Prisoners (2013)

Dark dramas about child kidnapping do not make for Hollywood fare. “Prisoners” breaks that mold with its unsettling story one that remains gripping –- for the most part -- to the end, with a cast that digs deep. It centers on a Pennsylvania family (an excellent Hugh Jackman as father and Mario Bello as mother) that believes in God, guns, and “be ready” survivalist skills. Their all-American spirit shatters when their young daughter disappears on Thanksgiving Day, along with the child of an African-American family (Terrence Howard and Viola Davis). Jackman’s father who demands self-control loses himself to rage and takes hostage and savagely tortures a suspect (Paul Dano) cut loose by police for lack of evidence. What would Jesus do? Does it matter? Meanwhile, a detective (Jake Gyllenhaal) searches for the girls, hitting roadblocks and errors: He causes a jailhouse death, a move that shatters not his confidence, but the story’s logic flow. Ugly move: Director Denis Villeneuve marginalizes the mothers as they play to weeping clichés as the men do Manly Things. I fumed. But I also loved many details: The turkey and pie leftovers sitting uncollected for days and the sheer dullness of next-door evil in our America. B

Captain Phillips (2013)

Great directors re-tell history through image. Paul Greengrass puts viewers inside history, as if the drama is happening in real time. His 9/11 tragedy “United 93” buckled me. “Captain Phillips” reaches higher -- despite clunky family babble talk at the opening -- at every moment and then after the action ends, our director lets the stench of violence smother as our hero (Tom Hanks) openly sobs in shell shock. You know the story: In 2009, four Somali bandit pirates took command of a U.S. cargo ship off the horn of Africa, and when their shit hijack plan went south, they jumped in a lifeboat with New Englander and freighter captain Richard Phillips (Hanks). Assured as death, the men invite the full force of the U.S Navy. Don’t fuck with America. Greengrass shows the pirates as desperate men out for mere money, clueless to the animal they unleashed, and Americans as trapped in first-world glory. Intense and highly claustrophobic, Greengrass captures the terrible, unknowable toll of crime -– terrorism, whatever you call it -– on body and soul. As the pirate leader, American immigrant and film newcomer Barkhad Abdi equals Hanks’ astonishing performance. His character may be outgunned. Not the actor. A

The Fifth Estate (2013)

Working on the “Twilight” films must have sent director Bill Condon to an eternal junior high hell of filmdom because his new drama “The Fifth Estate” –- about Julian Assange -– plays to the lowest IQ who will walk into a cinema, expecting history retold. This is history for people who don’t read. We all know of Assange and his WikiLeaks website and the mass files he unleashed, gutting U.S. bravado with footage of an army helicopter crew mowing down innocents, and dumping State Department files on U.S. spy infrastructure. Condon assumes we don’t and goes for obvious at every turn. When an Assange protégé (Daniel Brühl) dumps WikiLeaks’ main server, we flash to the man smashing up make-believe desks and computers, setting fire to all around him. Just in case anyone fails to grasp “delete.” I was done before the end, tired of drivel talk such as “He’s bigger than the New York Times!,” but Condon has more. Benedict Cumberbatch -– smartly cast and a shade creepy as Assange -- breaks the screen wall, stares out, and tells us to get angry and find the truth, and I was glad to get up. And go out the door. C

The Postman Always Rings Twice (1946)

“The Postman Always Rings Twice” comes from the same writer who gave us “Double Indemnity,” and the film plots play similar games: A guy (John Garfied) with no ties finds himself tied up with the married woman (Lana Turner) of a much older man who seems more Daddy than Hubby, and Daddy’s gotta go. For money and sex. Back up on that sentence, there’s just kissing here. This was the 40s after all. The first shot shows “Man Wanted” sign outside a roadside diner/ gas station, a riotous gag as the husband (Cecil Kellaway) is looking for help to run the quaint business, while wife is looking to take over the place and trade up her bed partner. Turner’s broad is playing from the go: When she drops her lipstick at Garfield’s feet in her introductory scene, it’s no accident it rolls far. The acting is aces and daggers, with Hume Cronyn (“Coccoon”) slashing deepest as a sleazy lawyer. True classic? Ehh. I hate the final scene as someone must morally and logically flip-flop with out-of-this-world gymnastic skills in order to meet the Hayes Code of the day that all criminals must be contrite, and then die. This was the 40s... A-

Night of the Living Dead (1968)

George Romero’s low-budget, non-Hollywood horror classic “Night of the Living Dead” is as shocking and brilliant and subversive as near any film ever made. It’s no midnight fright flick test-marketed to hit Farmville, USA, and score big bucks and TV play. This is why American Cinema rules, and why the best of the lot are almost always outside the kingdom’s gates. These creators who have no master also have no notes to follow, or stocks to please. 

Yes, Romero has made the modern Bible version of the zombie film, the capstone by which all others build upon, emulate, and fall short. The plot is basic –- even for its time -- following a small group of people trapped in a farm house as zombies (referred to as “ghouls”) attack from outside, first a handful, then a dozen, then a horde. Among the heroes are a woman (Judith O’Dea) who just watched her brother fall to an attack and will soon see him again, and a man named Ben (Duane Jones) who happens to be passing through town. 

