Star Trek Into Darkness (2013)

In 2009 when J.J. Abrams rebirthed the “Star Trek” franchise into eyeball-popping entertainment with enough heart to make you weep 5 minutes in, I wondered what he could do with “Star Wars.” So, I got goose bumps watching “Star Trek Into Darkness,” a stellar summer sequel packed with franchise-glory-era political bite that also puts the “alternate reality” roles of Kirk and Spock in full ownership of Chris Pine and Zachary Quinto. But Abrams isn’t afraid to dip back into lore and resurrect ideas and enemies, taking beats we know by heart and spinning them 180 with new blood or a wink. Here, a Starfleet wonder boy named John Harrison (Benedict Cumberbatch, fuckin’ awesome) declares war on his own and, of course, our heroes must stop him. But with Abrams, nothing is simple as –- nerd alert –- Peter “RoboCop” Weller, is the boss in charge. This boasts ego, characters crashing and lifting each other up, American commentary, crippled tech, a self-sacrifice, a perfect cameo, and a madman so … beloved … to us geeks and electrifyingly alive, we want to fall under his spell. What Abrams can do with “Star Wars” has me dizzy with anticipation. A-

Ginger and Rosa (2013)

In 1962 London BFF girls “Ginger and Rosa” (Elle Fanning of “Super 8” and newcomer Alice Englert) do that teen thing that many teens do: Piss on chores and curfew, dabble in romances, and smoke. They also strain under paranoia from the Cuban Missile Crisis and a far closer atomic bomb of the emotional kind involving Ginger’s anarchist dad and fragile mom (Alessandro Nivola and Christina Hendricks). Despite the obvious turn, I won’t spill details, but director/writer Sally Potter (“Orlando”) lights the fuse early. Porter has a beautiful-looking film here, picture-wise, and perfects the myriad details of teens from clothes to petty jealousies. But it’s also top heavy with too many Jiminy Crickets for Ginger. Annette Bening plays a leftist with no purpose in life but to dispel advise to our gal, and the same is true of Ginger’s gay godparents (Timothy Spall and Oliver Platt). More so, the only time a radio plays, it bears only doom and gloom like some Orsen Welles production. (TV, movies, nor newspapers figure at all.) All that said, Fanning is spectacular, a Yank going Brit on screen, and as flawlessly as Streep did Thatcher. B

The Great Gatsby (1974 and 2013)

F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic novel “The Great Gatsby” has spawned roughly six filmed versions. I have seen only two, and it seems a movie version that equals the book is far and forever out of grasp. That is a reference to the book, which if you have not read is a shame. Because I’m skipping the plot re-hash. Read the book.

The 1974 version comes with high pedigree: Francis Ford Coppola has his name on the screenplay, and the top-line stars are Robert Redford and Mia Farrow, both at career highs, as the deeply unknowable titular character and the possibly soulless Daisy, she the woman of his desires/obsessions/ past. Sam Waterston is our hero/narrator, Nick. Redford as the make-you-swoon Gatsby? Cannot go wrong, right? “Well, of course you can.” This is a dud. My wife loves it. I don’t. The book zings with jazz and satire, hidden meanings, the notion that on your third read you catch new-to-you symbolism and connections. Never has an attack on excess come off as empty. Redford -– great actor -– is stiff and wrong as Gatsby, with Farrow over-acting the hysterics. Director Jack Clayton nails the look of the era of loud jazz, loose morals, and great wealth -– Gatsby’s house is the Rosecliff House in Newport, Rhode Island, and my wife and I have been there -– but it trudges along slow and empty. That moment at the end comes not as tragic and sickeningly ironic, but just tepid as … pool water. Dig, though, Scott Wilson as a wronged man. C

