The Monuments Men (2014)

The Allied movement to save masterpiece artworks from Nazi theft or torch in the closing days of World War II already inspired 1964 classic “The Train.” That superb movie churned on tense action, ditched talk to the curb, and let the audience decide if a man’s life –- or that of an entire village -– was worth the price of a Renoir. Paint on canvas, or culture? George Clooney’s “The Monuments Men” takes the American view of the same mission with a deep love of square WWII dramas, and gives us a definitive answer that, yes, art is worth dying for. It’s spoken. Aloud. Repeatedly. Clooney directs and stars along with Matt Damon, Bill Murray, and Cate Blanchett, among others, and all are solid. Watch war-weary Murray listen to a home-made record from his daughter and try not to get goose bumps. But, man, we don’t much of a look at the art that these men and women are spending their lives on. The why. If you want to see the art at the dramatic center, hit the Web, Clooney’s camera is shy. My love of “Train” may be biased. Marvelous ending with Clooney’s real pop. 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+

The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey (2012)

J.R.R. Tolkien’s seminal 1937 children’s book “The Hobbit, or There and Back Again” is concise, funny, and light in spirit, which I cannot say for director/writer Peter Jackson and his team from the famed “Lord of the Rings” trilogy in their adaptation of the newly titled “The Hobbit: An Unexpected Journey.” There is no “Back Again” here, and there shall not be for two movies, and six (!) more hours. 

This toss-in-the-kitchen-sink trilogy opener stops just shy of three hours as it spells out in detail how Bilbo Baggins (Martin Freeman, playing the young version of Ian Holm, who appears as well) came into possession of the powerful ring –- the Ring -– that sets in motion the 2001-2003 films and 1954-1955 books fans know so well. 

First thing out of the way: I saw “Hobbit” in 2D and regular frame rate, not the 3D and 48 frames-per-second rate that has garnered much press. Second: I read the book so long ago I cannot recall it in my memory. I judge by hunches and –- God help me -– the Web. 

Movie wise, “Hobbit” is split as Tolkein’s greatest and most troubled character, Gollum, the schizophrenic villain/victim who owned and lost the preciousss golden circle to Bilbo, who decades later will hand it over to nephew Frodo, and you know the rest. Team Jackson –- including co-writer Gillermo del Toro -– take not just the “Hobbit” book, but myriad side-stories, prefixes, appendices, and shopping lists written by Tolkein and knit out a story that is jovial, eye-popping in wonder, and maddeningly dull and repetitive to the point of tedium. Even during the big CGI action sequences. 

(There’s a fist-fight between two black-rock mountains (!) that is impressive, bizarre, laugh-out-loud ridiculous, overlong by half, and in the end, useful as a lecture on thermodynamics.) 

I could not repeat all the plot tentacles to save my soul, except this quick sketch: Homebody Hobbit Bilbo is thrust into joining 13 dwarves (led by Richard Armitage as the dreamiest “GQ” dwarf ever) as they set out to kill the dragon that took their mountain homeland decades ago. The instigator of this hunt is the wise Moses-like wizard Gandalf, again played by Ian McKellan. The troupe is hunted by trolls, a vengeance-seeking one-armed orc, and wolves. Llittle of this is in the book, but thrown in by Jackson, who seems set on making a simple fable into something far darker and massively important. 

I know that’s nit-picking. Changes were made to the “LOTR” trilogy, especially the loss of the vital “Scouring of the Shire” finale, but so much of this movie is filler created solely because the filmmakers have the budget and technology, not because it serves this story. 

As with prequels, characters are re-introduced wholesale to goose memories. In almost every instance, these are time-killers. We don’t need Elijah Wood as Frodo. Nor Holm as old Bilbo. Cate Blanchett’s elf queen, so majestically introduced in “Fellowship of the Ring,” stumbles into this film with such little fanfare, one can’t imagine her importance. Same with Christopher Lee’s Sauramon, parked in a chair and practically giving away his whole game plan of evil to come later on. Ditto Gollum and his long slow intro, now redundant I suppose. I'm muffing some of the details here, but the point stands -- especially if this film is viewed as a true prequel.

See, Jackson is making these as a man looking back, nostalgic for every morsel he can scrape, not a man looking forward with this chapter and its two coming successors as predecessors to what befalls Bilbo, Gandalf, and all our beloved characters. 

All gripes aside, I have hope for “Hobbit” parts 2 and 3. Freeman -- Watson in BBC’s “Sherlock” -- turns in a star-making reading of Bilbo, a man (Halfling?) who finds his worth far from home. He’s funny, irritating but sincerely so, curious, bold, and thorough, a wonderful homage to Holm’s take. 

When Bilbo and Gollum meet –- toward the end -– the scene crackles and brings “Hobbit” to Must Watch status. (Andy Serkis as Gollum again shine as the MVP of this series. As well, the CGI work to bring this foul creature to life is still the best use of computers in a life-action film, ever.) As Bilbo holds a sword to the neck of a seething, panicking creature, Jackson and all the wizards behind this tale put us in the hot seat. We know striking down Gollum will prevent much agony later, and I thought, “Push it through.” Knowing full well that won’t happen. 

