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

Beautiful Creatures (2013)

I’m calling it the “Vonnegut Rule.” Anytime a teen drama needs to quickly illustrate its hero is a cool-sensitive outsider, he will be seen reading Vonnegut. Always “Slaughter House Five.” We get that scene moments into “Beautiful Creatures,” another YA adaptation about teens amongst supernatural angst and humanity-ending danger. Our reader is Ethan Wate (Alden Ehrenreich), a high schooler with a DOA mom and MIA dad who falls for the new girl (Alice Englert) in class, because she’s witchy, and has, in fact, invaded Ethan’s dreams for months: Violent memories not his own. I know nothing of the books. But writer/director Richard LaGravenese’s movie peaks midway with a family dining room table fight that literally sends table and room spinning as one silent cousin sits, eating. (Why can’t the film be about him?) The remainder is blasé and anticlimactic, with part of the cast –- Emma Thompson -– camping it up “Batman” TV style, and the rest –- Ehrenreich and Englert –- crying over doomed love, all of them wrestling Southern accents that come and go, often in a single scene. Read some Vonnegut instead, eh? C

The Fisher King (1991)

Damn it. Robin Williams is dead. When I heard the awful news, I knew “The Fisher King” was the first film I wanted to watch, honoring the man. This is his greatest performance as Parry, a former academic who suffers a mental collapse after the murder of his wife, and lives homeless on the New York streets. The unstable gunman was set off by a shock jock radio host (Jeff Bridges) who decries yuppies on air, but lives in a NYC flat as lifeless as the moon. The main action of Terry Gilliam’s pitch-black drama/comedy takes place three years after when Parry saves Jack from suicide. Jack, realizing Parry’s downfall, commits to “saving” Parry. Serving his own ego. Dig the 15-minute midsection where Parry –- taken in by Jack -- woos his dream woman (Amanda Plummer) at dinner then walks her home, only to suffer a breakdown, pleading, “Let me have this,” to his demons. What follows is Williams’ finest moment. Also dig Williams’ perfectly told tale of a lonely, turmoil-stricken king. It’s a heartbreaking moment that now ought to leave any person in tears. Bridges, in the lead role, is excellent as always. A full daft feast. A

Begin Again (2014)

I love “Once,” the Dublin-set debut from John Carney that sucked the whimsical romance out of the meet-cute genre and gave us one of the best musical soundtracks in many a year. In “Begin Again” –- once called “Can a Song Save Your Life?,” a better title -– Carney hits the USA with Brit Keira Knightley in tow to play music with Mark Ruffalo. Once again, so to speak, Carney avoids the easy romantic lines and lets adults be adults, ones who exist by song: Creating them, listening to them, savoring them. Knightly is the cheated-on girlfriend of a rising pop star, and Ruffalo is on the skids of a broken marriage and dying music career. Then he hears Knightley sing and realizes a new reason to thrive. I’ll stop there. As with “Once,” music is key to every scene, but never breaks from reality. This is a good, smart film as much about New York as the couple at story’s center. Carney only over reaches when trying to make his leads seem ultra-hip independents when they share guilty pleasure songs while walking the Big Apple. Her embarrassed choice: “As Time Goes By.” Seriously, who doesn’t love to hear Dooley Wilson’s voice? B+

The Lunchbox (2014)

Now here’s a pure wake-up shot to my spoiled American self: A romantic comedy/drama from India that never sinks to Hollywood love clichés (love, sunset, no problems) and shows me lives and customs I never knew before. In Mumbai, there’s a whole industry of delivery men who collect lunch boxes from homes and bike the cargoes of food to the city’s vast web of office buildings, from wife’s kitchen to husband’s desk. We see that trade at the opening of “The Lunchbox,” which hinges on the joke that one woman’s (Nimrat Kaur) cooking efforts mistakenly land on the desk of a widower (Irrfan Khan) who longs for homemade food, for connection. Her actual husband? He’s too busy to notice her talent and likely philandering. Wife and widower bond through handwritten notes left in the food tins, each searching for emotion, and what better instigator than food? Writer/director Ritesh Batra never pushes expected romantic tropes, and layers her film with a stark realism of a city tripping over itself to quickly grow capitalist, but where being orphaned as a child carries social stigma into adulthood. The ending is perfection. A-

