The Revenant (2015)

Alejandro G. Inarritu’s “The Revenant” is grueling, beautiful, and blood-soaked ugly. It is the tale of survival and revenge with Leonardo DiCaprio as famed tracker Hugh Glass, returning from near-death to find those who abandoned him for dead after a bear attack in 1820s America. My gut instinct: “Revenant” is far too long and far too a “Look at Me!” performance by DiCaprio with his artist/director as cheerleader. But laying in bed hours later I clicked on “Revenant” as far more than the straight flick of one angry man killing another that I expected. Wanted. It’s a spiritual war of man, nature, and an America I’ll never know. Inarritu uses dreams and hallucinations within dreams, tied to shaky reality. None more stunning than a ruined stone church, images of Christ barely intact, that may or may not exist. Glass is a haunted man, and Tom Hardy as Fitzgerald -- the man who leaves Glass for dead, and kills the latter’s Pawnee son -– is also that. Glass says he “ain’t afraid to die,” he’s done it already, but so has Fitzgerald. It’s damn long and peculiar, but “Revenant” is a brutal, exhilarating tale of base nature, man and animal. B+

The Counselor (2013)

“The Counselor” is a stunning failure from a seemingly A-grade group behind and in front of the camera. The story comes from the pen of Greatest Living American Writer Cormac McCarthy (“Blood Meridian”). The director is Brit Ridley Scott (“Alien”). Its rising star is Michael Fassbinder, playing a criminal lawyer known to us only as “Counselor” who dives willingly into the drug trade to get cash. Why? He wants diamonds for his Sweetie Pie (Penelope Cruz). Javier Bardem and Brad Pitt are among the villains. How can all this suck? I sat mouth agape in disbelief at this train wreck, and struggle to find words. OK. Cum on a car. No, really. See, Cameron Diaz loudly plays drug lord Bardem’s evil wife, an OTT Cruella De Ville as cast by “Real Housewives of New Jersey.” In one scene, she fucks and cums on hub’s sports car windshield. Really. Now the real sticky part (sorry): The WTF navel-gazing drivel that pours from the mouths of these great actors is even worse than that vision. Everyone in this film talks nonstop gibberish about fate, chance and death, and unlike every McCarthy book I have devoured, I begged for it to end. D

The Purge (2013)

“The Purge” is horror with a nasty serving of satire that slashes at the Tea Party elites who think wealth makes them holier than anyone below them, and yet angry at anyone who dares have a bigger house or a nicer car. I dug it. Ethan Hawke plays a self-satisfied hawker of home security devices in year 2022 of a post right-wing-revolution “New” America. Money is God. Guns are the Holy Son. The NRA might be running the show. One day each year, true “patriots” –- the haves -– are allowed (encouraged) to rape and murder at will, with the bottom of the economic chain the true target. But, Hawke’s quirky liberal teen son (Max Burkholder) opens the family fortress to a hunted veteran and soon preppy masked hunters come house crashing. (The sociopathic leader is unfailingly polite and dressed in a blazer with a haircut that screams edgy Young Republican. I knew assholes like him in college.) Writer/director James DeMonaco might not have a great film, but it’s daring, even if the end has too many pointers and Lena Headey’s wife remains flat. (I had hopes the “good” son might turn a shocking path, but did not happen.) B

Belle (2014)

“Belle” is inspired by history, a 1770s Scottish painting of a half-black woman named Dido Elizabeth Belle on equal level with her Anglo cousin. The posing thumped historic, with the slave trade going on full hell tilt. “Belle” leans standard fictional Brit family drama cum courtroom thriller hoopla, thought it scores marks for telling that Britain and America built their empires on slavery. Fact. Story: Dido (Gugu Mbatha-Raw) is raised by distant, but wealthy relatives (Tom Wilkinson and Emily Watson) when life already was bleak for women –- zero rights. Her obstacles are fierce. Nonetheless, she finds suitors, one an anti-slavery proponent (Sam Reid). Meanwhile, Wilkinson’s high-court judge hears a case on slave cargo and insurance. His decision could topple the sick practice and bring economic ruin. (No more free labor.) Belle obsesses on the case. She swipes evidence, dressed in a hooded robe that had me thinking “Jedi.” Heroic Reid shouts so many truth and justice speeches, I thought, “He’d make a great Superman!” Miscast Tom Felton doesn’t help as a snarling bigot. Is he aware he’s no longer playing Malfoy? Amma Asante’s drama is problematic, yes. Look past that. B

Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit (2014)

I loved Tom Clancy’s Jack Ryan book series before I drifted left and he disappeared into techno-war-porn liberal hate. Ryan was a great read: Injured marine turned CIA desk geek with deadly smarts. Blow shit up? Tougher guys did that. Clancy’s writing electrified: He foresaw 9/11 in 1994. Now comes “Jack Ryan: Shadow Recruit,” a reboot with Chris Pine as Ryan. It fizzles. It chases 9/11. It casts Russians as villains in a move politely called nostalgic. It starts strong: Young Ryan is wounded in Afghanistan, but his rehab spirit captures him a gal (Keira Knightly) and a secret boss (Kevin Costner) who hires Ryan for his vibe on tracking bad money. But fizzles. I’ll skip plot, because when the climax hits, Ryan –- injured 10 years on  -– is popping motorcycles like Knievel and punches like Bourne. Baffling. Did a reel get lost? Kenneth Branagh is director and bad guy, going full Hollywood. A missed idea screams loud: Why not recast Ryan with Knightly -- oddly cast as distressed damsel -- as female Ryan? Clancy might have been a right-wing blowhard, but he knew cool women. Disappointing. (But better than that Affleck crap.) C+

Red Dawn (2012)

The Red Scare thrived back in 1985 and we knew any day the Russians would attack. Reagan told us. So “Red Dawn” with high school kids (Charlie Sheen!) against Russian soldiers on U.S. soil seemed real. Cold War’s done, remakes thrive, and so we have a new “Red Dawn,” with North Korea as the invaders. It was China -– making sense of the “red” in “Red” -– but Hollywood blinked. A four-year delay and a lot of CGI and edits, and we have American high school kids vs. North Koreans. Even if the villainous actors are still Chinese. And the NK flags/emblems are wrong. No matter, the target audience is NRA sleep-with-your-guns Republicans, the kind who know any foreigner is bad. Fuck the details. Pre-“Thor” Chris Hemswoth is the Marine on home leave who leads his little brother (Josh Peck) and pals into gun battles, moving them from whiners to hard-core SEALs in … days. None of it makes sense. The editing and voice dubs are ugly bad. Peck’s age jumps back and forth. But the action is serviceable, and the stunts strong enough to almost make one forget … really, North Korea? I’d rather believe Martians. C-

Nebraska (2013)

Alexander Payne has made many drama/comedies with characters stuck in shit situations that skate the line of full-on farce. In “Nebraska,” Payne goes back home to tell a story about an old guy who won’t go out happy or content, but in a mess. Similarities to “About Schmidt” end here. Woody Grant (Bruce Dern, just damn amazing) is on the edge of dementia, brought about by age, hastened by booze. Woody reads a scam advertisement letter and thinks he’s won a $1 million and no one not his wife (June Squibb) or son (Will Forte, long past “SNL”) can convince his otherwise. The son decides a car trip to “collect” the faux prize will cure pop, with a stop in Walt’s dying hometown as a balm. Payne’s tale -- written by Bob Nelson -– plays at the great losses Nebraska and much of America has suffered, with cars lasting decades a thing of the past, and days of families building their homes by hand a faint memory. The movie is great in those moments, especially in stark black-and-white. But Payne introduces too many dull hick stereotypes too often, and one gets the sense that his American mourning comes with a wink. B+

Blue Jasmine and Philomena (both 2013)

In “Blue Jasmine” and “Philomena,” Best Actress Oscar nominees Cate Blanchett and Judi Dench respectively play very different women in life-altering upheavals. Tip of the hat to Ms. Blanchett as best of the duo. 

In Woody Allen’s pitch black satire/drama “Jasmine,” Blanchett is a NYC high-society Wall Street wife who sees her diamond dreams bust after hubby (Alec Baldwin) is jailed Madoff style by the FBI, and his womanizing ways uncovered. 

A high chip even among the 1 percent, Jasmine – not her given name – crashes to earth and the San Francisco apartment of her sister (Sally Hawkins), who bags groceries for a living and squeaks by with a mechanic boyfriend (Bobby Canavale) and a handyman ex-husband (Andrew Dice Clay) with a righteous -- and rightful -- ax to grind. 

