Dirty Harry (1971)

Forty years on “Dirty Harry” still packs a massive sucker punch with Clint Eastwood as Det. Harry Callahan tearing through San Francisco hunting down a serial killer named Scorpio, a bloody rip-off of the infamous real-life Zodiac killer. I can’t imagine the wake this film made when it landed, focusing on a policeman who shoots first, despises authority, and proudly stands as an equal opportunity offender. Yet, with Zodiac never caught, it must have served as cathartic fantasy. It still does. Directed by Don Siegel, the film’s anger at failed authorities, red tape laws that coddle criminals, and crime itself sure as hell resonates now. Every police thriller since has cribbed, stolen, and downloaded the attitude and violence of “Harry,” and every guy has at some point recited Eastwood’s “punk” speech as he stares down killers, bosses, the camera, and the audience alike. It’s one of the seminal performances of film, a modern day Western, with a sheriff who tosses his badge to lay down the law. Also classic: A rocket fast pace, an absolute refusal to show any story outside of the hero’s work, and a seriously frightening villain (Andy Robinson) with no motive other than to kill. A+

J. Edgar (2011)

John Edgar Hoover was one of our nation’s most powerful guardians, who created the FBI, championed fingerprinting as a form of identification, and launched the very notion of criminal forensics. He remains the Holy Trinity of U.S. law enforcement. He did great things. He also was a control freak who drove his patriotic cop zeal so far up the flagpole, it turned from love of country to illegal and immoral bludgeon tactics not out of place in the Communist Russia that Hoover so loathed. His hunch or mood was law, the law be damned. He did terrible things. He kept files on and blackmailed presidents, Hollywood stars and corporate tycoons. How the hell can a movie about him be boring?!? This is it.

“J. Edgar,” the latest cinematic effort from Clint Eastwood, is a dead-eyed, soulless, filmed in shit-colored browns biopic unworthy of the man in the title. Directed by Eastwood and written by Dustin Lance Black – a gay leftist who penned “Milk” – this film should explode off the screen, polarize, and burn our conceptions. Recall “Nixon” or “Malcolm X.” They had balls. No balls here. Tackling Hoover is a tall order. No film could ever get it all. I could not do it. That anyone could try is surely of respect. But no love.

Black goes bust from the start as old Hoover is dictating the narrative of his life to various underlings, for a book of some sort, spilling his secrets… Wait, what? Hoover spill secrets? No. Worse, the agents question Hoover’s accuracy. Bullshit. No one questioned him. Still worse, the story jumps timelines throughout, Hoover at 70 at 19 at 35 at Gate 6F, and the edits kill all momentum. The scene of JFK’s assassination carries the impact of a burned pizza. As does the Lindbergh baby murder. That case is sliced and diced throughout the film. All the history and fascinating crime talk sinks. More bullshit: When Leonardo DiCaprio as Hoover dons a dress as his dead mother – yes, we go there – it’s a cheap potshot of a rumor long disproved. And also hilarious, a contender for worse scene of the year. No joke.

And, yes, the film eyes Hoover’s debated sexuality, and as much as “J” tries to tackle the homosexuality slant as tippy-toes as possible, it’s undone by Armie Hammer (“Social Network”) who plays Clyde Tolson, Hoover’s confidant and reported lover as a wide-eyed swish. A cruel word, but it fits. It is not all bad. Black writes some beautiful bits about the absolute forbidden gay life of the time, a period all of our GOP presidential candidates long to bring back, and tells of a boy Hoover knew who committed suicide because he was bullied. As a gay. Judi Dench is Hoover's Bible-thumper bigot mom who says better dead than queer. Great performance, her psychologically whipping her boy because he dislikes girls. But, damn, does he have to dress like her? Is that not counter-productive, for gays, for Black? Such stereotype?