Ben is African American, and a professor. Think about that. In 1968. Such an idea must have smoked Hollywood’s mind then, and owners of cinemas, too. No way “Dead” played south of the Mason-Dixie line. Not during American then. Hell, not now in some parts. Not when Ben is giving orders and slugging anyone who dare crosses him. 

So, take “Night” as allegory of a sick nation being turned upright, shocked out of its “Keep America White” brain dead coast of hate. Or take it as a freakishly brilliant “man’s got to do what a man’s got to do …” heroics of any horror story, brilliantly told. I fell the first way. You chose your path. 

Too, Romero lays out his graphic violence in stark back-and-white imagery that still sends a shudder. So many film rules die here, because Romero could kill them. Dig that little girl. Dig the first attack in a cemetery as a lone figure drifts in and out of the frame, barely in focus, like a dream. 

This is a ticking time bomb of survival, and when the sun rises and light blows out every shadow, Romero drops the hammer. See, I had not seen this movie until just now. (Go on, mock. I deserve it.) I watched stunned, convinced halfway through I found a new Top 10 Favorite, and dead certain at the very end. Genius. A+

In a World… (2013)

I vividly recall Lake Bell from the final episodes of TV’s “Practice” and its spin-off “Boston Legal.” New to me, she stood above a stellar cast of actor that included James Spader. Bell popped smart and darkly funny. Her big screen feature starring, writing, and directing debut is “In a World…,” a comedy about a 30ish woman smashing her way into the boys-only “Trailer Voice” club that her own mega-ego father (Fred Melamed) rules as semi-permanent king. Bell’s Carol’s voice talents have no end, even if she lives with pop and has love woes to make Juliet sulk. That’s a skim off the top of this tale that plays rom-com, flips comedy genre clichés 180, and blasts loud as testy feminist scream and future-looking let down as Carol learns that the farther she moves into Hollywood, the more she realizes that the capitalist big pigs care nothing about any woman’s breakthrough, only money. God Bless Rich America! Parts of “World” are long or buzz-free, but damn Bell has made a fine, funny project that spits in the eye of the world she likely seeks entry into.I want to see her next film now. B+

Lee Daniels’ The Butler (2013)

Perfect case of best intentions, and short results. “The Butler” aspires for Oscar glory and to do nothing less than tell the story of African-Americans and their plight to obtain true equality in America through the eyes of one White House butler (Forrest Whitaker) and his family (Oprah Winfrey as an alcoholic wife, and David Oyelloyo as an activist son). 

The titular butler is Cecil Gaines -– based ever so loosely by a thin thread on real-life figure Eugene Allen -– and his prideful job and moral millstone is to play silent witness to the terrible and great moments of the 20^th century Civil Rights movement as he serves tea and roast beef to a line of succeeding American presidents. Naturally, or so the film wants us to believe, each POTUS is won over to see the light of love and racial equality by Gaines’ stoic silence and dedication to the job, making sure the butter knife is just perfectly set so. 

Look, Whitaker knocks the part out, no surprise. He’s been a favorite actor of mine since “Platoon,” and his quiet anger and love shine through in scene after scene. But he’s still standing still for 99 percent of the film, like an end table. Mouth shut. It is Winfrey who near owns the film. Her rounded performance captures illness, anger, love, and jealous hate of the attention Cecil gives Jackie Kennedy, and is the sharp. The wife, though, barely leaves the house. That’s a mixed-bag. See, Daniels’ staging of those at-home scenes with Whitaker and Winfrey shine and sting as we finally see the American story through the hearts of our nation’s most belittled people. This is no “Leave it to Beaver” American Dream lie sold by conservative Tea Party drones. 

But, damn, “Butler,” is a mess. We get an eye-rolling list of Hollywood big names as those presidents, each one more miscast than the last: Robin Williams as a fuddy-duddy Ike, John Cusack as an “SNL” version of Nixon, and -– worst move ever -– Alan Rickman as a Reagan so piss-ant dreary, one wonders if anyone here ever saw film of the real man. Reagan dripped charisma. Love him or hate him, you know the man practically sparkled. Rickman? Not at all. Sorry. These cameos stop the film and had the audience snickering. 

As well, spread out for five decades and hitting every historical race marker like some warped liberal version of “Forrest Gump” -– that feels racist to say, but it’s true -– “Butler” plays like a road trip with a rush-rush-rush pop racing the family car down I-95, yelling to the children in the back, “There’s New York, there’s Philadelphia, there’s Washington, we’ll make Orlando by noon,” never stopping to see Independence Hall. 

This history is too important for such treatment. The scenes of black protesters at lunch counters being molested and tortured are soul-crushing, and this is not ancient history. This story would have made an amazing television series on HBO, with room to truly explore what it means to work in a marble building that represents the highest office in all the world, but have absolutely no power of one’s own, unable to even safe your own child from death or a policeman’s billy club. Mr. Allen’s life seems to have played more quieter than the story here. I want to see that life. Not a stand-in quietly serving Hans Gruber supper. B-