The Secret Life of Walter Mitty (2013)

Remember Ben Stiller who made “Reality Bites”? A sharp comedy/ drama that made you pay attention, and plan to immediately buy the soundtrack? He’s been gone for years, stuck in a loop of juvenile fare. Behold, a near miracle. Stiller takes the 1947 Danny Kaye hit “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty,” and turns it on its heads with a fully new spin about a day-dreaming man who became lost on his way to adulthood after the death of his father. Here, Walter cares for his mother, pays his bills, and works at “Life” magazine, but he’s watching life. Not living it. He hasn’t put himself first. Then the loss of a key photograph under his care sends Walter on a worldwide trip to find its creator, Sean Penn, in a very Sean Penn role. “Mitty” is epic in every sense of the word. Romantic, too. And vibrating with great music. As Walter’s daydreams give way to real adventure, the film soars, never grander than when our hero rides a skateboard. It may cross the line into obviousness (the “Life” motto pounces loud like scripture), but the Stiller has re-found his path. The cinematography astounds. Shirley MacLaine as the mom sparkles. B+

Her (2013)

“Her” is the perfect Spike Jonze film. It smashes story-telling ground with a keen eye on a misfit that takes an outlandish idea -– think mind travel in “Being John Malkovich” –- and makes it instantly accessible. Now. Beautiful. Dark. The story: Theodore (Joaquin Phoenix) is a writer for a website that provides “real” hand written letters for other couples, but he knows little about love himself. His marriage crashed, and when a date suggests a relationship, Theo bolts. Prone to online porn and games, Theo to his mild dismay falls in love with his newest gadget, an OS that’s therapist, camera, encyclopedia, and lover all in one. She names herself Samantha (voiced by Scarlett Johansson) and is everything Theo ever wanted in a woman: On when he needs her, off when he does not. The idea is ridiculous. Jonze lets us know that as Theo hides his burgeoning love until he succumbs truly, deeply to Sam’s charms. We fall and hurt with him. Yes, “Her” is about our IM/texting-mad world and the disappearing art of and yet longing for human touch, but it also is flat-out perfection for anyone ever in or out of love, and future curious. A

Suspicion (1941)

Subpar Alfred Hitchock still outpaces 90 percent of anything made in Hollywood 70 years ago or now. But romance-thriller “Suspicion” is a stiff. I swear Hitchcock was bored making it, because I was bored watching it, and that’s a tall order since “Suspicion” stars Cary Grant and Joan Fontaine. Apologies to the master and stars. History says morality-cop conservative censors –- Hays Code –- killed this tale before film was set to camera. I believe it. Plot: Wealthy gal Fontaine falls in love with wealthy party boy lothario (Grant) who turns out not to be rich, but a gambling, lying, thieving heel who gets away with such deeds because he’s Cary fuckin’ Grant. When hubby’s best pal –- who is wealthy -- eventually (a long eventually) turns up dead, wifey fears for her own life. Cue scariest glass of milk ever. Cue ... nothing happens. Look, some scenes rock -- that glowing milk, the play of shadows as a bird cage -- but this is a slog, and a sexist drudge as it plasters a heroine who must learn to keep her trap shut and not doubt her crap-o hubs. Because he’s Cary Grant. B-

Before Midnight (2013)

During a summer heavy on superheroes and angry robots, “Before Midnight” is a miracle dose of meds against overindulgence. This is the third chapter in the “Before” series -– “Before Sunrise” came in 1995, “Before Sunset” nine years later -– that follows American writer Jesse (Ethan Hawke) and a French activist Celine (Julie Delpy). In 1995, they met on a train; in 2004, they fell in love; and here they as parents and a couple face head on and bite into each other over the hurdles and sacrifices of love and commitment. That they do this while vacationing in splendid Greece is called on even by the couple, as they also comment on the prior films as books as pretentious talkers. The film is all talk, loving and harsh, with actual adults using adult words about the things that matter -– career wars, regretted missed moments of parenting –- and it’s a sad commentary that such a film is rare. The dialogue pulsates as if every man and woman on screen barely knows what they will say next. Electric. Delpy, Hawke, and director Richard Linklater have collaborated on all three films, creating a treasured trilogy of films about all of us. Amazing. A

