The Human Centipede (2010)

Filmmaker Tom Six once made a joke of sewing a child-rapist perv’s mouth to a truck driver’s ass. Get it: When the fat hauler would crap, perv dude would get a meal. Somehow that crack, so to speak, gave Six the idea to make a horror movie about a whacky Nazi-inspired surgeon (Dieter Laser) who sews three youth (Ashley Williams, Ashlynn Yennie, and Akihiro Kitamura) together end to end, with the guy first in line. The whole affair is grisly, gross, and warped beyond measure, but Six smartly puts much of the gore and ick off screen and –- in a sly joke that somewhat backfires -- makes the mad doc the most boring horror villain one can imagine. This all comes apart, so to speak again, at the end when fat cops come knocking and the entire medical ordeal finally unravels as beyond preposterous: Mainly hydration and oxygen. There’s too little thrill here, the “Watch your back or else!” joke that forms the “Friday the 13^th” or “Elm Street” series, however campy they might be. It’s all just leaves a bad taste in the mouth.  Again, so to speak. B

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

Paranormal Activity 2 (2010)

With “Paranormal Activity 4” topping the box office this weekend, I realize I only ever saw the first film, and bypassed a crop of sequels. Until now. “Paranormal Activity 2” may have been titled “Paranormal Activity Too” as it follows the sister (Sprague Grayden) of the woman (Katie Featherston) haunted and left fate unknown in the low-budget, hand-made 2009 box office smash. This is a prequel, stand-aside, and carbon copy, with the same found home surveillance and video camera “evidence” footage showing a mysterious force ripping apart a family. Cue slamming doors, bizarre attacks, and -- one hour in -- a frying pan falling off one of those pot hanger thingies in a kitchen I envy.  “PA1” was a surprise film made by a guy who wanted to scare the crap out of folks, and he made it in his own home. “PA2” has moments –- floating baby does provide spooks galore -– but it’s studio product made to make coin, and that’s very normal activity. The entire film builds up and previews “PA3.” Should I see that? B-

The Traveler (2010)

The title of horror thriller “The Traveler” means zip. It isn’t about a tourist, or salesman. Instead former film star Val Kilmer plays a Drifter/Stranger/Nobody/Ghost who walks into the police station of a deserted town one Christmas Eve and confesses to the six officers on duty that he is guilty of six murders. He then proceeds to commit his confessions in acts so supernatural you can hear Dana Carvey whisper “Ssssatan.” The deeds -– whippings, hangings, shovel beatings, and suffocating -- are linked to the torture of a suspect by the same officers a year prior. Director Michael Oblowitz cranks down the mood with camera pans down dark hallways, but this is a “Tales from the Crypt” episode stretched to 90 minutes, with violence repeated and slo-mo’d to the point of tedium, hilarity, and eventually disgust. Kilmer is game, but appears uncomfortably overweight. Dude weighs 250, and people are worried about out-running him? The slapped-on title says it all. Why care when the movie makers don’t. C-

Exam (2010)

Eight adults sit at desks in a small, gray, cube-like room and for 80 minutes must battle with wits and then more physicals means for a job at a mysterious bio-tech company in “Exam.” Very independent and consistently smart, “Exam” was co-written and directed by Brit Stuart Hazeldine and feels like an off-off-Broadway play as the film never leaves its one room. An unnamed man (Colin Salmon) lays out the task: “There is only one question,” and the recruits must figure out what it is. The last man or woman standing gets the job. It’s not just any job, either, as the firm likely has a cure for a virus that has rocked England to its knees. Among the recruits –- all named for their ethnicity or hair color -– is narcissistic White (Luke Mably), devoted Christian Black (Chuk Iwuji), ex-Special Forces loon Brown (Jimi Mistry), and head-shrinker Dark (Adar Beck). Reaching the One Question pull up dozens: Who among the eight is a plant, has the virus, or is desperate enough to kill? Taunt and exciting, “Exam” ingeniously turns Gen-Y yuppies into biblical savages, fighting for the favor not of God, but a CEO perhaps as powerful. Or wholly not. A-

Black Death (2010)

