant dreary, one wonders if anyone here ever saw film of the real man. Reagan dripped charisma. Love him or hate him, you know the man practically sparkled. Rickman? Not at all. Sorry. These cameos stop the film and had the audience snickering. 

As well, spread out for five decades and hitting every historical race marker like some warped liberal version of “Forrest Gump” -– that feels racist to say, but it’s true -– “Butler” plays like a road trip with a rush-rush-rush pop racing the family car down I-95, yelling to the children in the back, “There’s New York, there’s Philadelphia, there’s Washington, we’ll make Orlando by noon,” never stopping to see Independence Hall. 

This history is too important for such treatment. The scenes of black protesters at lunch counters being molested and tortured are soul-crushing, and this is not ancient history. This story would have made an amazing television series on HBO, with room to truly explore what it means to work in a marble building that represents the highest office in all the world, but have absolutely no power of one’s own, unable to even safe your own child from death or a policeman’s billy club. Mr. Allen’s life seems to have played more quieter than the story here. I want to see that life. Not a stand-in quietly serving Hans Gruber supper. B-

The Naked Gun 2 1/2 : The Smell of Fear (1991)

Comedy sequel “The Naked Gun 2 1/2: The Smell of Fear” is a far lesser return than the first film which remains a laugh-out-loud pleasure of my 1980s youth. Every ounce of joy here can be attributed to Leslie Nielsen, back as Lt. Frank Drebin and in Washington, D.C., for a prestigious LEO honor. As with John McClane, where Frank goes, so does trouble. And death. Here, Frank gets mixed up in a Big Business scam to keep oil as America’s energy source forever and ever, damn the Earth, let’s make some money. The decades old jokes hit Big Oil and George Bush I and yet still feel sharp because the environmental conversation has not moved one inch. Conservatives hold on to their wealth and demand the world to stop. Liberals seek a future. I digress. Apologies. The successful laugh ratio is iffy, at best. The whole movie could lose 20 minutes more and come out sharper. I still dig George Kennedy as the clueless tough cop, and Anthony James -– a regular in Clint Eastwood films –- as an assassin with a song on his lips. B

Vertigo (1958)

In 2012 Sight & Sound magazine named Alfred Hitchcock’s “Vertigo” as the greatest film ever made. I though, no, “Strangers on a Train” is better, even just for Hitchcock. Then I re-watched this detective tale again and just got fully sucked in. I was hit with instant amnesia as I watched Saint Jimmy Stewart as cop John “Scottie” Ferguson near fall to his death catching a suspect, quit the force in fear, and then fall, romantically so, for the likely mentally unstable and suicidal wife (Kim Novak) of a college pal (Tom Helmore). The case has Scottie following the woman through San Francisco out to an ancient forest and then a monastery. It ends badly. One hour to go. It’s gorgeously shot and paced, and carried by hits of failed rom-com for Scotttie, sexual tension, and the absolute best film score ever made, courtesy Bernard Herrmann. But what struck me this viewing: Watch the film, pause in awe, and then re-play it your mind from the viewpoint of Novak’s eyes, and witness every damn single scene explode in a new, thrilling light that swoons and slashes. This indeed is Hitchcock’s greatest film, the mind fuck supreme. Fall for it again. A+

Gravity (2013)

“Gravity” is exhilarating, the most damn entertaining, breathless film this year. The promos promise an outer space-set drama about two astronauts (Sandra Bullock and George Clooney) caught adrift in space after a freak debris incident, their shuttle destroyed and crew members dead. It is that and a survivalist-horror film drenched in the gut-punch notion that surviving in space means having to continue to face life’s cruelties on Earth. The lean plot is near required as director Alfonso Cuaron (“Children of Men”) plunges us into a 90-minute shocker that could break with too much filler. Among his sharpest onscreen moves: Simultaneously pitching “Gravity” as a near-wordless silent film of old, but shining new and large with spectacular, game-changing CGI, cinematography, and sound. He casts us adrift above the Earth, awed with wonder at our home and shocked by the absolute black void of space, and then miraculously takes us inside our hero’s space helmet with not a single edit. Bullock rips into her role -– raw, wounded, and shell-shocked –- deserves every award coming her way. As does Cuaron and co-writer/son Jonas who spin a perfect final scene uplifting in every sense of the word as it literally inverts the title. A+