The Philadelphia Story (1940)

I need to get this out: “The Philadelphia Story” opens on a gag of a man shoving a woman to the ground, and the joke she got “socked” runs throughout. That shit is not funny. Not then or now, or ever. That said, I do dearly love this deserved classic, the writing, banter, delivery, and cast: Katharine Hepburn, James Stewart, Cary Grant, Ruth Hussey, and the child actress Virginia Weildler, can you top that? Plot: Philly society divorcee Tracy (Hepburn) is up for marriage No. 2, but her ex (Cary Grant) hangs close because Tracy’s family loves the guy unconditionally, and in an elaborate plot he has two gossip mag reporters (Stewart and Hussey) in tow to record the surely doomed nuptials. See, the ex loves the bride, and as hijinks, misunderstandings, and boozy drinks flow, soon so does Stewart’s wordsmith. I shall not divulge more, just watch. This is comedy romance at the tallest order, it makes you swoon for everyone on screen, with Stewart pushing charm, Grant smoothness, and Hepburn brass and brains. Yes, many plot ideas are way past sexist and stagnant, but this film shines. Love the journalism jokes, too. A-

Rebecca (1940)

Alfred Hitchcock’s American debut “Rebecca” – based on a bestseller – defines what old timers (and us TCM fanatics) mean with “They don’t make them like they used to.” Four years older than my father, this gorgeously shot black-and-white thriller sucks you in to its tale of romance as a woman (Joan Fontaine) falls for a widower (Laurence Oliver). The man is, of course, crazy wealthy, owning a castle named Manderley, and crazy, haunted by wife No. 1. In what I gather is a sick-twist Hitchcock joke, an old bird (Florence Bates) tells our heroine that Manderley will eat her alive. She’s right. Our nameless heroine is smothered by the stone walls and wealth, the “ghost” of Rebecca, the wife who drowned mysteriously and questionably, and the black-oil stare of the watchful housekeeper (Judith Anderson), who defines wicked. Secrets boil over as our heroine sinks into a mess, her ramrod morality straining against fates I still awe at, second watching. This is exceptional filmmaking, smooth, and with as much dark humor as betrayals, our director taking us innocents for a ride. The cast is flawless, the film endlessly re-watchable. A+

Silver Linings Playbook (2012)

Is there a better actress right now of the under-30 set than Jennifer Lawrence? She co-leads “Silver Linings Playbook,” a damn good comedy/drama about two troubled adults making a connection over -– of all things -– ballroom dancing. David Russell directs and wrote the screenplay (based on a book), and similar to his hit “Fighter,” rests the story on wondrous and maddening families. The lead is Bradley Cooper, giving a jaw-dropper performance unlike anything before, as Pat, a man near-disabled by bipolar disorder. Back home with his over-protective mom (Jacki Weaver) and over-bearing/OCC father (Robert De Niro), Pat crosses paths, via friends, with Tiffany (Lawrence), a young widow with her own set of issues, mainly sexual. Their relationship begins toxic, but there’s a romantic spark, they each have leapt over the cliff of sanity. If the finale is awkwardly, overly upbeat, refer back to the title: In a “Lord of the Flies” reality, we crave stories with silver linings. De Niro, after a long bout of sell-out performances, is marvelous. Lawrence (“Hunger Games” and “Winter’s Bone”) is the reason to see “Silver.” She’s 21, playing a slightly older unstable woman, flawlessly upstaging her co-stars. A-

Charade (1963)

This. THIS is what “Tourist” -– the dull-flat romantic caper with Johnny Depp and Angelina Jolie -– wanted to be, and failed. Starring Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn, with assist from George Kennedy, James Coburn, and Walter Matthau, twisty-turny, tongue-in-cheek thriller/comedy “Charade” follows a new divorcee (Hepburn) whose Parisian rich ex-husband turns up dead before the legal papers can be signed. Woe for her, because $250,000 is missing, and the cops and the crooks know in their blood Ms. Hepburn has it. Enter Grant’s slippery admitted conman who switches identities quicker than he does clothes, and this film -– directed by Stanley Donen (“Singin’ in the Rain”) -– is a hoot of 1960s cool/suave. The turncoats, betrayals, and reveals are played for suspense and laughs, alternating one after the other, none better than when a parade of men stalk into dead hubby’s funeral, studying and abusing the corpse, making sure he’s dead. Grant is old enough to be Hepburn’s father, but the “ick” factor is joked away, with Hepburn on top, so to speak, even if some of the “you’re-just-a-girl” shtick is sexist. Doesn’t distract, though, from this cinematic shell game. Hepburn shines, as always. B+