Jasmine, on her way down, suffered a nervous breakdown and now drifts off, pops pills, and cries over the indignity of a paycheck. Allen – working on multiple levels – shows a woman who has lost her grasp of reality and yet has always been deep down delusional and a chronic liar, faking her way up to Park Avenue, and perfectly fine with the deceit and lies of Wall Street, as long as she herself remains untouched. 

How very Ayn Rand. 

That the lower end of America offers no more comfort seems to break Jasmine. (With all of Allen’s own contradictions, one wonders if he’s ever turned such a cutting knife on himself. I can’t say.) 

This is solid, darkly funny work from the man who gave us the sweet trippy “Midnight in Paris.” The man writes marvelous women, and truly scummy men –- Baldwin is wretchedly conceited, and I mean that as a compliment. 

Dench plays the title character in “Philomena,” a woman devout to God, but carrying a life of heartbreak after the Irish Catholic Church damned her for having an out of wedlock baby as a teenager, and giving -– selling for cash –- that baby 50 years ago. (If she aborted, then what?) 

Philomena desperately wants to see that grown son, and worries he is sick or homeless. An out-of-work journalist turned government PR hack (Steve Coogan, who co-wrote the screenplay) takes on Philomena as a snide expose to bust the Vatican, which as a left-wing atheist snob, he loathes. 

Philomena, for her part, is near a mirror of the sister in “Jasmine,” scrapping by, prone to junk TV and books. Not a 1 percenter. Conversely, one could easily see Jasmine hitch onto Coogan’s vulgarly rich writer. 

Director Stephen Fears sends the duo to America, where the son was taken decades ago and lets the old lady and the uppity writer needle each other movie style. The result is cute and fuzzy: Philomena talks endlessly, journo rolls his eyes; she won’t open the hotel door, he panics. 

But it’s a solid true-story that, yes, rips the church and GOP anti-everything conservatism -– justly so -– but also shows that life can be enriched by forgiveness more so than wealth or talent. Whether you go for God or not. Dench is amazing. Right and left busted, church faithful and not, as well. Fair game.

Jasmine: A- Philomena: 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.

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+

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-

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+

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-

The Asphalt Jungle and Armored Car Robbery (both 1950)

All crime films should be made in black and white. (Imagine “Heat” with no colors.) Bearing proof of this are two 1950 heist films that have police on the trail of thieves facing more troubles than jail time in “Armored Car Robbery” and “The Asphalt Jungle.” The former is barely longer than an hour and has a story just worth its likely 10-cent short origin, while the latter is dark, massive, and deep, a classic for the ages. Oh, and it has a very young Marilyn Monroe, before she became Marilyn Monroe. And she is damn good.

“Armored” centers on professional thief Dave Purvis (William Talman), a crook who thrives on his gift of having no attachments, be they emotional or concrete. (De Niro’s “Heat” crook could be this guy’s son.) Purvis heads up the daylight robbery of a (go on, guess) armored truck smack in front of L.A.’s Wrigley Field, kills a cop, and spends the rest of the film avoiding police, ditching his crew six feet under, and doing a piss poor job of cutting strings to the dame (Adele Jergens) he’s screwing. The story is so paper thin and the characters one-dimensional, this registers more as a TV one-shot than a big-screen tale. That said, director Richard Fleischer shows beautiful (and gritty) L.A. locales in bright light and dark shadow, from City Hall to dockyards and motels to working class homes just feet from Wrigley. How much of this exists now? Not much I guess.

Directed by John Houston,“Jungle” is crime noir perfected. Sterling Hayden plays Dix, a “hooligan” who gets hired as the enforcer in a (Chicago?) diamond heist headed by an elderly criminal known as “Doc” (Sam Jaffe). Doc reluctantly trusts the loot fencing to a lawyer named Emmerich (Louis Calhern), and the suit pulls a double cross, with murder and suicide dropping fast as police -– honest and corrupt, each with agendas -– close in. Monroe plays married Emmerich’s lover, and dude has a fetish for her shoes. This film truly broke the mold. See, “Jungle” dared speak reality in 1950, showing thieves as just men who for various reasons -– abandonment or disability -– use crime to survive, and police as willing to let deeds slide for cash. Somehow, maybe just because “Jungle” is so good, Houston survived the flag-waving censors pushing the lie of America as a Mecca of virtue. Dix is tough, brave, fatally obsessed, and the most honest character here. This is gold material, from Emmerich forced to play cards with his wife to the final shot of Hayden among several curious horses. They don’t make them like this anymore. Our loss.