DiCaprio plays Hoover with all the Oscar Nomination power he can muster, and for that I never forgot I was watching a performance. (Dig Penn as Harvey Milk. Effortless.) DiCaprio is a fine actor -- he is -- but he does not have the gravitas, the sheer power that Hoover must have exulted, the fear factor. Not here. That said, Leo nails one scene where he declares his love for Tolson to himself. No sex, though, as Hoover is too repressed, or is it Eastwood? Whatever. Does not matter. When our two stars play old, they toddle around like drama majors doing “Odd Couple,” each smothered in terrible makeup. All the drama, gay and straight, seeps away.

It all ends with Hoover dead and the files – the thousands of files Hoover kept – shredded. There is no substance to right now, the sheer horror of what a guy like Hoover could do with cell phones and the Internet. (Hey, with Gingrich as president, we may find out.) Eastwood, Black and DiCaprio would be better if the screenplay were shredded. Hoover, too. Check out the 1950s Hoover/Hollywood propaganda flick “The FBI Story.” It’s so hilariously opportunistic and blindly in love with Hoover’s ego, and the America is God, I consider it a comedy classic. It tells more about J. Edgar than “J. Edgar.” Our nation, too. Always right. Eastwood -- a favorite of my life and forever, no matter his faults -- is just sagging of late. C

The Outlaw Josey Wales (1976)

If “The Outlaw Josey Wales” is on TV – unedited – I’m there. This tale of a supposed “outlaw” (a farmer) out for revenge against the Union troops who slaughtered his family stands tall among Clint Eastwood’s many classics. Eastwood plays the seeker of vengeance as he alternately is hunted by Union forces, and tracks them himself. Along the way, Josey befriends a young doomed gunslinger (Sam Bottoms) and – in a hilarious and touching moment -- a Cherokee Indian (Chief Dan George) who’s smarter than anyone on screen. The action, humor and blood throughout are killer, especially a scene where Josey rests as blood-lust Unions cross a nearby river. The scene’s set-up – and the all-knowing cackle of an ancient hick woman – is one of my all-time favorite movie scenes. The long ironic commentary here has America portrayed as a land of lawlessness and savagery, run by European-Christian descendents who killed untold numbers of Native Americans for … their alleged (and of course untrue) lawlessness and savagery. This film is un-PC as hell, and that’s part of its beauty. This is Eastwood as his highest powers, equal to “Unforgiven.” A+

Hereafter (2010)

Clint Eastwood, at the age of 80, is pushing out one film per year. That’s amazing for anyone, but not surprising for this film icon, a god of American cinema. Speaking of God, “Hereafter” is Eastwood’s latest dramatic effort, and not a small bit ironic. How so? It focuses on death and the afterlife, the hereafter, with almost no real mention of God or Allah or Buddah, Yahweh or Led Zeppelin. You know the song. Stairway blah blah. This one goes to hell.

Look, “Hereafter” is smart-looking and tackles issues -– including the death of children -– not found in most flicks. Applause! There are some beautiful segments, including a failed dinner date between a reluctant psychic (Matt Damon) and his cooking school partner (Bryce Dallas Howard), and a long montage where London grade-school twins (Frankie and George McLaren) desperately scramble about their crap London flat, trying to cover for their addict mother against two social welfare workers. They rock. They sparkle. That’s the problem. “Hereafter” has great parts scattered about long stretches of meaningless or forgettable tripe. Much like life.

Surprisingly, the script is written by Peter Morgan, the fine writer of “The Queen” and “Frost/Nixon.” The man’s writing has no known bounds until now. Toying with multi-stringed variations from “Crash” and “Babel,” this film -- finally, I get to the plot -- follows three separate arcs: Damon’s San Francisco spirit-talker, who’d rather silently push pallets than talk to the dead; the Brit twins, one of whom is killed in a street incident, while the other mourns; and a famous French TV journalist (Cecile de France), who drowns – then recovers via medical aid – in the 2004 tsunami that hit Thailand. All three souls ponder life and death, and are destined to meet by film’s end in a climax that plays like an American Express commercial, complete with sun glare.