It’s a twisty definitive, solid moment in a film full of holes, not the Hobbit kind. B-

Hanna (2011)

Here’s a fairytale the Grimm Brothers dare not have imagined: A 16-year-old girl, raised in full isolation and trained to be a ruthless assassin by her golden knight father, is set out onto the world to exact revenge against the wicked witch who killed mommy. “Hanna” is not that bluntly supernatural, though. Daddy (Eric Bana) is an ex-CIA agent who we think is nutty paranoid until we learn he is rightfully so. The Wicked Witch (Cate Blanchett) is his CIA boss, a soulless Texan obsessed with material goods. Yes, it’s a commentary. Director Joe Wright is clearly having fun by squashing logic and ending his taut thriller at a derelict amusement park, with Blanchett walking out of the mouth of the Big Bad Wolf. This would all be laughable were it not for Saoirse Ronan, who ruled over Wright’s “Atonement.” As Hanna, she effortlessly bounces from a teen with no memory of women, and no idea of TV or music or cars, to a killer on a dime. She’s a better heroine than the girl from “Twilight.” Very “Never Let Me Go, Jason Bourne.” B

Robin Hood (2010)

Ridley Scott’s “Robin Hood” is a serious, boldly filmed drama, historically accurate as far as any film with the words “Robin” and “Hood” in the title can be, which isn’t much, and stocked with some of the finest modern actors to grace recent cinema. Russell Crowe is our bow-and-arrow titular hero, and Cate Blanchett is Maid Marian, with Danny Houston as King Richard. The film is gorgeous, bursting with detail, and must have cost a fortune. It’s also an utter fucking bore.

Painfully plotted and paced, this “Robin Hood” sucks every ounce of adventure, fun and daring out of the classic tale that pretty much created the whole idea of adventurous, fun and daring tales. This is no story of Sherwood Forrest or Merry Men, or of robbing the rich to feed the poor. No. This is a bloody war film about the evil Crusades and colonialism, fanatical religion gone nuts, and what made Robin Hood into Robin Hood, and a war-burdened superpower levying sinfully high taxes against its own people to pay the bill of sword and horse. Yeah, U.S. Bush-era politics! I can’t get enough of that. And this is a summer major box office film, too.

Crowe doesn’t resemble a starved, war-haunted rebel in the making. Dude looks glum and pissy, and a bit beefy. His Robin hit a lot of bars while killing Muslims, although he’s sure sorry for it. The killing. Not the drinking. Blanchett is at least having fun poking fingers at past Marians who became damsels in distress, yelling for “Robin!!” to save their victim ass. Wait, sorry, Robin again has to save Marian's victim ass, and during a slow-motion battle that copies “Saving Private Ryan” down to the soldiers drowning on a blood-soaked beach. Violent for a PG-13.

When did Ridley Scott become a dull film artist? Where is the guy who made “Alien” and “Blade Runner” and “Gladiator” -- films I could watch endlessly? The action here has been splintered to smithereens, and this whole ultra-serious moodiness and mud and blood, this religious devotion to detail and making 1199 look like hell on earth … it made me wonder what Michael Bay could do with a faster, louder, livelier, more vulgar screenplay. I can’t believe I just wrote that. (See, or don’t, Scott’s equally dull “Body of Lies.”)

It’s sad when I can say Kevin Costner’s “Robin Hood” is a better adaptation, but it is true. That Robin at least had a personality. Even if the ha-ha British accent in that 1991 summer flick was shit. Crowe's sourpuss is as flat as the perfectly decorated sword he welds, ceaselessly without end. His hunger from “Gladiator” is not here. Alan Rickman’s hilariously evil Sheriff of Nottingham could wipe the floor with the half-dozen villains employed in this footless reboot, especially Matthew Macfadyen’s snooze-vile Sheriff. Mark Strong is the lead villain, and William Hurt appears, but I can’t recall who he played. There’s just so little to remember anything.

Seek out Warner Bros. classic “The Adventures of Robin Hood” from 1938 –- you know the one, Errol Flynn, Basil Rathbone, Technicolor, green tights, and more fun than any movie made then or since. This new “Robin Hood” -– which ends with a shout out for a sequel -– should be outlawed. Attempted murder of a legend. D+

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (2008)

"The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" certainly is a stunner, for the most part. Taking the outline of an F. Scott Fitzgerald short story, the film follows Benjamin Button, a New Orleans native born into a body the size of an infant but with the health and appearance of an 80-year-old who then ages backwards as he grows older.

It's a tragedy, for sure, as Benjamin's body shrinks to that of a toddler's, but his mind is attacked by dementia. If you can't accept that scenario upfront, the film won't work for you. If you go with it, you'll enjoy this quite good, long, deep drama, directed by David Fincher ("Fight Club" and "Zodiac") and written by Eric Roth ("Forrest Gump" and "The Insider").