Armored: B / Asphalt: A+

The Rain People (1969)

Francis Ford Coppola’s “The Rain People” is a low-budget, outside-the-system film at its best: Brave, as uncomfortable as any harsh truth, and against the set codes of American-GOP-approved rules. It’s a must-watch companion to fellow “F.U.” road picture “Easy Rider” as it follows a conflicted housewife named Natalie (Shirley Knight, raw with emotion) as she runs away from home in -– of all things -– a station wagon. Natalie is newly pregnant and scared of the responsibility. She is consumed by how to carry on, or not. Coppola wisely allows Natalie to stay conflicted, notably speaking of herself in the third person. She -– purposefully unwise -– picks up a hitchhiker, a college footballer dropout (James Caan, excellent) waylaid by a devastating injury to his brain. The two wonder mostly, finding an America beautiful and patriotic, and yet corrupt and uncaring. Deeply poignant, beautifully written, and often purposefully infuriating, “Rain” provides a shot of truth about the lies we tell ourselves and others, boasting of false joy or denying our lost happiness. The movie’s stark ending is as harsh as life’s crueler turns, as it must be. Awesome credit: A guy named George Lucas is listed as production assistant. “Rain” deserves more celebration. A

Taken 2 (2012)

“Taken 2” is pure GOP values: ’Merica is pure and strong, and every last Muslim is an evil perv-o killer, and women are helpless creatures who cannot drive a car or plan a vacation without male supervision. Fox News would endorse it. The themes are serious, I think. Liam Neeson again plays the ex-CIA agent who shoots,stabs, stomps, and rips apart dozens of evil foreigners to save his daughter (Maggie Grace) and now kidnapped wife (Famke Janssen) from slavery. We’re in Turkey and Islam looms like a disease, and every person of color -– be it police to hotel clerk -- is part of the conspiracy. Fox News. It’s all less than 90 minutes, so the trip is mercifully short, and Neeson is fast becoming a thinking man’s Chuck Norris, even if the thinking is fascist and WASP. To get a PG-13, director Olivier Megaton (his real name?) goes bloodless and when necks break in Neeson’s fists, we hear no sound because snapping bone is somehow more offensive than gunfire. The editing is terrible, and so  is the slant that Neeson (wonderful actor) is taking onscreen. D+

Universal Soldier: Day of Reckoning (2012)

“Delirious Lynchian mind-screw” doesn’t come to the mind when one sits for an action flick (and fifth in a series) starring Jean Claude Van Damme and Dolph Lundgren, but that exactly is “Universal Soldier: Day of Reckoning,” a skull-smashing, gun-heavy treat. 

Director John Hyams (son of Peter) daringly switches-up the concept of the first (and awful) film about slain U.S. soldiers genetically reengineered as unstoppable warriors, and plops them right in the U.S. of A., playing on Tea Party paranoia, government black ops, and “Apocalypse Now” showdowns with Van Damme as Kurtz, ghoulish in heavy makeup. 

The plot follows a man (Scott Adkins) who awakens from a coma nine months after watching his family slain by mysterious intruders. Grieved and lost, he obsesses over the attackers. He’s also hunted by seemingly unkillable men who unexplainably like his own body can grow back appendages after they are chopped off. 

The less you know the better, because it’s a kick of a nightmarish journey with hidden meanings about NRA kill-or-be-killed addictions so off kilter from this typical genre, I wanted more. The junk dialogue and headache-inducing strobe-light effects are easily forgiven. B+

A Good Day to Die Hard (2013)

“A Good Day to Die Hard” is not a “Die Hard” movie. It’s an ugly, tired, dull action flick that regurgitates everything grand from the 1988 classic. It has no soul or point. It's an abomination. A cash grab by tired people who do not care anymore. Five minutes in I hated it. A tired Bruce Willis is “John McClane” -– quotes needed -– who bolts to Moscow to save his grown CIA agent son (Jai Courtney) stuck with a murder rap. The short of it: John and John go Roy Rogers on a pack of terrorists, one of whom eats carrots. Really. It all ends in Chernobyl in a swimming pool. Not joking. Actually, nothing here is funny. What’s worse: The Tea Party way director John Moore treats all foreigners as stupid trolls, or the way he turns McClane -– long ago scared, bleeding, but desperate to do right -– into some Stallone blockhead that the first film so beautifully refused? There is not even a delicious villain to root for. Twinkies were the food choice in 1988. This is a shit served cold. Yippee-ki-yay mother F.