Baz Luhrmann’s version is all excess, an ironic eyebrow raiser as the novel attacks the very notion of flash and glitter as suffocating. Recall the absinth kicks of “Moulin Rouge!”? This “Gatsby” is all about that, in 3D. We open with narrator Nick (Tobey Maguire) as a novelist/patient inside a sanitarium, a wrecked shell encouraged to write of the incident that derailed his life: His dealings with mysterious Gatsby (Leonardo DiCaprio), waif cousin Daisy (Carey Mulligan) and her husband (Joel Edgerton). Yes, McGuire is playing Nick as Fitzgerald. How quaint. Luhrmann smartly mines deeper, fuller emotions, and DiCaprio nails the role of a delusional man who drops the term “old sport!,” but has no idea what it means, and does not know his life’s goal is a dead end. In a flip from the ’74 version, it is Maguire who is miscast, giving a “Spider-Man”-era wide-eyed, gawky performance that looks ridiculous on a man his age. The hip-hop fueled parties staged by Luhrmann drown satire, while the visual barrage of Nick’s written words floating in air reminded me of the quiet of reading a book. There is no quiet here. Only noise. C+

The Raid: Redemption (2012)

A fact Hollywood does not want you to know: American action films pale in comparison to their foreign counterparts, and “The Raid: Redemption” –- made in Indonesia -– is a prime example. The plot is bare bones but all the better for it: A skittish SWAT unit raids a high-rise slum apartment building to nail the drug lord who rules from a top floor. The cops must battle goons, killers, and drug-fueled tenants at every inch and on every floor. The daddy-to-be rookie officer (Iko Uwais) who finds himself leader of the unit has a secret up in the high-rise, and I guess that’s where that “Redemption” part comes in. Director /writer Gareth Evans, a Welsh transplant, has made a film that neatly excises all dialogue from the genre, and focuses on the most intense martial arts fight I have witnessed, including a three-way between Uwais, and two of the drug lord’s henchmen that may defy physical logic with its horrific beatings, but must be seen. (Really, see this. Now.) Logic and continuity errors pop up, but that does not diminish this film as a treat that kicks American ass. Pure adrenaline. B+

Sleuth (1972)

I saw the original “Sleuth” ages ago, whilst in college, and remember it as highly entertaining, a wild cinematic shape shifter, turning in on itself repeatedly as a cuckolded old man of wealth (Laurence Olivier) invites the hairdresser (Michael Caine) sleeping with his wife to his home for a cruel game of psychological torture. But the tables turn, and the characters onscreen one-up each other, as do the actors, classic theater thesp versus young hotshot sex symbol. I also recall it being painfully overlong, just one damn parlor trick too much. And, damn it, I hold at exactly that. Seriously, watch this film if you love acting, the way people play at bouncing off each other on screen, revealing -– and more importantly, holding back information -– until exactly the most painful or ludicrous moment. But beware, past the two-hour mark, you as I did, may get antsy and there’s 20 minutes to go. Based on a play, Anthony Shaffer’s screenplay desperately needs shortening. Olivier and Caine are beyond great, I can barely imagine the thrill of being on set. So watch. But squirm. Avoid the remake. B

The Philadelphia Story (1940)

I need to get this out: “The Philadelphia Story” opens on a gag of a man shoving a woman to the ground, and the joke she got “socked” runs throughout. That shit is not funny. Not then or now, or ever. That said, I do dearly love this deserved classic, the writing, banter, delivery, and cast: Katharine Hepburn, James Stewart, Cary Grant, Ruth Hussey, and the child actress Virginia Weildler, can you top that? Plot: Philly society divorcee Tracy (Hepburn) is up for marriage No. 2, but her ex (Cary Grant) hangs close because Tracy’s family loves the guy unconditionally, and in an elaborate plot he has two gossip mag reporters (Stewart and Hussey) in tow to record the surely doomed nuptials. See, the ex loves the bride, and as hijinks, misunderstandings, and boozy drinks flow, soon so does Stewart’s wordsmith. I shall not divulge more, just watch. This is comedy romance at the tallest order, it makes you swoon for everyone on screen, with Stewart pushing charm, Grant smoothness, and Hepburn brass and brains. Yes, many plot ideas are way past sexist and stagnant, but this film shines. Love the journalism jokes, too. A-