Few sights are as sick as some bigot spouting off about the evil of Islam, as they uphold the Christian Church as the Shining Symbol of Humanity. They should watch “Black Death,” a grisly horror-thriller about the mid-1300s Black Plaque that ravaged Europe. The power-mad Church calls the plague God’s punishment against the unfaithful, and the only way back to His (its) grace is absolute submission. (Sound familiar?) Eddie Redmayne plays a naïve monk conflicted about his oath to God who travels with several Christian soldiers to hunt an untouched village, for it must hold sinners. Director Christopher Smith and writer Dario Poloni don’t go simple, for that village has a blood thirst greater than the Church. Sean Bean is the head Soldier of Christ, and his demise is one for the Sean Bean Movie Death record books. Too bad Redmayne is so boyish he makes Tin-Tinseem like Jason Statham and fails huge at the darkest scenes that end this blackest of tales. Smart, tense, and wide-open as the similar-themed “Season ofthe Witch” is dull, dumb and CGI’d to hell, “Death” coolly reminds us that Men of God are rarely ever that. B

Legend of the Guardians: The Owls of Ga'Hoole (2010)

“Legend of the Guardians: The Owls of Ga'Hoole” is one of the best-looking animated tales I have ever seen: Golden hues of sunlight abound, and our owl heroes and villains at the center of this fantasy adventure are computer-animated with such jaw-dropping precision that the details of feathers and the glint of eyes make one stare with childish glee. But “Legend” is a wash, a gorgeous body with an empty soul. The story is based on a series of books, so far be it for me to proclaim this a rip-off of “Star Wars” and “Chronicles of Narnia,” but I’ll do it anyway, as our tale follows two brother owls (Jim Sturgess and Ryan Kwanten on voices) who fall into the clutches of an evil owl queen, with one sibling summiting to her will, and the other escaping to join a heroic rebel alliance. Bonus Lucas points: There’s a wise old warrior owl and an evil metal-masked owl. They duel. For all of director Zack Snyder’s (“300”) visual delights, I was constantly trying to sort out which owl was which, especially during a climatic aerial fight that left me squawking “Hoo?” “Hoo?” “Who!?!” Thankfully not out loud. C+

Morning Glory (2010)

“Broadcast News” for the Kardashian Age. “Morning Glory” is a sweet woman-at-work-rom-com, with bright-as-the-sun Rachel McAdams as a Jersey girl-turned-TV-producer bounced to the New York A.M. news circus. Not “Today,” or “Good Morning, America,” but a bottom-rung show called “Daybreak,” with a pervy egotist (Ty Burrell) and a prima donna (Diane Keaton) as the leads. Out goes the creep, and in comes once-great news anchor Mike Pomeroy (Harrison Ford), dragged kicking and glaring by McAdams’ hap-hap-happy Becky Fuller. The film takes limp wimp shots at the news-or-glitter debate that befuddles newscasters, yet takes a full dive with an answer that is pure Reality TV Hollywood: Who cares about content, as long as people are buying. I’m not shocked. The rom-com is similarly dull as Patrick Wilson as Mr. Right for Ms. Fuller is so nice-guy blank, the character could have been played by Wilson the Ball from “Cast Away.” The cast saves the day. Ford plays his infamous cold personality to great effect, and Keaton is bubbly and winning, as she always is on camera. B-

The Other Guys (2010)

In every testosterone-filled cops and their partners flick, there’s always the barely in-focus fellow detectives, no name extras taking up space. No one cares if they die by gunfire. Unlikely partners in every way (casting, too) Will Ferrell and Mark Wahlberg are those men, one a paperwork nerd, the other a hot-headed dunce, in “The Other Guys.” When the cliché super cop heroes – played hilariously by Samuel L. Jackson and Dwayne Johnson – die not pulling off a stunt every movie cop pulls off, our “Guys” enter the fray. In a red Prius. Director/co-writer Adam McKay gleefully throws one of those impossible-to-follow coincidence plots at us as a greedy Wall Street tycoon (Steve Coogan) runs amok. Explosions and car chases abound, all sickly ridiculous, and yet not out of place in any “Lethal Weapon” movie. McKay ridicules mega-masculinity, the hot wife syndrome in every guy flick, and the economy. The bad guys get a bailout. Talk about realism. Ferrell is genius uncorking rage, and Wahlberg is a good straight man, although clearly uncomfortable yelling “I’m a peacock!” Still, great laughs. B+