The Untouchables (1987) and Gangster Squad (2013)

Double bill: Brian De Palma’s “The Untouchables” with Elliot Ness versus Al Capone, and “Gangster Squad,” with L.A. cops against Mickey Cohen. Both are true cops-and-mobs stories repainted with Hollywood final blowout action scenes. Why allow Frank Nitti his suicide when Ness can toss him off a building? “Squad” plays looser with truth. 

Such is film. Facts hit the floor faster than bodies. In 200 words, my take downs on these mob take-down films.

“Untouchables” –- also based on the rah-rah TV show – follows Eagle Scout/U.S. Treasury agent Ness (Kevin Costner) as he brings in three like-minded heroes (Sean Connery as wise old cop, Andy Garcia as hothead cop, and Charles Martin Smith as nerd cop) to nail Robert De Niro’s Capone. Smart casting and smart-looking film. 

It smells of Chicago and spent bullets. De Palma and screenwriter David Mamet put us in gorgeous locales -– trains station, courthouses, and filthy red alleyways. Dialogue pops like spent lead: Connery barking about knives at a “gun party” is classic. 

I was 13 in ’87 and this became my Instant Favorite Film. The violence, male bravado, scope, and that shoot-out on the stairs. It’s a stellar cops-and-gangsters fantasy for… teenage boys. I’m wiser now, and the red-blood love has waned. This is a sloppy-ass film riddled with dubious continuity errors -– moving corpses, that wondering elevator in the assassination scene, a terrible voice dub throughout, and logic tossed aside in a courtroom finale. Too many scenes make me cringe. 

Was De Palma so in love with his own (admittedly great) style, he forgot the importance of details? Hell if I know. Costner is too fantastic to care. B+

“Squad” whiffs fake as “Untouchables” feels immersed in Chicago lore. You can smell the wet paint. I read Ellroy. Call me biased. Josh Brolin is WWII Army Special Forces vet John O’Mara, now a cop assigned to stop New York-bred Cohen (Sean Penn) from becoming the West Coast Capone.

O’Mara is very Ness to the point I believe writer Will Beall watched “Untouchables” on repeat. Lines are lifted whole. O’Mara also has his three heroes: Robert Patrick as wise old cop, Ryan Gosling as hothead cop, and Giovanni Ribisi as nerd cop. Toss in retro-progression with Anthony Mackie as a black patrolman and Michael Pena as a Hispanic flatfoot named Navidad. (Cringe.) 

Plot: O’Mara’s guys shoot the shit out of Cohen’s guys, who do the same back. Penn is comically spittle-tossing evil, his performance falls into hysterics. I laughed my ass off when a ridiculously dickensesque shoeshiner gets whacked. I gather director Ruben Fleischer (“Zombieland”) wasn’t going for giggles among the blood and rape. 

As Ness says, “You aren’t from Chicago.” Do not pretend. C

Django Unchained (2012)

In his near-three-hour blaxploitation spaghetti western homage/ripoff “Django Unchained,” Quentin Tarantino serves up a blood-soaked raw piece of pulp fiction that makes “Inglorious Basterds” and its Nazi history redux seem Disney fluffy. He tackles slavery in the 1850s America and shows it in all its vile, morally offensive code, and does not blink -– a black man is ripped apart by dogs as whites standby cackling, and the “N” word is used as verb, noun, adjective, and an exclamation. I winched, blanched, and shut my eyes at the violence, and the images of African-Americans forced into chains and depraved medieval torture equipment. 

Vulgar and soul-killer upsetting? Yes. On purpose. How can it not be, how can any examination -- even fictional and heightened -- of slavery not make anyone with half a soul cringe, and look away in horror. Shame. But, hell, I say “Gone with the Wind” is far more offensive to the core because it shows slave-ripe America as some kind of utopian Candy Land. It was all good. The South was happy. I hate that film. Tarantino must as well. He fires on all cylinders, his anger at America’s past strong. Conservatives hate this film because it dares show America -– of 150 years ago -- as a moral cesspool no better than Nazi Germany. Leftists such as Spike Lee hate it because they didn't think of this film, cathartic in twisted ways, first. Thank God for Abraham Lincoln, and go see “Lincoln.” These films would make a wild double bill. 