Punch-Drunk Love (2002)

Paul Thomas Anderson’s 90-minute bizzaro romantic fable “Punch-Drunk Love” follows a terribly lonely misfit finally meeting the love of his life. It has everything I love about PTA films, from “Boogie Nights” to “There Will be Blood” –- including the bold realization you are watching a genre film turned on its side -- but on a small and personal scale. It stars Adam Sandler in a loose and heartfelt performance laced with an inner anger that blew me away. He plays Barry, an entrepreneur with possible autism, definite OCD issues, and prone to fits of shocking rage. He cannot contain the boiling hate over his shitty life. Until he meets her, love of his life. Played by Emily Watson. It’s as if Anderson saw Sandler on one end of the cinematic field (“Waterboy”) and Watson on the other end (“Breaking the Waves”) and said, “These two belong together.” I never imagined Sandler could go toe-to-toe with Philip Seymour Hoffman (as a scuz out to ruin Barry) and win, but Anderson has performed a miracle here. That Sandler insists on making “Jack and Jill” crap when he could be making films on this level is nuts. B+

Safety Not Guaranteed (2012)

With a budget well below $1 million, the Sundance Film Festival hit comedy “Safety Not Guaranteed” asks us to be believe in time travel as reality not because of any high-tech CGI gadgetry on screen, but because the lost soul at the center of this remarkable, funny, and wide-eyed cynic-free tale truly believes in his ability to bend science. It’s all he has in his life, his only shot at true happiness. Besides, the film opens with a journalist at “Seattle Magazine,” pitching a profile feature that requires a long-distance trip of several days, and two interns as assistants. That’s far less likely than time travel. 

So, Jeff (Jake M. Johnson) is the journalist, all wrinkled shirts, coffee stains, and beard stubble, intrigued by a newspaper classified ad that seeks a partner in time travel, “safety not guaranteed.” Jeff – highly cynical, rudderless, a bit of an asshole, and much like many a journalist I know – smells a kook, and think it will make for great reading fodder. Or so he claims. His real mission is to get to the tiny Washington state beach front town the ad originated from, and hook up with an old flame from his high school years. 

His interns are a lonely college student (Aubrey Plaza) still crushed by the death of her mother, and an Indian science nerd (Karan Soni) afraid of girls. They track down the ad’s time traveler, Kenneth Calloway (Mark Duplass), a grocery clerk with a throbbing streak of loneliness, regret, paranoia, and gun-love. 

Plaza’s Darius goes undercover ABC News style as Kenneth’s time-traveler companion, trying to get the scoop: Is Kenneth crazy, mentally ill, dangerous, or a true time-traveling scientist. The answers are surprising, endearing, and out-of-this-world-and-time awesome. I won’t dish on why Kenneth wants to go back in time, but the lead up, and his refusal to let Darius see the device leads to great comic highlights (a break-in at a tech firm whilst a major company party is going on) and heartfelt (yes, Darius soon falls for Kenneth and all his quirks, but her own quirks are just as strong life-suffocating). Meanwhile, Jeff’s bid at reunited love goes awry, as it must, and he obsesses about manning up Karan’s nerd. 

Director Colin Trevorrow and writer Derek Connolly paint a small portrait of adults who already are in a way time-traveling, their minds and souls stuck in the past on regrets, things said wrong, and missed opportunities. The final scenes, as FBI agents chase our reporters chasing Kenneth are a blast, and made one college co-ed behind me in the theater near jump out of her chair with a cheer. I agreed, and wanted to cheer that loud.

As with the characters, there are some points here of much regret, mainly Karan’s character – the lonely, giant-eye-glass wearing nerd from India studying science and afraid of women. It’s an awful, old stereotype so over-used in film and TV, it may – if it hasn’t already – surpass the sidekick cliché of the best pal who’s flaming, lisping, cross-dressing gay. Both character types really ought not to appear in any form of art not written by people older than high school age. That said, Duplass gives an amazing performance as Kenneth, twisting audience sympathy and distrust of him around on its head a dozen times over. 