The Runaways (2010)

When MTV debuted, Joan Jett’s shouted anthem “I Love Rock n’ Roll” (a cover) seemed to be the only female voice in an all-male sport. That chapter of Jett’s life is unseen in “The Runaways,” the standard biopic treatment of her first band, The Runaways – the early 1970s all-girl band that set guys’ eyes and other parts bulging, before the band imploded from drugs, sex, in-fighting and all the other rock band woes. “Runaways” puts Jett (Kristen Stewart) in second place, and focuses on Cherie Currie, the 15-year-old singer of the band, picked from a nightclub for not dancing. She jumps at the chance to escape her shattered family, and the band’s “I am God!” producer (Michael Shannon) drools at the thought of exploiting Cherie’s jailbait age. Dakota Fanning (who co-stars with Stewart in the “Twilight” pics) plays Cherie in a brave performance. Writer/director Floria Sigismondi hits every single Behind the Music tour stop, down to the prerequisite recording studio meltdown. The Runaways used the definitive F.U. song “Cherry Bomb” to burn the rules; the movie is a wet match. C

Sex and the City 2 (2010)

“Sex and the City 2” is an abomination. Over reaction? I present this scene: NYC sex columnist/novelist/wife Carrie Bradshaw (Sara Jessica Parker) is sitting in a private jet, flying to Abu Dhabi on an all-expense paid trip. Free. No strings. Is she looking out at the window at the majestic world below her? Is she contemplating the wonders of culture and geography at her destination? No. She is pouting. She says, in that “I’m so witty” voice that Parker employs, and grinds my soul apart, and I quote, “Somewhere over Africa, I began to wonder about relationships.” Who. The. Fuck. Talks. Like. That? I mean, even in a fictional high-on-sugar-and-schmaltz fantasy cream fizz bullshit film about rich, snobby, soulless New Yorkers?

Carrie pouts because husband Mr. Big, a wildly wealthy Wall Street type played by Chris Noth, bought her a massive TV for their anniversary, so they can snuggle and watch movies in bed. The horror! The abuse. Pfft. It sinks in fast during the first 20 minutes of this ungodly long film that God Himself, if He exists or not, in all His infinite glory could not satisfy Carrie Bradshaw. So she will pout. She’s become a caricature reality show Housewife of Wherever, I guess New York. She is a 45-year-old child, with Botox. Syringes of Botox.

But that’s just the tip of this vile fantasy anti-feminist comedy that is so unaware of its self and the universe and any remote reality, it thinks having Arabic women lifting burkas to reveal hidden Madison Square Avenue clothes equals liberation. In a region infamous for killing women who dare speak out, drive, and ask for equal rights from their men overlords. More eye-opening side trips in this in-Hollywood-only Middle East include the four TV “SATC” friends (Cynthia Nixon, Kim Cattrall and Kristin Davis are all on hand with Ms. Parker) having an openly swishy gay Arabic manservant because … we all know how Islamic-nations love gay people. As much as the Republican party. I won’t get into the multi-million-dollar opening gay wedding with swans, an all men’s chorus, and Liza Minnelli as the officiator and entertainment. So damn vulgar.

Director/writer/torturer Michael Patrick King has said this film -- this capitalism-is-God soul fuck -– is a throwback to the fantasy films of the ’30s, purposeful fluff made to cheer up audiences rocked by the Great Depression. Never mind that many people in 2010 could not afford the $12 movie ticket to be sucker punched. It was a nickel back in 1931. The HBO TV show was known for some crass consumerism, for sure, but it also was amazingly smart and shrewd, giving men the window-shop treatment women suffer in 99 percent of films and music and TV shows. Heartbreaks were played out, and 9/11 honorably looked upon with love for New York. The few moments of insight in this -– Davis’ mother weeping over hectic children and Nixon’s attorney dealing with a sexist boss, everyday stuff women deal with -– are drowned out in silliness such as a hot nanny with no bra, Jude Law jokes, and Nixon chirping all Minnie-Mouse-like saying “I’ll get a better job!” Really, lady, in this economy?