North by Northwest (1959)

I forgot just how funny Alfred Hitchcock’s early, genius spy-flick thriller “North by Northwest” is, until a recent watch on cable. Coolest Man Ever Cary Grant plays NYC ad guy Roger Thornhill, who gets stuck in a giddily preposterous mistaken identity chase across the U.S. of A with silent killers, the CIA, a dame, and Mount Rushmore all to follow. Early in, Grant as Thornhill is seized by two goons who try to kill him via a bottle of bourbon and a fake DUI car crash. Comedy gold hits: Smashed-ass Grant drives his way to jail, where his first and only call is to his mother. Literally, his mommy. Roger’s indignant. The cop near busts a tooth smirking. Hitchcock and writer Ernest Lehman (“Sweet Smell of Success”) turn 500 screws, add in murder, a mystery woman (Eva Marie Saint) with stranger/train sex on her inscrutable mind, and James Mason as a smooth villain with his own slippery identity. Oh, and that crop duster. So cool, Bond soon ripped it off. Hitchcock is having a cackling ball, yanking his camera to dizzy high spots, and letting Mason “punch” the screen. Knock out. Hitchcock kills it. A+

A.I.: Artificial Intelligence (2001)

Steven Spielberg’s “A.I.: Artificial Intelligence” is a train wreck masterpiece I love all the more because it derails, because the guy who some critics continuously dismiss aims for the sun and misses, but comes oh so close. And leaves us stunned, too. Spielberg could coast on every film he makes. In “A.I..,” he spins wild chances and smashes down a scene midway through so devastating, it leaves one reeling flat, near in tears. 

Inspired by “Pinocchio” and a screenplay by Stanley Kubrick –- a master of cold dread –- Spielberg’s tale follows a humanoid boy (Haley Joel Osment) adopted by a couple (Sam Robards and Frances O’Connor) whose own son lies in a coma. Young, perfect David is a little boy balm until the “real” son Martin (Jake Thomas) reawakens. 

David is programmed to be loved. Martin wants to mommy to himself. Two events paint David as a family danger, and so mommy –- here’s the killer scene -– abandons David in a forest; she weeps, David begs, and Spielberg lays bare every child’s worst nightmare: Your parents do not truly love you, you are a fake. 

From there, the film flies high and nose dives hard as David falls into a nightmare world that involves grisly robot gladiator arenas, needless voice cameos (Chris Rock? Robin Williams?), and a search for the Blue Fairy to make David a “real” boy, just like … Martin? 

I won’t spoil more. Much of it works and a good bit does not as Spielberg takes on The End of the World, but really is pulling out the end of childhood innocence, that blind-faith moment when children firmly believe mommy and daddy are good, and will always be there, keeping you -- all that matters in the world –- safe. Which is more tragic?  

Osment is so amazing. I still bristle he did not get a Best Actor nomination. Unnaturally warm and bright, unblinking, desperate to please, and able to regurgitate a call, he is flawless, yet unmistakably eerie. Early in, tricked by Martin into cutting their mother’s hair, David pleads, “I just wanted mommy to love me. More.” That quick pause, before the word “more,” is true horror for the youngest of us, scarier than any death in “Jaws.” 