Speaking of Candy Land, Candieland is the name of a Mississippi plantation run by a ruthless land owner (Leonadro DiCaprio) where Django –- a freed slave turned bounty hunter played by Jamie Foxx -– and his killer mentor (Christoph Waltz) seek to free the former’s wife. That’s the gist and final hour of this epic that is bloody brilliant in a dozen ways, a long overdue F.U. to Southern Whites, and their modern GOP apologists who use patriotism as a weapon of hate. 

There’s so much more to the plot, but I would exhaust myself spilling every detail. Cinema master that he is, Tarantino cannot justify the 2 hour 45 minutes running time. He takes a dig at the pre-KKK as the idiot cowards they were and are, but the scene is overlong and kills an otherwise tense encounter between the racists and our heroes. More scenes throughout play overlong or repeat themselves over and over again.

Further, his main characters are not strong enough, nor his plot strands or dialogue. No one here reaches the deep well of Waltz’s Nazi in “Basterds,” or Samuel L. Jackson’s hit man in “Pulp Fiction.” Except for Django’s rebirth as a killer throwing hate and bullets back in the faces of his oppressors, no one else moves an inch forward or backward. We get two over-the-top bloody shoot-outs in the same room split apart by a half-hour in which Tarantino drags his ass around as a slave trader with an Australian accent worse than I could ever mimic. 

In “Basterds,” Tarantino staged a key scene around a dinner and ratcheted the tension so tight, just as my heart was about to explode, his mayhem onscreen exploded. Here, during the big dinner scene, the air lets out, the talk drags on for 20 minutes, then the carnage hits. Then more talk. Then more carnage. Then more talk. Tarantino seems to have written a screenplay in which no idea was bad, and he could not depart with a page. 

So many grand ideas go unrealized. For the first time, I second-guessed Tarantino’s leadership as the Cinema God. See: DiCaprio’s sick twist prince -– and by gosh, he is damn good as a hothead-maniac -– runs a slave gladiator camp. He enjoys watching men of color kill each other in forced do-or-die sport, and his character demands a certain … repayment. Yes, he dies. But that death is cheap, quick, and with no deep wit.

But the real disappointment for me is Kerry Washington as the wife of Django. Great actress. Wonderful. But she is given nothing to do but react -- scream, run, serve, faint, and stand still when a gun is at her head -– after a lengthy buildup that promises a bad ass woman of fire. I wanted to her bash in skulls with the wine picture she is forced to carry, scream and tear apart people. Tarantino bares her body and scars, but not her inner-raging soul, and damn hardy, I know Broomhilda (her name) has one. I hardly believed this character came from the same mind that wrote “Jackie Brown” and “Basterds.” Or the “Kill Bill” series. Tarantino loves women in the best way.

I’m being far too negative. This is not a bad movie. It screams genius, daring, red-faced anger for great lengths. The acting is aces all around (Foxx is deadly cool, and Waltz is clearly relishing every line and twist of his beard), and Samuel L. Jackson re-creates the entire character of the “house slave” as a villain named Stephen. He’s no -– get that name, step n’ fetch it character -– but the true brute force behind Candie’s world. Watch him stand tall at the end.

Tarantino spends so much time making homage to spaghetti-western troupes and bringing in cameos (Johan Hill, Bruce Dern), I wished he focused more on Jackson’s traitor of all traitors, a bent-back man who is a far better power player and con man than Waltz’s bounty hunter. I would have watched another our of Jackson and Foxx going at each other. And sat in fear and awe. Nonetheless, this is near-unshakable film, and Tarantino knows it. Genius? Classic? Must own? No to all three. But unshakable, for sure.

After taking on fantasy Jewish revenge on Hitler, and now putting an African-American in a saddle with guns blasting racist Southerners, one has to wonder where QT will go next: A grindhouse take on Jesus? Or back to gangster-types? Tarantino still remains the most-surprising American filmmaker of our time. Whatever he does next, I’ll be there, eyes wide open. B