That the movie winks at true sexism and the economy, the housing market, and joblessness, GREED that has destroyed millions of lives, and yet has every character blissfully not giving a fuck is all the more insulting. A better film could have had these ladies knocked down a peg, holding fast to their friendship through the loss or a job, or eviction, or uncertainty. I have read reviews comparing the excess and dumpsters of money found here to “Transformers 2.” I’d say this film is more akin to “Grown Ups,” a sad sack comedy full of 40-year-olds acting like 20-year-olds, fully unaware no one in the audience finds them relevant anymore. At least the first film, released in 2008, had kick and spark of character growth, mixed in with the commercialism.

Final insult: The women flaunt their “feminist” power in the land of Allah like a pack of Westboro church members screaming free speech as they belittle every single human within earshot, and yet cry foul when criticized. Cattrall’s sex lioness -- once a pop culture icon, now a stereotype – is the prime offender, mimicking oral sex at an Arabic restaurant. That’s not feminism. That’s pissing on feminism. On culture. The whole film is an insult to women, Muslims, gays, America, the Middle East, all sense and sensibility. If you like this film, please, buy, rent or borrow a soul. There is none to be found here. F

Secretariat (2010)

Walt Disney airbrushes life. That is its specialty. And in “Secretariat,” the studio does a splendid job: This biopic of the horse that won Triple Crowns shows no grit and grime of track racing, nor does it delve into race issues, Vietnam, drugs and sex, or feminist issues despite its 1960s-1970s setting. When Tea Party Patriots talk about the gleaming glory days of American history, they mean the America depicted in this movie. Not reality. But I digress, because this is a rousing lump-in-your-throat film. It focuses on Penny Chenery (Diane Lane), a housewife compelled into taking over her parents’ horse farm. Born with horse sense, Penny knows there is a champion soon to be born in her stable and so she marches full force into a sport run by cigar-smoking old men. You know the rest. From Lane’s whip smart take-no-crap aura to the beautiful cinematography (by Dean Semler) to the long finale where the horse gallops to glory, my snob standards fell and I smiled big. A must-show to girls looking for female heroes. B

Get Low (2010)

Robert Duvall gets few parts worthy of his fierce, unlimited talent. “Get Low” is worthy. He plays Felix Bush, a 1930s Southern backwoods hermit, cantankerous and so feared by locals that little boys dare each other to step foot on his property. When he hears of a former friend’s death, Bush – ill, worn out, tired of being alone and haunted by a tragedy – opts for a unique send-off: He wants his funeral held before he dies. He wants to hear stories about himself, and tell one of his own, not to the townsfolk – all are invited – but to one woman (Sissy Spacek) from his past. Duvall tears into this role with the hellfire might he had in “Network.” This is his film, and the other actors – a hilarious Bill Murray as a likely ex-con turned legit undertaker – stand back in awe. Only Lucas Black as Murray’s trainee is out of his league, but his character is written as a dull Boy Scout unsuited to the dark brushes of comedy and pain on display. Director Aaron Schneider makes his debut here, and his work – cinematography, sound, music, cast, design – feels directed by a pro. Duvall is a national treasure. A-

Beginners (2011) and I Love You Phillip Morris (2010)

Ewan McGregor’s career never took off the way it should have: “Trainspotting” and “Moulin Rouge!” should have put him in orbit, but those “Star Wars” prequels – with McGregor lost amid CGI overload – may have spoiled Hollywood on him, or, actually, him on Hollywood. But I just caught two films with the Scotsman as the co-lead. By sheer coincidence, they both deal with gay issues – is McGregor going niche? – that would send bigot GOPers planning constitutional bans.

