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-

All is Lost (2013)

A perfect companion piece to the space-set “Gravity,” “All is Lost” also follows a lone person (Robert Redford as “Our Man,” no name) as he faces death on the vast Indian Ocean, his ultra-chic yacht sinking, every hope escaping his grasp, until suicide becomes not something to fear, but embrace. I don’t know why so many desperate lone survival tales are hitting the screen now -– think of “Life of Pi” or “Captain Phillips” -– but what a remarkable run. Here, Redford -– in a brilliantly paced, near wordless performance that wows with its refusal to go “big” –- awakens to the crash of his yacht against an adrift shipping container. His boat punctured and sinking, the man slowly and clumsily patches the gape. And just when hope is reachable, it crashes away as a violent storm hits, fresh water supplies disappear, and cargo ships –- ironically the man’s only salvation –- pass by like gods too busy to notice a believer. His technology and wits fleeting, Our Man must navigate the ocean by eye. J.C. Chandor’s (“Margin Call”) film is tense and methodical, stepping for every beat that “Gravity” rocketed past as he puts alongside Redford. Most deserved use of the “F” bomb ever. A

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

Saving Mr. Banks (2013)

The story of Walt Disney’s struggle to make the 1964 classic “Mary Poppins” has often been told during the past 50 years. Author P.L. Travers fought Disney on every word during production and loathed the movie (the latter is outright squashed). This cleaned-up squabble is the basis for “Saving Mr. Banks” which shows how Travers (real name Helen Goff, played by Emma Thompson) was won over by Disney’s (Tom Hanks) charm, and explores why the children’s book author was so harsh -- mainly her haunting Outback youth. This is a Disney film, though, and from the opening logos, it works to make the audience smile and cry, damn the facts. It succeed, mostly. But “Banks” is grossly off point. Walt himself woos Travers with his own uneasy childhood tale, but it’s for naught. Yes, Walt had it hard, many do, but Travers’ parents were non-functioning adults riddled by alcoholism and mental illness that reached the act of suicide. (Worst offense: Mistaking dad’s drunken fatherly doting and kindness for actual doting and kindness.) No talk from a nice old guy or spoonful of sugar can remedy that. Still, the happy tunes and sunny spirit are difficult to resist. Disney magic, that. B-

Turbo (2013)

“Turbo” must have started from a resentful marketing meeting at Dreamworks, one where all the writers, animators, and ad guys took a resentful look at Pixar’s much-celebrated filmography and figured, “Let’s mash some shit up.” So “Turbo” is a “A Bug’s Life” crossed with “Cars,” the tale of a lonely garden snail (Ryan Reynolds, in voice, not a costume, silly) who dreams the life of a race car driver before an accident – he’s doused with nitrogen oxide from a hot rod -- makes him as fast as a lightning bolt. And it’s off to the races for him, his Debbie Downer brother (Paul Giamatti) on his tail, literal and figurative. Along the way, our snail boys meet up with two Hispanic taco vendor brothers (Michael Pena and Luis Guzman) who share a mirrored relationship, one dreaming big, the other always ready to down every hope. Let it be clear: I love that a major animated film stars American immigrant characters, but, really, taco vendors? Taco vendors?!? OK. Breathe. My nephew loved it. Does my Debbie Downer take matter? Well, yeah. The animation and voice talent (Giamatti!!) hit big, but this tale is as predictable as left turn, left turn… B

Stoker (2013)

Director Park Chan-wook (2003’s “Oldboy”) makes his American debut with “Stoker,” a gorgeous, nasty domestic drama turned serial killer thriller that takes Hitchock’s “Shadow of a Doubt” and cranks up the violence and perversion to skin-crawling affect. As with the 1943 classic tale, a girl (Mia Wasikowska) suspects her romantic/handsome/suave Uncle Charlie (Matthew Goode) of murderous deeds after her father mysteriously dies and the uncle -– father’s brother -– moves into to help comfort the mother (Nicole Kidman). The line “We don’t have to be friends, we’re family,” sums up the story: There is no love here. This familial lot is as creepy and somber as the house they reside in. That is a double edged sword. Park and writer (and openly gay actor) Wentmorth Miller start in crazy town and stay, banging you in the head with a frying pan from frame one. Hitchcock served a fine dinner first, then took to swinging. Such is life. Hitchcock would dig the dark path of our central heroine. Wasikowska (“Alice in Wonderland”) owns the film, against the cool Goode and Kidman, who cooks up an acting storm from a role blankly stamped “frigid.” Watch it twice. Squirm. B+

We Steal Secrets: The Story of Wikileaks (2013)

Timing can make or break a film. The documentary “We Steal Secrets: The Story of Wikileaks” is superior in every way to “Fifth Estate,” the overcooked dramatization of anarchist/hacker “journalist” Julian Assange. I saw the fictional film before this, a reversal of their respective cinema rollouts. This is akin to fresh air. Director/writer Alex Gibney compiles deft footage of an uncooperative Assange and his empire of nerds to portray a group of rebels out to crash all-powerful, secret-obsessed corporations and governments. But with fame comes power, and corruption. Assange falls to paranoia and his own secrets, damn the costs. As well, we see painful chat-room quotes from Private Bradley/Chelsea Manning, whose story also figures heavily here. His tale is a film onto itself, a true whistleblower hero to Assange’s loud bullhorn. As talking heads, U.S. spy chiefs and military honchos alternately damn and dismiss Assange and Manning as blips on the NSA’s endless, all-powerful eye of Sauron. Gibney lets us decide who is more trustworthy, even if there are no “good guys,” and he -- thankfully -– does not need hyperbolic lines or fake CGI desk-burning to let us know this is not history, but a new, never-to-end struggle of truth. A-