Rebecca (1940)

Alfred Hitchcock’s American debut “Rebecca” – based on a bestseller – defines what old timers (and us TCM fanatics) mean with “They don’t make them like they used to.” Four years older than my father, this gorgeously shot black-and-white thriller sucks you in to its tale of romance as a woman (Joan Fontaine) falls for a widower (Laurence Oliver). The man is, of course, crazy wealthy, owning a castle named Manderley, and crazy, haunted by wife No. 1. In what I gather is a sick-twist Hitchcock joke, an old bird (Florence Bates) tells our heroine that Manderley will eat her alive. She’s right. Our nameless heroine is smothered by the stone walls and wealth, the “ghost” of Rebecca, the wife who drowned mysteriously and questionably, and the black-oil stare of the watchful housekeeper (Judith Anderson), who defines wicked. Secrets boil over as our heroine sinks into a mess, her ramrod morality straining against fates I still awe at, second watching. This is exceptional filmmaking, smooth, and with as much dark humor as betrayals, our director taking us innocents for a ride. The cast is flawless, the film endlessly re-watchable. A+

Iron Man 3 (2013)

SPOILERS ABOUND because I cannot do the out-of-left-field “Iron Man 3” justice without spilling its secrets like the myriad flying, not-quite-controllable bits of Iron Man armor that plague our hero Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) in this first-post-“Avengers” Marvel film. Nor can I stick to my 200-word count. (I really, really, truly tried.)

Upfront: Director/cowriter Shane Black steers this sequel to a sequel toward the “Lethal Weapon” thrillers that made him famous as a writer. Genius move. He finds every excuse to get Stark out of the tin suit and load him with MacGyver-like weapons, running alongside Don Cheadle as military man Jim Rhodes, to attack the villain’s glitzy Miami chateau and then go after a cargo pier at the finale. The ghosts of Riggs and Murtaugh hover close, as does Black’s directorial debut “Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang,” which starred Downey post-rehab/ prison/near-career-death. 

We only think mastermind terrorist named Mandarin (Ben Kingsely), one of Marvel’s most infamously racist creations, is the villain. Trusting the marketing and trailers. In truth, the dude’s a two-bit actor downed by drugs, working for a sun-tanned rich guy (Guy Pearce) who Tony once did wrong. 

The characters are metas, off-screen and on, Kingley’s loser the What if Downey?, while Pearce’s evil CEO is the What If Tony Stark? If neither had not “become” Iron Man. The stunt also takes the character down a peg, what can Marvel do? Complain their anti-Chinese boogeyman 1-D stick figure was not played accurate? 

The movie -– like the clap-trap maze of cranes at that finale -– is a Rube Goldberg machine of asides and homages, including 1980s “child sidekick” flicks, peppered with kick-ass action and a full tear-down of the franchise. Indeed this ends with Downey throwing the ball at Marvel and saying, “You’re move.” Cast iron balls he has. 

The plot is a wiry mess, and Pearce’s scientist lacks motive and focus. Never mind Rebecca Hall as another scientist with a quarter personality, and less screen time. These are moot complaints for all eyes are on Downey. He is Iron Man. Lest we, or Marvel, ever forget. B+

Holy Motors (2012)

Well into 2013, and I finally found my gem of 2012, the mind-fuck cinematic glory I cannot shake. “Holy Motors” cannot be broken down or glossed over. My attempt will fail. It’s about acting and role-playing not just of movies, but in life, the roles we carry happily or reluctantly -– familial, professional, artistic, or criminal. The film centers on a man known as Oscar (Denis Lavant) who rides in the back of a limousine where he takes on a slew of successive personas: A beggar woman, a deformed lunatic, a dejected father, and so on, as the film leaps film genres and lives, all in Paris, all in one day. The man even kills himself -– his others -- twice. What is French writer/ director Leos Carax going for? I have no idea, nor any idea who “Oscar” really is. This is a trek as crazily impenetrable the second go-round as the first. That’s what I want in a film, to get lost in the unknown. The purposefully bizzaro finale is a blatant scoff at any who dare try and crack the mystery. And, yes, there is a better 2012 male lead performance over Daniel Day-Lewis in “Lincoln.” Mr. Lavant. A

