A Dangerous Method (2011)

When David Cronenberg -- master of exploding head psychological atom bombs, and violence mixed with sex – said he was making “A Dangerous Method,” the ménage a trois between pioneer head-shrinks Carl Jung, Sigmund Freud, and Sabina Spielrein, I was stoked. I wanted envelopes torched, singed paper ashes blown in the faces of prudes. So count me wanting, put out, so to speak. Except for a few wha? spanking scenes, “Dangerous” is all talk, and I should not be surprised, as this was once called “Talking Cure.” Our focus is on Spielrein, German Jew, wealthy, and hysterically mad, put in the care of Jung (Michael Fassbender), the protégé of master head doc Freud (Viggo Mortensen). Sabina bends Jung’s tight-starched collar, and Freud feuds, and Word War I dawns, and Jung’s last scene has him going like Michael Corleone’s last scene in “Godfather, Part II,” lawn chair and all. No burning desire, no passion. Talk. Knightly’s accent grinds, and Mortensen’s Freud has all the zing of Ask Jeeves, so it’s Fassbender’s show, and he’s damn good, but a notch below “Shame,” the 2011 sex-obsessed flick that’s all dangerous method. B-

Un Prophéte (2010)

French language crime film “Un Prophéte” (“A Prophet”) is shocking, brilliant, and focuses on a mixed-race youth named Malik El Djebena (Tahar Rahim) as he enters prison a scarred youth barely literate and sacred as a kitten. It turns “Heart of Darkness” quickly, with no “Shawshank Redemption” rebirths in the rain here. This is hell. No bottom.

Malik quickly buckles under the influence of a Corsican gang that runs the prison with absolute control, even ordering the dismissal of guards and delivered whores. The old, cranktankerous gang boss (Niels Arestrup) gives Malik an offer he cannot refuse: Kill or be killed. Malik takes the order, slashing the throat of a suspected terrorist with a gay bent.

This first murder, Malik’s introduction to bloodletting, is shocking, savage, and so “real” it left the audience shaking along with the teenager on screen. Malik falls deeper into the Corsican hole, until he learns to read, and speak Corsican, and then slowly, ever so slowly, turns the tables. It’s a hard task against his Corsican bosses, and the fellow Arabs who share his blood but despise his gopher boy lifestyle.

The film, directed by Jacques Audiard, may or may not be true. Web accounts differ. But it’s absolutely, fully and wholly unforgettable. And I had no idea where “Prophet” was going one minute from the next. The ending is perfect, even at 2.5 hours. I could sit for another 2.5, too. Such gem stories are rare.

My “Godfather” reference back a few sentences is no fluke. "Prophet" aims for the 1972's classic and doesn't quite reach it, but the aim is just off center. Malik’s descent from semi-innocent (his initial crime seems fabricated) to criminal to crime master is as methodical, gut-punching, and gripping as Michael Corleone’s. Rahim’s performance is so natural matter-of-fact, one forgets this he’s an actor. Arestrup is every bit the Brando-like don, an old man on the outside, a monster killer within. But he’s not against doing his own dirty work.

The violence is sparse but savage, maybe more so than any film I’ve seen in years. There’s nothing glorious about the knife or gun play here. Nor the sexual violence. A slashed throat gushed blood in thick, huge spasms of crimson red. It’s sickening. As violence should be.

The title is its own glorious secret, tied to Malik’s first murder and a semi-“LOST” gift that results. That this toe dip into the supernatural feels so utterly real is a testament to Audiard’s handiwork. For now, count this as my film to beat for 2010. A

88 Minutes (2008)

Al Pacino looks creaky and old in the creaky and old thriller "88 Minutes," a supposed twisty flick that doesn't have the balls to provide any suspense. Pacino is Dr. Jack Gramm, a haggard forensic psychiatrist who works as a university professor. Here, his week is worse than tenure rejection: A serial killer (Neal McDonough) he helped put away is headed for the death chamber when low and behold a serious of crimes matching the killer's own MO start popping up all over Seattle. Did Jack put away the wrong guy? Hmm, gosh, snore. The whole film is a painful chore, topped by an endless montage where Jack frantically uses his cell phone while driving a taxi across Seattle as the slack-jawed cabbie watches from the backseat. Director Jon Avnet tries fast-paced editing, a flock of obvious red herrings and a wandering camera to gussy up thrills, but he can't save this cable-ready Z-grade whodunit. Bigots who think "God hates fags" will be among the film's fans. Anyone with a soul will flee. When did Pacino become so boring? D-