Brad Pitt plays the title character, abandoned at birth, raised by an African-American woman in a home for the elderly and who eventually sets off on a career as steamboat worker. Along the way Benjamin falls in love with Daisy (Cate Blanchett), who will age as any other person. With its immediate promise of doomed love and certain tragedy, Fincher could have made a film soaked in sentimentality, but for the most part it remains upright. Well, there are two out-of-nowhere scenes involving a dumb hummingbird visiting the two leads some 60s years and thousands of miles apart that smacks of feathers in "Gump" and butterflies in the piece of poop that is "Patch Adams." Alas, as Benjamin chooses a career in boating, goes to war, stumbles into great wealth and longs for a promiscuous dreamer who disappears for long stretches of time, the film echoes "Gump" in several ways. (I never read Fitzgerald's story. For all I know "Gump" may have stolen from this.)

The pluses outweigh the negatives, though. Through flawless makeup and digital altering, Pitt and Blanchett appear on screen in ages ranging from their teens to their early 80s. Button is not a good-two shoes naive like Tom Hanks' Gump, he happily sleeps around, as does Blanchett's Daisy. And both characters take turns committing acts of selfishness. In Button's case, one act is nearly unforgivable despite its common sense. With those marks of true human nature, it's a deeper film than "Gump." Despite its crazy twist, its flaws and those of its characters, "Button" is a winner. B+

I'm Not There (2007)

"I'm Not There" is a musical biopic of the legendary singer-songwriter Bob Dylan. But not really. In what has to be one of 2007's most original film, director/co-writer Todd Haynes ("Far From Heaven") ditches the well-worn historical re-creation path tread by 5,000 other biopics, and instead creates a truly head-spinning work of art.

"There" is a love letter, tribute and sly take on the persona of Dylan and world created in his folk, electric and religious library of songs. In a casting stunt that works marvels, six different actors play different variations on Dylan, and none of the characters actually are named "Bob Dylan." Trust me, it works.

The personas are Jack Rollins (Christian Bale), a meek folk singer turned star turned born-again Christian; Jude Quinn (Cate Blanchett), a superstar who seemingly hates the press and adoration; Woody Guthrie (Marcus Carl Franklin), an 11-year-old musical prodigy so apt at spinning tales, even his name is false; Billy the Kid (Richard Gere), a self-exiled outlaw living in a mash-up time period of early 1900s and 1960s America; Robbie Clark (Heath Ledger), an actor who played Rollins in a straight-forward biopic and has adopted some of the unsavory traits of the role; and Arthur Rimbaud (Ben Winshaw), a young singer-poet being interrogated by either the FBI or the meanest damn suit-wearing editors ever hired by Rolling Stone.

It's a lot, but as the Dylan-like characters' lives overlap and in the strangest scene -- the Billy the Kid period that carries echoes of David Lynch meets Robert Altman meats Terrance Malick -- literally crash into each other, a multi-layered, conflicted entity of Dylan develops. And I swear, this film isn't just about how Dylan has morphed as an artist and as a man, but it's also how America has evolved. Why else focus so much attention on the under currents of the simmering Civil Rights movement of the 1950s and the cultural explosion of the 1960s, among other areas? After all, as far as Americans go, Dylan sure is one of the most eclectic and original.

Some scenes, such as the concert where Dylan (here Quinn) went electric are created in true fashion, but whole chunks are mere whimsy and dreamlike. Franklin's character shows us how Dylan and many other artists such as 50 cent create false backgrounds as diligently and carefully as they create music, film or paintings. I'm still pondering what exactly the outlaw Gere scenes represent, but they are spectacular, haunting entertainment of an old America pushed beyond the breaking point. Ledger is the most scarred of the Dylan-like characters, watching his happy family life melt away because of his sexual escapades. It's a beautiful performance by Ledger, and another reminder of lost talent. Blanchett has to be the stand out, not because she is playing a he, or because she gets closest to Dylan's mannerisms. Her Quinn clearly is toying with journalists (one is played by Bruce Greenwood) and the audience (onscreen and us), maybe even himself, err, herself. You get what I mean.

In a brilliant move that further separates the idea of a "true" biopic, Haynes actually opens the film with one of his Dylans dead on the slab, ready for autopsy. He then closes with a Dylan death by motorcycle crash. Is it the same character stand-in on the slab? We don't know. "I'm Not There" lets us know that no matter how much we talk directly to or study, research, watch and obsess over a person, we can never get inside their head. Or body.

The film's not total manna from heaven -- a scene with Quinn goofing around with the Beatles, seems irrelevant and a goof, but maybe it's my ignorance of the History of Dylan. (And I am ignorant of music in general.) I don't need to understand every scene to "get" a film. "I'm Not There" is the death knell for the straight forward biopic. It has my head spinning not only on who was or is Dylan, but the endless possibilities of what was and is film. Now, that's movie-making magic. A