“Safety” may not have big-screen pop! of much-loved time-travel Hollywood blockbusters such as “Back to the Future” or “Terminator,” but it’s brain and heart is bigger, and I’d love to go back in time and re-watch this film for the first time again and again. (And, hey, after the ugly “Men in Black 3,” the science of time travel needs a big pick-me-up.)

Cool fact: The ad that starts this film, which reads, “Wanted: Somebody to go back in time with me. This is not a joke. You'll get paid after we get back. Must bring your own weapons. I have only done this once before. Safety not guaranteed” is real. It was placed in a nature magazine by a man from Oregon a bit more than 10 years ago. When every other film out now in cinemas is a remake or a prequel/sequel, or based on a comic book, it’s a blast to know one fresh idea can shine bright, and be based on a 150-letter ad from a man who may be mental or more genius than we can ever know. A-

The Raggedy Rawney (1988)

Bob Hoskins’ retirement due to severe illness put me in a slump, so I’m on a kick to watch his films. His big-screen directorial debut “Raggedy Rawney” is an anti-war drama about a band of European gypsies (led by Hoskins) circa maybe World War II -- the exact country and conflict is left unknown to us -- who come across a shell-shocked AWOL soldier (Dexter Fletcher) who has disguised himself as a mute woman, smeared crazily with makeup to appear as a mix of witch/raccoon/Ziggy Stardust. Hoskins’ Darky accepts the waif as a rawney, a mad woman with mystical powers. The boy plays along, falls for Darky’s teenage daughter (Zoe Nathenson), and avoids the army he deserted. It’s an intriguing film, co-written by Hoskins, of a culture alien to most Americans. Characters, even incidental ones, are given great quick shades. But some plotting is heavy-handed, and I still can’t see how the clan continue to not see through the sexual ruse. Hoskins naturally rules the film, playing rage, joy, heartbreak, and distress like no other actor. The inevitable final scenes hit hard. B

The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn, Part 1 (2011)

It’s too easy to pick on the “Twilight” films. What started out as an entertaining supernatural romantic fantasy for teenagers in 2008 quickly grew boring, trite, and, I can’t say this enough, cringingly anti-woman as we follow a Washington state high school girl (Kristen Stewart as Bella) fall enthralled to her century-old-stuck-as-a-teenager vampire fiance (Robert Pattinson as Edward) and yet remain mooned over –- literally –- by her werewolf best friend (Taylor Lautner as Jacob). 

The whole scenario is utterly ridiculous, but that’s fantasy, right? The screw? At every turn, and evermore increasingly here, Bella becomes less of a full-fledged intelligent human being that happens to be a woman, than a near mindless submissive girl robot. (Is there anything more ... boring?) She has absolutely no plan, thought, or choice outside of her devotion to her dreamy fang man, and ensuring his happiness. I mean, can she hold a job? I’m not certain. Bet she can vacuum. Bella might be the flattest main female character of a major Hollywood franchise ever put to film. Bella is the anti-Ripley.

This overlong film adapts the fourth book in the series, and only part of it as the studio knows how to ring a few more million dollars from smitten fans known as Twi-Hards. Here, Bella is 18 and ready to marry Edward for he won’t do the deed until they are wed, old-fashioned values and all, and she wants to do the deed. And become like him, a vampire. (That’s commitment.) They do marry, and director Bill Condon (“Gods and Monsters”) stages the wedding with romantic delirium –- forest, leaves, amazing dresses and tuxes that would make any romantic swoon, and there is camera work to die for. (That’s the great Guillermo Navarro as Director of Photography. He shot “Pan’s Labyrinth.”)

Condon and his writers then take us on the only-in-a-movie fantasy honeymoon in South America, on a private island, and there the trouble begins. Eddie -– can I call him that? -- is concerned he’ll hurt Bella during sex with his super-vampire strength, but she’s OK with getting hurt, up to the point where she becomes pregnant. Abnormally “Rosemary’s Baby” pregnant. For her love of Edward, Bella commits to baby, much to his woe, and the anger of Jacob, who, like Bruce Banner, is always angry.