The real-life premise of Mike Mills film “Beginners”: Just after his mother died of cancer, his 75-year-old father came out, leaping head first into California’s gay culture before dying himself of cancer. Here, Mike is dubbed Owen and played by McGregor. Christopher Plummer is the dad. The film is moody, artsy and contains short diagrams where, say, multiplying coins equate growing cancer. It focuses on Owen recalling his emotionally cold childhood and then his 38-year-old self as he falls for a French actress (Melanie Laurent of “Inglorious Basterds”). Owen’s woes are not as compelling as daddy Plummer, the latter giving a shining performance as a man who seemingly has found the secrets to all of life’s happiness just as the ax falls. There’s anger missing here. Isn’t Owen allowed to be pissed? Dad was never home, out having dalliances. Even if dad was with women, that has to create a lasting deficit. More so, one wonders how Owen and his gal eat and pay rent, as he is a failure on the job and she never seems to work. A dog with subtitled dialogue is way too cute a gimmick. B

McGregor is the Phillip Morris of “I Love You Phillip Morris” which has nothing to do with the cigarette maker, but instead focuses on serial con artist Steven Jay Russell (Jim Carrey). Russell starts out as a married father in Virginia Beach and ends up in prison for credit card fraud, embezzlement, theft, malpractice and numerous prison breaks, one by faking his own death. It’s in prison where Russell meets Morris, and so, yes, this is a Jim Carrey rom-com-drama … behind bars, way queer, and based on a true story. Directors/writers Glenn Ficarra and John Requa tell us so three times in the credits. “Morris” is funny at the start, but revels in mincing gay stereotypes and feels wildly contradictory, and overly silly. Carey’s “Liar, Liar” smirk made me wonder how anyone could take him seriously. He steam rolls McGregor, who misplays as a fragile daisy. Stabs at drama – an AIDS death – are forced and unearned. Critics loved this, a con all its own. C+

Midnight in Paris (2011)

“Midnight in Paris” is a delight. A reminder that Woody Allen is one of the best movie writers/directors out there no matter how creepy he is off camera. This is a comedy about a struggling American novelist (Owen Wilson) who becomes lost – figuratively and literally – in Paris’ nighttime streets, the lights and spirits of deceased artists, musicians and writers lulling him in utopia. Then he gets lost – in time – when a 1920s taxi, every night at midnight, whisks him away to the days of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Pablo Picasso, Cole Porter and Ernest Hemingway, what Owen’s Gil considers the greatest era for artisans in history.

Back in 2010, Gil is the fiancé of a wealthy woman (Rachel McAdams) who as with her Tea Party parents rejects anything not American and has no appreciation of art. Only status. She openly pines for a former professor, a know-it-all played wonderfully by Michael Sheen, who starts off every sentence with, “If I’m not mistaken,” when he is indeed. So, yes, Allen uses the crutch of the wicked girlfriend to allow his male hero the right to fall in love with the more pure Adriana (Marion Cotillard), the mistress of Picasso. Small error in a grand film.

This just isn’t a new classic Allen comedy, it’s a tweak at nostalgia fever by both Tea Party Americans who long for the founding days of America, and daydreaming liberals who think art was somehow more pure 100 years ago. Both are wrong. “Midnight” has more wit than any film I’ve seen all year. The best joke has Hemingway, Picasso, Fitzgerald, Dali (Adrian Brody!) and dozens of others treated as biopic shadows. Picasso belligerent, Dali talking nonsense and Hemingway uttering every word like a bull fighter with a rifle slung over his shoulder. It is all a wicked satire ala homage. The great artists (and he never says it, but Founding Fathers) we uphold as gods are as false as the notion that life was happier in 178whatever. Fact: You were likely to die of small pox than live out a life of glorious freedom, no matter what cracked teapot Michelle Bachman says.

The best scene has Gil talking to Dali and his fellow surrealists, fretting over his time travel predicament, confused by the mess of his life, and they nod their heads, knowingly and approvingly. Flustered, Gill spits out, they’re surrealists, they have no concept of normal. Fantastic screenplay. Wilson has never been more likable, and “Inception” star Cotillard knocks every other female onscreen out of the park. A

Another Year (2010)

Few filmmakers portray life as real as Mike Leigh, and “Another Year” feels not so much like a movie, but an invite to stay with the family who’s at the center of this drama. Ruth Sheen and Jim Broadbent play a married couple, perfectly content with gardening, eating and reading in bed. She’s a counselor. He’s a geologist. They invites family and friends to a handful of dinners during the course of a year, including a divorcee (Lesley Manville) crumbling under loneliness who gulps wine as if it is an antidote, and an equally lonely old school chum (Oliver Maltman) who holds onto wine bottles as if they were oxygen. Alcohol equals life in this film. The main couple enjoys it as a side to the wonderful dishes they whip up. Take it or leave it. Manville and Maltman are full-fledged alcoholics, drowning their miseries in wine and all the more miserable for it. There’s not a false word, performance or scene in this drama that lays bare the jealousy that the miserable feel toward the happy. Manville should have won an Oscar. Fact. A