Speaking of that classic Spielberg film, John Williams provides the score here and it’s truly one of his best, and with certain beats recalling the wonder of “Close Encounters of the Third Kind.” A-

The People Under the Stairs (1991)

Wes Craven sure as hell is a master of horror, but he’s also a master of comedy, the latter trait knife sharp in “The People Under the Stairs,” a gore-filled laugh-riot that has a racist, NRA-card-packing psychotic redneck yuppie-wannabe cannibal brother and sister turned married couple (whew!) as the landlords of the L.A. “ghetto,” ruling over low-income African-Americans, stashing money and gold in their lunatic mansion. That’s right, the goofiest rich white stereotype, played over the top by Everett McGill and Wendy Robie -– they also played husband and wife on “Twin Peaks” -– who turn up the crazy to 1,011. Also stashed in that creepy-ass house: A Horde of teenagers, including a girl named Alice (A.J. Langer), all held hostage by the kooky couple, each child disposed of if they dare hear, see, or speak evil. Our hero is a black teen (Brandon Adams) who longs to be a doctor, to save his dying momma, and yet faces a life of crime. Craven dumps clichés faster than body parts, but it’s all for sick-twisted satirical laughs, and darn if they don’t work. B

Double Indemnity (1944)

“Double Indemnity” is the film noir classic before there was such a genre. It forced extramarital sex and murder onto 1940s America, a place not used to seeing its own sin displayed onscreen. It’s a miracle the film ever got made. (Confused? If you tune in Fox News or vote Republican, then you know all about ignoring sin and fact. Please, go away.) I digress. This classic follows a greedy salesman (Fred MacMurray) out to dump unneeded car insurance on a rich prick, but instead gets sucked in by the man’s amoral wife (Barbara Stanwyck, has there been a deadlier/cooler actress?) who sees opportunity: Off hubby, get fucked on the side, and get rich. I will not spill plot, or the inevitable (government-forced) ending, but marvel at every beautiful cruel act. Billy Wilder made this gem, and he knows gems, and this may be his best. The lead actors kill as immoral shits you want to see die, but truly fantasize about. Best asset: Regular Hollywood tough guy Edward G. Robinson as the hero and book nerd! Dig his angry geek tirade against low-IQ insurance dweebs, and witness acting at its greatest. One of the true Hollywood greats, a must watch. A+

Jason and the Argonauts (1963)

“The greatest film ever made.” Says Tom Hanks of “Jason and the Argonauts.” Damn it, he might not be right, but he’s not far off. How can you argue? This is absolute movie magic beauty: Giddy childish wonder watching wide-eyed as a group of men take on the gods and battle skeletal beings risen from the ground, all for honor. The director is Don Chaffey, but this is Ray Harryhausen’s gem: The special effects guru dreamed up those skeletons and the myriad giants and monsters and living ships that make up this classic. Screw CGI, this is the stuff of a boy (and girl’s) deepest imagination. The plot veers way off the Greek religious record as Jason (Todd Armstrong), lost son of a dead king, captures the Golden Fleece to –- unknown to him -– reclaim his rightful throne in an adventure that should spawn 100 sequels. Along the way, Jason finds a ship, Argo, brave warriors, and adventure and love, and monsters, and I will stop. Ditch Jason. The hero is Harryhausen. Dig those skeletons battling men to the death. This is what it meant to be young in 1963! A

Rollerball (1975)

In 2018 super-corporations rule the world in a soulless oligopoly as every need is served by nameless businesses. Government and freedom of choice is dead. Citizen-consumers are told to do their part and buy, buy, and obey, making the corporations even wealthier. It’s the dream world of the modern Koch Brothers, Consumers United, and right-wing GOP greed. I digress, but that’s the world behind 1975’s “Rollerball,” a futuristic nightmare flick that focuses on a roller rink blood sport that’s like basketball on wheels, with spikes, motor bikes, and death. James Caan is Jonathan, the Michael Jordon of the sport, a long-time veteran at the top of the game. Until the Corporate Gods tell him to stop. Why? No man can rise against the Corporate Elite. Damn, this is a fine premise. It’s predictions are crazy eerie. The film itself, directed by Norman Jewison? A dud. Caan -– who can deny his screen power? -– appears bored, the pace glacial, and the cheapo imagery amateurish. Oh, there’s a fantastic bit that foresees the rise of the ’Net and the fall of books, but like the Koch Brothers warning, it belongs in a better movie. C+

Dredd (2012) and Mad Max (1979)

It’s the future, so bring on the apocalypse. I downed cheapo, gonzo 1979 Australian classic (and Mel Gibson debut) “Mad Max” as a fast antidote to “Dredd,” the second cinematic coming of comic book anti-hero killer cop Judge Dredd after the God-awful, terrible 1995 Sylvester Stallone film of the same name that put freakin’ Rob Schneider in the sidekick role. 