By now ridiculing a “Twilight” movie equals crushing a 14-year-old girl’s spirit because she talks too much on the telephone with her friends. The movies are silly romance popcorn entertainment. I get it. And teenage girls like to talk on the phone. Some things cannot be changed. They are what they are. So, I went for comedy at this viewing, from the way Pattinson can’t hide his contempt for the material that is below him, to the way Lautner makes looking angry so painfully hilarious, and a scene in which Lautner and his extended family carry on a full-blown scream-fest squabble as werewolves, making for the worst voice-over live-action scene I can recall seeing in a Hollywood film of the modern era. 

I will say this, “Part 1” is splendidly art-directed. Toward the film’s end, as Edward’s vampire family prepares to square off for full-on CGI/wirework war against Jacob’s werewolf family, at the former’s house, all for the life of Bella and her Vambaby, I just loved the “Architecture Design” look of it all. The massive windows looking out into the endless trees. Drama? Pfft. This is a family that, facing attack, leaves their glass doors wide open. Military strategy? The family fails. Home buying? Absolute genius. 

Not genius, not by a long shot, is the arc of Bella’s story. Maybe I never will. I have griped before about Bella’s absolute lack of any life interest or counsel, and the befuddlement only continues here. She spends her pre-wedding night alone, except for a visit by Edward, who I suppose is only checking in on her. Control is so romantic. Almost stereotypical to a bad 1800s marriage, he has friends to celebrate with. She? None. Zip. Zero. Bella’s only friends, helping her along the way to the big day and the baby crisis are Edward’s family, his “sisters.” Her pop, her mom, all are kept at least at arm’s length, if not a few thousand miles apart. (At least the father is concerned. By telephone.)

Actually, sorry there’s one. Jacob, the heartbroken, mooning werewolf guy who shows up at Bella’s wedding and yo-yos from all smiles and hugs to throwing the girl around, violently shaking her, and screaming all within mere seconds. Luckily, ol’ Eddie is there to save her. He’s always there. I suppose we should all be thankful he is such a nice guy.

I keep wanting Bella’s policeman father to come in and get her out. Or, actually, for Bella to finally walk out on her own, wake up and save herself. Take up industrial engineering. Ride a bike cross country. Apply to, I don’t know, college, even community college. The last scene proves me wrong again. She remains ever flat and in love. And, I get it, or not, it is all fantasy, supernatural romantic fantasy. Not real at all. C-

Moonrise Kingdom (2012)

Ten minutes into “Moonrise Kingdom,” I realized I had my fill of Wes Anderson, the Gen X darling filmmaker who tells tales of quirky hipsters and outsiders using ironic air quotes peppered with hip art deco sets and hip costumes. I’m sick of all of Anderson’s hipness. The guy aims and fails for some aura of New Wave French film with a story about pre-teen love birds (Jared Gilman and Kara Hayward) on the run from parents, police, and Khaki Scout Troop leaders in 1960s New England. To woo youngsters, Anderson tosses in fires, floods, storms, impaled dogs, and so much forced acting from famous actors (Bill Murray, Frances McDormand, Bruce Willis, and Edward Norton among them), that it all feels like the over-the-top high school play that closed out “Rushmore,” a damn fine film. Yes, Jason Schwartzman appears. So does Bob Balaban as a narrator who changes camera lights. The obnoxious music score almost drowns out the realization that the central arc of Hayward as a beauty hip (again!) to Euro culture falling for a sad nerd is bullshit. Anderson’s kingdom of cool -– I loved “Fantastic Mr. Fox” -- has gone tepid. I’m out. C-

Dark Shadows (2012)

Are there two men more likely soul mates than actor Johnny Depp and director Tim Burton? Can there be any doubt these guys make their films first for each other, us second. “Dark Shadows” is a prime example: A supernatural off-kilter oddball of cinema, and a mash letter/ homage to a cult hit TV series that Depp and Burton adored 40 years ago. If it only worked, if only the film had an air about it more substantial than the feeling Depp and Burton are really saying, “You need to see this show!” Well, why not the movie? 