Goldfinger (1964)

“Goldfinger” is arguably the high-point of Sean Connery’s run as James Bond, when the series stormed pop culture and the world. It’s also damn awkwardly dated as far as the women go as it plays with forced entanglement as foreplay. Take a breath, it is of its time period. The plot –- unlike later, unnecessarily busy Bond films -– is simple: Bond must track down gold smuggler Auric Goldfinger (Gert Frobe) who has a perverse idea about knocking out Fort Knox so that he can take control of the world’s gold market. Or some such. Who cares? The bad guy’s pilot/dame is named Pussy Galore (Honor Blackman). And Bond’s first bed quest ends up smothered in gold paint. There’s also a mad granny with a machine gun, and that Aston Martin, plus Oddjob and the killer bowler hat. It’s camp entertainment delivered dead pan, and that’s missing in the newer run, for better and worse. Connery is effortless. Bond is Connery, and Connery is Bond, is there any argument? And as Goldfinger, Frobe is a plain-spoken man of evil, but a man. No disfigurement. No foamy outbursts. Just a snake. The crazy good music? That’s never been better. A-

Priscilla, Queen of the Desert (1994)

The Australian-made “Priscilla” shoves the alpha-male road–trip flick formula in a glittering dress, high heel shoes, and caked-on eyeliner, shimmying ass to Abba every mile of the way. There be drag queens, folks, and the leads of this comedy-drama-farce have the keys and wheel. No back of the bus for them. Our queens are played by Hugo Weaving (pre-“Matrix”) and Guy Pearce (pre-“Memento”) and – in a career-high performance -- Terence Stamp. Yes. Priscilla is the bus, btw. Weaving and Pearce play gay men who cross dress, the former direly sensitive, the latter flaming to supernova. Stamp is a “tranny,” a man who only found herself post-surgery, and he digs miles under the earth, showing still-visible pain and now wire-thin contentment. The plot has trio on their way from Sidney to a rural resort to perform a glam show at a hotel owned by Hugo’s long-separated wife, and along the way they meet prejudice and acceptance. “Priscilla,” bus and movie, hits ditches and blows its engine, especially in stereotyping Asian women and country folk, but the majority of film is dressed in love and acceptance that crushes hates and judgments. The soundtrack really is royally genius. A-

Side Effects (2013)

Steven Soderbergh’s (apparent) final big-screen bow takes on big pharma and the need for Americans to dope up to get through the day, be it anti-depressants, anxiety pills, uppers, downers, or whatever. And what of the “Side Effects”? Limp libido? Exhaustion? Murderous sleep-walking fit? That’s the ticket here as a married couple (Channing Tatum and Rooney Mara) rocked by hubby’s prison stint for Wall Street sins are reunited only to see the wife slip off her plates after an apparent suicide attempt. Caught in the middle of all this, taking money from on high and prescribing pills to the low, is Jude Law as a psychiatrist, who begins Boy Scout and becomes … less so. I can’t give away anything more, because Soderbergh and writer Scott Z. Burns (both of “Contagion”) take a turn that hit me, well, like a drug at first -- euphoric love, but then a quick and lowly crash as I contemplated all that I saw. How not to spill the pills? Let me say this: The ugly ridiculous denouncement is Family Research Council approved. Pure 1950s. Got it? Mara is great. Tatum, ehh. Catherine Zeta-Jones plays another head shrink, and Pacinos the scenery. B-