Never Let Me Go (2010)

Kazuo Ishiguro’s 2005 sci-fi novel is a brilliant under-handed writing pitch, a dystopian alternate universe cautionary tale built on high-tech ideas but plays as razor straight as a Charlotte Bronte novel. The film version is very good but it doesn’t pack the devastating emotional wallop. It can’t, this is a story about what goes on in people’s heads, little action, and no amount of narration can cover such ground. The gist: Three youth (Carey Mulligan, Keira Knightley and Andrew Garfield as adults) learn that their lives, raised in total control at a boarding school, are preset. There’s no alternative. No happy ending. We get a slow half-hour start of their childhood upfront that read far better on the page. I will not divulge anything else, except there is some comedy (the trio ordering food at a café) among the drama. Garfield shows teeth and rage only hinted at in “The Social Network.” Watch the movie, but read the book. It is heart-breaking and unforgettable. B+

Sucker Punch (2011)

I saw two-thirds of “Sucker Punch” in a cinema back upon its release in March. The previews promised a kick-ass film of armed-to-the-teeth women taking down Orcs, massive samurai warriors and Nazi goons straight out of a 1970s Marvel Comics book. It looked like a feminist take on “300,” served up by the guy who brought Frank Miller’s graphic novel to life, Zack Snyder. He promised as much, this being his first original screenplay. The trailer’s pop-art bright images zinged.

Alas, the film itself was and is a dreadful, ugly-looking CGI bore, and a massive lie. It’s not feminist. It relishes in violence against women, and serves up its heroines in “fuck me” costumes of micro-skirts, high heels and fish-net everything, their very skin computer-polished clean and lifeless as their vacant personalities. I was indifferent when a storm knocked out power to the theater, scuttling the end. Yet I caught it on DVD this week. Pfft. I should have re-watched “Killers.”

The story: Emily Browning plays Baby Doll – that’s the actual character’s name for God’s sake – a 1960s orphan railroaded to a nuthouse for refusing step-daddy’s sexual advances. Facing a hellhole life that’s “One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest” by way of Guantanamo Bay heavy on the rape, she imagines herself as a dance-queen prisoner in a musical bordello, but in those dreams when forced to dance she enters a third dream state where she’s an ultimate Xbox warrior, swords, guns and knives at the ready. (All teenage girls imagine this life, right?) She has four friends along the way – parts of her own vapid personality? – and each may well represent a sex fantasy of Snyder’s, or that of his intended audience of lonely nerds. Like Asians? Here’s one. Like butchy girls? Here’s another. Etc. Etc.

The opening is a worthwhile short film, as Baby Doll (I hate writing that name) fights off her step-dad, and valiantly tries to safe her baby sister’s life. The sequence – scored to a new riff of “Sweet Dreams” – ends with our protagonist dropped off at the Lennox House (Get it?) for a lobotomy. That’s where all wit ends. CGI takes over as Snyder whips up giant dragons, exploding zeppelins, “Terminator” robots and pixelated mayhem, each scene more fake than the last, and as flat as his Baby Doll’s empty eyes. It’s all the dreams-within-dreams drama of “Inception” hooked to the razzle-dazzle of “Moulin Rouge!,” minus everything worthwhile, dragged through a “Maxim” editors’ sordid annual retreat, and mangled with a PG-13 rating. Run-on sentence.