The story: Barnabas Collins is the son of a wealthy fishing magnate in 1760s America who spurns his housemaid f-buddy (Eva Green) for his true love Josette (Bella Heathcote) – to eternal punishment, for the angry lady, Angelique, is hell in heels, a witch with an endless temper. She kills Barnabas’ family and his true love, and then makes him a vampire, cursed for eternity, before locking his ass in a coffin for 196 years. Ouch. Rocket to 1972, and a newly released Barnabas finds himself in the timeline of Nixon, Karen Carpenter, and lava lamps. Angelique awaits, rich and powerful, lording over the Collins heirs (led by Michele Pfeiffer, wonderfully sour). 

It’s all ripe for satire, culture jokes and hippie-munching humor, and we get all that, but we don’t get enough of the tragic romance, the eternal desire Barnabus has for his lost love, Josette, and her 1972 reincarnation, Victoria. Yes, there’s a reincarnation. During the climatic “Death Becomes Her”-riffing battle that $100 million budgets can buy, I barely noticed, and the film barely acknowledges, the long absences of the lady who unwittingly started it all. Oh, wait, there she is! At the end! Sigh. 

Depp – once again in chalky white makeup and creepy black wig, his signature Burton look -- is perfect in the lead role of Barnabas, slowly rolling his fangs around every word, gesture and arched eyebrow. He makes his vamp into a gentleman in line with the great dapper vampire Christopher Lee (who has a cameo), but one vexed by Eggo waffles and Steve Miller Band song lyrics. 

A huge part of me wished Burton, Depp, and screenwriter Seth Grahame-Smith (author of “Pride, Prejudice and Zombies”) had gone for a grisly, out-of-control hard R, ala “Sleepy Hollow,” a far darker comedy than this wink-wink lightweight romp can provide in a PG-13. Among the missed opportunities – besides sweet buckets of blood – is a cameo by ’70s shock rocker Alice Cooper, who Barnabas calls “the ugliest woman I never met.” Heh. Even the jokes are lodged in the 1970s. 

End note: I miss the Burton of “Beetlejuice” And “Edward Scissorhands.” Yeah, the special effects were (purposefully) cheap, but, damn, I left fulfilled with cinematic glory. The original show was all about cheapness, apparently, but this film spared no expense. For sets and makeup and special effects. Dime store story, though. Not Dark enough. B-

The Fly (1986) and The Fly II (1989)

David Cronenberg’s nightmare love story horror flick “The Fly” is mad genius, sickly twisted, and lets Jeff Goldblum spin gold as a loner nerd scientist named Seth Brundle who wants to change the world as we know it. He doesn’t, but sure as hell changes his own corner when a teleportation experiment goes wrong and he zaps himself and a house fly from one souped-up self-built transport pod to another, two go in, one comes out. Cronenberg fires on all bloody cylinders, starting with a romance between Goldblum and Geena Davis as a reporter, then sci-fi fantasy, then body horror as Seth morphs to a superman assured he has jumped the evolutionary ladder to mad man when his body starts falling apart, and becoming ... another. Twenty-six years on “Fly” still shocks with Goldblum’s transformation under makeup, and then the stop-motion creatures that replace him. The lines are cheesy – “Be afraid! Be very afraid!” – but the visuals burn deep, as does Cronenberg’s obsession with dying and disease. Last note: Mr. C must release a director’s cut soon: Check out a cut scene on YouTube, as Seth makes a monkey-cat as part of his own healing scheme shown later. Insane. A

In “The Fly II,” Cronenberg buzzes off to better films, and we’re stuck with Chris Walas – the makeup guy on the first film – as director of a “Like Father, Like Son” spookfest. Let’s give it points: “Fly II” flies in a different direction as Martin, the mutant flyboy of Goldblum’s scientist and Davis’ reporter, is raised inside a mega-corp lab, and as a 20-year-old (really 5) falls in love, all flowers and dancing sweet. Sure as hell, though, we get a grisly transformation and all goes to shit fast with bad visual effects and a LOL “Alien” rip off as Marty McFly (tee-hee!) goes on a bender against his surrogate Mr. Burns daddy, so boring bad, he could be a 1970s Disney villain. Lee Richardson is the old man, and Eric Stoltz – he did “Mask” before this – is young Martin. It’s all a maggot baby so unworthy of Cronenberg I wanted to take a rolled-up magazine and … well, you know. C