Eastwood and Morgan are so intent on avoiding "Left Behind" style preaching, that they end up with nothing to say. Why should we believe Eastwood and Morgan if they seem to have such little belief themselves? Or even question of belief? In a key scene, a Rent-A-Preacher tells the surviving twin that his brother’s death is God’s will, nothing to be done. But why bloody not? Why can’t the kid get angry at God? On Damon’s side, he can’t touch a woman without seeing her life pain. Has he slept with one? We don’t know. Does that not drive a guy insane? No love, no sex, nothing? The female journo sets out to write a book on the afterlife. But what is in the book? We don’t really know. She also makes wild accusations that book publishers won’t discuss the afterlife. Has she been inside a bookstore, or online at Amazon? Pure crap.

Eastwood’s career is untouchable. “The Outlaw Josey Wales” and “Unforgiven” are among my all-time favorites, and “Mystic River” is a dark joy. But his latest output doesn’t hold. In “death” scenes, characters see fuzzy figures stumbling around in a mysteriously lit fog not out of place on that Jennifer Love-Hewitt show my wife considers guilty pleasure. That’s “Hereafter,” all fog, with no lighthouse to point the way, and yet no pleasure, guilty or otherwise. Final thought: Near the film’s end, single man Damon brings McLaren up to his dark London hotel room, alone, closes the door, and sits him on the bed. To hold hands. In the dark. It is a disgusting awful sick pervy scene that only a Catholic priest could cheer. Seriously, Mr. Eastwood? How did that get past the writing stage? It kills this movie dead. C-

The Changeling (2008)

An opening title card of "Changeling" proudly proclaims "A true story." I didn't believe a second of it. The story: Single-working mom Christine Collins (Angelina Jolie) comes home late from work one day in 1928 and cannot find her young son, Walter. He's gone. She's distraught. Months later the police find a boy, but it ain't Walter. He's shorter, circumcised, has different teeth and has no memory of his teachers or friends. Christine flips. Big Brother Cop says, "Shut up! He's yours." Christine refuses and is tossed into a medieval insane asylum. Then a child serial killer is discovered. Whew. "Changeling" is a mess. No real people appear on screen. We're given a long line of simpleton characters that spew trite dialogue more suited to a crap 1930s radio drama. Or a day-time soap opera. Jolie's acting -- "I want my son back!" -- is unintentionally funny. Sloppy editing, a dozen drawn-out climaxes and an utter lack of any purpose skunk the film. The stunner: Clint Eastwood, normally brilliant, directed. WTF, Clint!?! D+

Gran Torino (2008)

I wanted to love “Gran Torino” – an angry film directed by and starring Clint Eastwood, one of my cinematic heroes since I was old enough to watch and follow movies. But I can’t love this.

Eastwood plays the racist, hate-spewing, agnostic Korean War vet Walt Kowalski who is grumbling, grunting and muttering his way through his final years. The occasional sentence comes out thusly: “Get. Off. My. Lawn!” Walt hates his remaining family, who hate him right back. A Ford driver and worker all his life, Detroit-bred Walt only can say “grrrr” at the sight of his son in a foreign car. That the son sells said foreign car model is all the more bothersome. Walt also nearly kicks the collar off a young pastor’s neck, despite the man’s attempt to warn our man of hell and damnation.

Walt, of course, is due for a change of heart. These things happen in movies. And that change comes in the guise of the Hmong family that moves in next door, and the local punk gang that targets the innocent. All are cardboard flat characters.

Much of the film is cardboard flat, though. Eastwood’s face never breaks through that angry rock motion, even as the film draws to its inevitable “he’s really good inside” conclusion. Yes, Clint Eastwood kicks ass, locks and loads and … I won’t give too much away.

Even the worst of Clint Eastwood is better than 90 percent of the films released in any given year in Hollywood’s history, and his one-note performance still is mesmerizing. You never forget for a second that this is a masterful star and director at work, despite the so-so script.

The ending is way too neat, defies logic, and is way too ABC After School Special. Worse, “Gran Torino” never really cracks through and fully explores some major issues inside Walt’s mind and soul, ones that haunt America’s mind and soul even now. But it gives our hero (is he a hero?) a Jesus pose so over-the-top, even the good Lord’s eyes must have rolled when cameras did the same on location. Hmm, did Jesus ever cock a gun, and mutter, “Get. Off. My. Lawn!”? B-