The Fault in Our Stars (2014)

YA-targeted “The Fault in Out Stars” opens with Shailene Woodley’s Hazel Grace Lancaster warning us that although she will tell us a story of romance, it will end in misery. No punches pulled. Someone will die. Hazel is 16 and has terminal thyroid cancer. She is loved by her parents (Laura Dern and Sam Tramwell), but too well-protected. Then Hazel meets cancer survivor Augustus (Ansel Elgort), and he cracks that shell with his charm. He knows Hazel is dying, but loves her too much to walk. Based on John Greene’s book, Josh Boone’s film tells a heart-wrenching story of romance and helpless parents. Dern stuns. Woodley (“Divergent” series) is perfect. But movie clichés crash. Twinkly lights. Magic hour glare. Curmudgeon thaws for our couple, not believably. And, damn it, the white privilege left me stunned. Every character lives in luxury, with every amenity. Emotion hits home, yes, but ever scene vibes Better Homes & Gardens slash Wired. No. B

Jurassic Park (1993)

Twenty years on I still remember watching “Jurassic Park”: A college kid wowed back to age 5: Real dinosaurs chasing people! So it seemed. Even now, Steven Spielberg’s popcorn ride still rocks with “How’d they do that?’ dazzle, long before we overloaded on CGI. You know the plot: Two dinosaur diggers (Sam Neill and Laura Dern) are invited by a P.T. Barnum-type (Richard Attenborough) to see his latest joy ride-slash-money maker: A Pacific island holding a live dinosaur theme park, with the extinct beasts brought back via magical DNA tinkering. The scientists stare in wonder, as do we as moviegoers. Not impressed: A sharp geek (Jeff Goldblum) who dishes on chaos and dumps on the old man’s grab for big smiles and bigger dollars. Naturally, it all goes to hell when a storm and tech glitches set the “controlled” beasts free and they hunt and kill, as dino DNA dictates. That’s part of Spielberg’s genius here: These animals are never the bad guys. They merely are. The glint of power in a rich Scotsman’s eye is plenty danger. This is amazing fun, always will be, with Spielberg mastering that thing he does: Turning childhood wishful fantasies into unshakable adult nightmares. A+

Inland Empire (2006)

“It’s kind of laid a mind fuck on me.” Laura Dern drops this non sequitur after the second hour in “Inland Empire,” a film that sees Mad Hatter filmmaker David Lynch dive gloriously off the cliff and deep into his own endless subconscious. And a deep dive it is.

This is Lynch’s most avant guard film since “Eraserhead,” but infinitely more complex and with a sprawling multi-language cast that touches on infidelity, Hollywood, Poland, a killer hypnotist, screwdriver murders, and giant talking rabbits that live in an old urban apartment. That’s not a typo. It is a fascinating, maddening, over-long, never-boring trip that is brilliant, both horrific and hilarious, and just plain WTF strange.

Diving into the plot may be pointless, but here goes: The film opens on a Polish man and woman, faces blurred, as they enter a hotel room for sex. We then switch to a crying woman watching TV. Cue the bunnies. Then we focus on a L.A. film star (Dern) as she is visited by a neighbor (Grace Zabriskie), just before the former starts work on a film with a cad actor (Justin Theroux). From there … it’s down, or rather up, Lynch’s twisted brain stem, and onto his cinematic themes of identity, multiple bodies in one persona and the way Hollywood splatters, not realizes, dreams.

This all makes the story of “Mulholland Dr.” seem as daring as “Horton Hears a Who.” And that fact actually lends the films its surrealist Dali-on-film kinetic kick. This is art. Hands down. A Lynch regular, Dern’s multi-arc performance here is an amazing to behold, on par with Daniel Day-Lewis in “There Will Be Blood.” She’s in virtually every scene, and plays characters playing other people who, in fact, may be an entirely different third person.

Not all of “Inland” scores: At three hours, the film takes far too many side trips into nowhere, and the cheap film stock used by Lynch can be frustratingly blurry in darkness and blown out in bright light, rendering many scenes indecipherable. But when the credits roll, one can’t deny that they just took a singular trip. B+

Wild at Heart (1990)

David Lynch’s “Wild at Heart” is another slice of a dream-state American pie. Burned to a crisp. Nobody sets a mood quicker or with romantic/doomed/thrilling atmosphere than Lynch, and this film is loaded with scenes beautiful (a couple in love dancing wildly on a desert side road) and hellish (Grace Zabriskie as a wordless demonic killer) and downright weird (Crispin Glover, going 111 on the nut-bucket scale).

The dancing lovers are Nicolas Cage’s Sailor, a newly paroled convict, and Laura Dern’s Lula, an innocent with a her bat-poop crazy momma (Diane Ladd, Dern’s real mother). The couple head West, fleeing mom, who sends a private eye (Harry Dean Stanton) and then a troupe of killers. I won’t dish on the rest of the pretzel-twisty plot, but say only that Lynch riffs off “The Wizard of Oz,” but with hard-core graphic sexual and violent content. There literally is a magic globe, a Wicked Witch and a Good Witch.

There’s so much to love here. A roadside car accident in particular is a dip into tragic/magic life and death as a Sherilyn Fenn plays a young girl whose head literally splits open. (Half the cast came from “Twin Peaks.”) Yet, this whacked trip Cannes Film Festival winner has its faults: Sheryl Lee, the dead Laura Palmer, plays a great corpse. Playing the Good Witch, not so much. She sucks, actually. And Willem Dafoe plays a disgusting, ill-conceived, seedy reincarnation of Frank Booth from “Blue Velvet,” but with a dash of “Deliverance” teeth and the strut of a 13-year-old boy. Dennis Hopper’s Booth came from Hell and remains the absolute movie psychopath. Dafoe’s bonehead is an unfunny joke. And, sure enough, someone’s head is blown off into tiny chunks. Is this Lynch on autopilot?

Side note: I still don’t get Lynch’s apparent fear of North Carolina. (Is it the barbecue?) “Heart” opens in Cape Fear, N.C., not too far off the map from Lumberton, where “Blue Velvet” was set. Or is he just paying homage to the original “Cape Fear” from decades back, as the 1992 remake was not yet released? Not sure...

Oh, this is where Cage’s Elvis homage began, and several years before the former’s career crashed deader than the latter's fat butt. Cage is throbbing with energy here, frightening one moment (the opening scene) and insanely funny the next (“What do you f-----s want?”). He is on 100 percent, though, in a daring, damn the rules role. He needs good directors. Alas, Dern plays another pure girl who bemoans if love is enough to conquer evil and death. Lynch loves a blonde like Hitchcock.

Not Lynch’s best by a long shot, but still a shocking, mind-blowing Avant-Garde treat with scenes that dead end but nevertheless fascinate. “Velvet” from start to finish stays on the soul, and is part of me, whereas “Heart” comes and goes in spurts. Still, less than perfect Lynch is one amazing ride. B+