The Thomas Crown Affair (1999)

This is rare: A remake smarter and cooler than the original. John McTiernan’s takes on 1968’s “The Thomas Crown Affair” starred Steve McQueen and Faye Dunanway and spun on a bank-robber billionaire. Here, Pierce Brosnan and Rene Russo -- at the height of their stardom -– are in the spotlight with an art museum theft as the central plot device. Great change up. Brosnan is a Wall Street master who has grown bored with acquisitions and the back-slapping hoopla of taking other people’s money. But he loves oil and canvas, and a thrill. So he takes a Monet from New York’s Met. In broad daylight. During a giddy fun sideshow to a full-on robbery he orchestrated. Russo is the insurance investigator who care shit about art, but only the chase. She knows Crown did the theft, and he knows that she knows. Is the art the thing here? No. It's two bored powerful people who finally found the one who makes them tick. “Crown” is smart, damn sexy, and funny, with an insider streak that plays on the stars’ wattage, New York ego, and the prior film with Dunaway playing a wink-wink role. Brosnan and Russo are perfectly matched. 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 Wolf of Wall Street (2013)

Forget “Great Gatsby” comparisons. Martin Scorsese’s “The Wolf of Wall Street” is the greatest black comedy satire since “Natural Born Killers.” Trade phones for guns, gold watches for scalps. This crazy F.U. gem is being crucified as overlong and obnoxious, a pointless drug- and sex-smeared stain of debauchery focusing on Wall Street brokers who strikes it rich fleecing common Americans on shit investments. People, that is the point. Scorsese playfully crashes and flames his epic movie as often as real-life Wall Street scum bag Jordan Belfort (a never more alive Leonardo DiCarpio) crashes and flames yachts and cars, snorts coke, screws whores, and rallies his team to make more money. I cheered. This is America. Scorsese, writer Terence Winter, and DiCaprio are daring us to hate this movie. Our hate is misplaced. They are revealing the strings of the soulless puppet masters who run our banks, buy our congressmen, and control our 401K futures. More so: Our nation’s wealth and the whole stock market is the ultimate con we all buy into. Again and again. Refocus your anger. Best character: Jonah Hill -- gold! -- as a fat Alfred E. Neuman geek who drives Belfort’s scam. Mad men. A

Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps (2010)

It’s been ages since I saw Oliver Stone’s “Wall Street.” The 1987 classic is a blur to me, but Michael Douglas’ portrayal of Gordon Gekko – the hedonistic shark who swum in evil – remains in memory. Who knew a whole generation of real Wall Street tycoons would take Gekko as God, and bring about economic turmoil that nearly crippled our nation? With Stone’s return to Gekko’s world, I thought the man would burn furiously as he tackles the 2008 economic crash. No. Forget the trading floor, this is a dead slaughterhouse of missed opportunities, ham-fisted symbolism, and an outrageously happy climax that betrays every point that comes before it, and every principle held by those who distrust unguarded capitalism. We focus on hothead stockbroker Jake (Shia LaBeouf), whose girlfriend (Carey Mulligan) is the daughter of Gekko, himself eight years out of prison. Gekko sees our hero as an “in” to his daughter; Jake sees Gekko as an “in” to ambition. This triangle raises questions it can’t answer, including, “Why would a left-wing reporter who hates Wall Street live with a stock broker cub shark?” Pathetically, Stone no longer cares if “greed is good” or not as he races to a ludicrous ending. D

Arbitrage (2012)

Richard Gere is never bolder/better than when he plays an amoral cockup with sins to hide and a clock to beat. He is that and more in “Arbitage,” a timely thriller with Gere as a billionaire hedge fund manager who in one week sees a longtime financial fraud shell game crumble and accidentally kills his mistress in a crash, all while dodging police and his suspecting wife (Susan Sarandon). This is a 1 percenter who has been thieving and lying so long, the light of truth gets him sweating. But he knows the rigged system. That’s the twist in this ethics quagmire: We see-saw between wanting this pig nailed and wanting him to escape unharmed. Writer/director Nicholas Jarecki also takes an open shot at the real “takers” in this land –- not the poor or African-Americans or Hispanics as Fox News preaches, but the rich white Wall Street elite who own the banks. The scene where Gere’s CEO cluelessly asks a young black man who he has drawn into his scheme, “What’s an Applebee’s?” (The man wants to open a franchise), exemplifies modern American values. Money is all. A-

Pi (1998)

Darren Aronfsky knows how to work a theme: The artist/lover/addict who drives himself/herself mad or dead with dark passion. “Pi” is his first chapter in his seemingly endless, bottomless Bible of Woe. Made in 1998, filmed in stark black and while and featuring unknowns, our story focus on Max (Sean Gullette), a paranoid math genius obsessed with breaking a hidden code within the Stock Market. Max’s story begins with him already long broken: When he was six, he stared at the sun, and it blinded him for days, and fried his brain. Forever. He fears about every human being (a bad trait in New York City), and ingests meds by the handful to calm his nerves and quiet the metal-grinding sound in his brain. He owns a power drill. When some shady people come looking for Max, to get the coded secrets of Wall Street, his crumbled psyche shatters. This is a rough, messy, amazing film, shot on a shoestring budget, full of razor ends, a work of pure art. The audience has its own code to break: When does Max sink into full madness, a prison as endless as 3.1415926535… A

Margin Call (2011)

“Margin Call” is an end-of-America disaster flick with a Too Big Too Fail Weapon of Mass Destruction: Lehman Bros., slightly fictionalized. The harbinger of doom is a literal rocket scientist turned stock market shark (Zachary Quinto) who discovers his firm is a monstrous pig gorged on a diet of bad mortgages, and a heart attack just hit. His revelation sets off a chain bomb up the corporate ladder, from the floor manager (Kevin Spacey) to the CEO (Jeremy Irons at his most “Dead Rigner”ish). The reaction is not a heroic effort, but a scam far more sinister than anything in “Glengarry Glenn Ross,” another great F.U. to the Capitalism at All Costs mantra that fuels America. (GOP cheer!) A guy named J.C. Chandor makes his writing/directing debut, and he plays as if a decade-old pro as “Call” races like a thriller, and sports an acidic wit (no one in charge understands math). Quinto produced, and is a major star here, not just through massive-high-IQ acting, but because he lets the lions (Spacey, Irons and Demi Moore among them) rule the den. Sick twist: It all happened. A