This flick was put together by guys who think “smoking hot” is a character trait, and they piss on the wound with a monologue about girls finding the power within each other to fight oppression. Pfft. Snyder could have filmed Barbie dolls on strings and gotten the same result. It’s there in the lead character’s name. Baby Doll. That’s all women are to Snyder, who’s making the next “Superman” film, toys. Pro-feminist? Then “The Jazz Singer” is a Civil Rights film. Scott Glenn, looking as if he died a decade ago, is a yammering fortune cookie, while Carla Gugino plays the bordello dance instructor as if she were Rowan Atkinson in drag. The title fits. It’s what I got. D

Biutiful (2010)

“Biuitful” is a Spanish drama about the 40something Uxbal (Javier Bardem) who’s scrapping by, raising two children as his bi-polar ex-wife prostitutes herself – with his own brother no less, operating an illegal Chinese sweat shop that will go tragic, exhuming the dead father he never met, and battling terminal cancer. This is the one-upper of sob movies. It makes “Monster’s Ball” seem jolly. There’s more wrong in Uxbal’s life, but you would not believe me. OK, I’ll spill. Dude sees dead people. I warned you. “Babel” director Alejandro González Iñárritu’s story follows Uxbal as he sacrifices himself to right all the wrongs in his life, self-made and otherwise, Job-meets-Christ. The miracle is that Bardem makes you mourn Oxbal’s slow passing, pissed pants and all. Dig Bardem’s performance, the cinematography and the grimy realism. Then go put your eyeball on a hot grill, lie down in traffic, snort cocaine off the tire of a moving bus. You’ll feel better. B

Tree of Life (2011) – A second look

On my first viewing of “Tree of Life,” Terrence Malick’s epic drama of God’s creation of the universe, one Texas family during the 1950s, and such small potatoes as life and death, it took me more than a week to even form words to describe a reaction.

And, now, on my second viewing, I realize those first thoughts and impressions were wrong. Fully and wildly dumbass wrong. I will not re-edit my first review. I still stand by it. As with a diary entry, it must remain, as this film – the most mind-blowing movie of 2011 – is something all new to me. Twelve days later. To understand my second-take reactions, one must read my first (naïve) impressions.

Malick, director of “Badlands” and “The New World,” here has made nothing short of a biblical love poem on film -- a psalm -- to not just the glory and passion of his own family, but God Himself, and all the meanings of His passion. In passion, there is great pain. And there is great pain on screen in this film. Death. (Sorry to get all religion, which I normally approach gingerly and awkwardly, always and forever.)

I realize now, that there is no Rapture or end of world drama in “Tree of Life,” I think, but only an adult man’s dream-like, memory-fueled acceptance of his beloved younger brother’s death by suicide and his re-finding of faith in God and life, the light if you will. That leap, that bridge, inspired by the planting of a tree at a glass-encased office tower.

It recalls the tree, the God-like tree, in front of his childhood home. The one associated with his own mother. Sean Penn is that man, Jack, an architect who was raised in a small Texas town by a strict and over-bearing, but loving and passionate, father (Brad Pitt) and free-spirited mother (Jessica Chastain).

I also now understand Malick’s use of creation and the very start of all life, for the miracle and darkness found in every childhood -- growing up, laughing, playing, maturing, rebelling -- is as majestic and beautiful as the very start of our and God’s universe and as dark as the cataclysmic death by meteor of all dinosaurs. It is beauty. Infinite.

I’m already well past a preset 200 word limit, and ready to spill another 1,000 words on this epic film – ready to spill on the dark traces of father and son relations that I experienced growing up, every boy did I surmise, and am re-living after seeing this work of beauty, and the way Jack’s younger self (Hunter McCracken) has his entire since-birth-driven belief in God and goodness ripped apart after watching a child drown.

An act, an event, I also saw as a child, as I spoke of in my first take.

And I did not realize until hours after my second viewing that the building that is central to Penn’s character, I have not only visited, but stayed at and photographed: The Hyatt Regency Hotel and Reunion Tower. I slept many nights, for several years running on an annual business trip. (It is within eye line of Dealy Plaza.)

I imagine my take will be fully different on a third viewing. How often does that happen in movies, to create such a personal reaction? Me, I loved it. But I respect the haters of this film, too. It is art. Made to provoke. If you think this film is shit, God bless, standby your reaction. Scream it. But know this: Does any human being actually give two farts about "Cowboys & Aliens"? I do not. I cannot even recall it. I bet fans of the film cannot either.

Few other films in 2011, or 2010, or 2009, and on and on, can make that claim. This is art. Mind-blowing, core of the soul, church in a cinema, art. New grade: A+