(The less said about that debacle, the better. It took me months to recover from just one viewing.)

Is “Dredd” better? By far. Miles. It’s still crap. For myriad reasons. The plot: It’s post-nuclear war U.S. of A., and the whole East Coast is a godless concrete jungle of high rises and crime. The police and courts have been merged into the Judges: Leather-clad, masked cops with guns and a glint to kill. Basically, it’s like present day America except everybody is an unarmed young black man. You can get “judged” and end up in a body bag just for walking. Sorry, I digress. Still on a “FrutivaleStation” kick. Can’t help it.

Anyway, Dredd (Karl Urban) is the best (read: most ruthless) cop in Mega-City (because Metropolis was taken) and we follow him here as he takes on a high-rise apartment tower that reaches for the heavens, but might as well plunge low to the pits of hell. As in 1995, Dredd has a sidekick. And it’s a she, and not Schneider in drag, thank the gods. Helmetless because why stump the fan boy’s eye candy factor, Judge Anderson (Olivia Thirlby) also is a mutant who can read the thoughts of others. Why are there mutants popping around? No idea. 

Dredd and Anderson enter the complex to investigate a grisly drug-related triple murder and within minutes find themselves at the mercy of the building’s ruthless drug lord (Lena Headey). Mama she is called, and she places the building on lockdown and tells every thug ruthless, shitty, one-eyed, tenant over an intercom that she wants Dredd’s head now. From there it’s war, the tenants attack our hero (and the girl rookie) and he shoots, bombs, kicks, scowls, and grimaces his way through the lot to the top.

If One Man Against an War Zone Apartment Complex and the intercom bit sounds familiar it’s because the plot and details were done exactly point-for-point in “The Raid,” an kick-ass Indonesian action/blood fest also from 2012. Literally, this is a replica. Down to camera angles. Everything says director Pete Travis is innocent, it’s a mere coincidence. If it is, “Raid” is still the better film. And Travis has the luck of a rat. “Raid” has a hero that means something and is one hell of a sight to behold, has a human trait, and a reason not to fail. It’s also a spectacular feast of stunts. Seriously, see it.

This has CGI glut, a zero hero with Urban (good actor, no slam, I like him) doing Eastwood as an unkillable tank, and it all means nothing. Absolutely nothing. I get it. Dredd is supposed to be the darker Dark Knight. Great read for a book, I’m sure, bur a lousy watch and with so many wasted opportunities. Dig it: Mama has created a nasty drug that slows the brain to a crawl so every movement feels wicked trippy, lights pop, and rushing water stands still, and the effect is crazy wicked on screen. So let’s see Dredd on that shit, right? No. Dude just kills and scowls. I won’t watch a third film. C 

“Mad Max” I can watch endlessly. You know the plot: It’s the near-future, meaningful authority is dust-bin history, and the highways are open roads of lawlessness akin to old Australia or the American West than anything we’d call the future. Zero horses, all cars. Gibson is Max, a highway cop trying to maintain some order against roaming bikers who steal, rape, and kill for the pure glee. The bikers make the error to wrong Max’s friends and family, and Gibson as Max explodes like a fuel-air bomb in a film that feels not scripted or planned, but captured out of a complete drug-fueled nightmare. Not slow like in “Dredd,” but warp-speed head-rush fast.

Whole sections of “Max” are incomprehensible and wreck loud, but few films -– especially chase ones -– have ever felt more in the moment. It vibes like a tale that had to be made or writer/director George Miller and his star would just die. And for all the story’s debauchery, Miller shows little blood or gore. It’s just over the camera frame’s edge, way deep in our skull, and that is scarier than anything anyone can put before our eyes. Gibson is young and scary fanatical, is that acting? A-