The Hunger Games: Mockingjay, Part 1 and Gone Girl (both 2014)

Blockbuster films “The Hunger Games: Mockingjay, Part 1” and “Gone Girl” share little in common other than book source female authors, respectively, Suzanne Collins and Gillian Flynn. 

But, damn, these movies do show the difference of a bloated, ill-advised screen adaptation (that “Part 1” is a millstone) and another adaptation that takes the meat and bones of its source, cut the fat, and creates a raging animal that leaves one spooked, rattled, and –- most importantly –- wanting more. 

(Collins helped adapt her story, with others, Flynn takes sole credit.) 

If you’re smart enough to be on the Web, you know the basics of each film. “Mockingjay” comes from the third and final book in a wildly popular series about teen Katniss (Jennifer Lawrence) as she struggles against a fascist future America where lives of the poor are held as sport to the rich. War is brewing. 

“Girl” follows a He Said, She Said format as a once good marriage has turned toxic and maybe deadly. The wife has gone missing, and the husband has “killer” inscribed on his scumbag forehead. 

The novel “Mockingjay” clocks in under 400 pages, and as with all of Collins’ books, reads fast. No stops or fluff. Fewer pages means less work to cut from page to screen. But success breeds greed. 

After the great sequel “CatchingFire” –- with its devastating emotional punches, great action and characters, and a cliffhanger ending –- became a smash hit even over its predecessor, watching this new film is a surprisingly dull overlong drudge. 

It’s half a real movie with dozens of outtakes crammed in. It makes the mistake of sidelining Katniss for nearly two hours of weeping and thumb-twiddling as she lets the boys take over. Ouch. 

The “Games” books and films have excelled IMHO over the awful, inept, feminism-hating “Twilight” series because Katniss has no time for romance or weeping, because she is too busy being the protector of her family. Very little of her is here. The studio now just sees dollars, and a dark, thrilling dystopian tale of and for youth is stretched too thin. 

We get scenes repeated -– Katniss stands over war rubble and charred bodies no less than five time, and two of those in the same exact location, where she ransacks, twice now, her ruined home for supplies. 

As the focus was nearly entirely on or about Katniss in previous films, we know grow our side-character roster, and God bless Philip Seymour Hoffman -– I miss him dearly –- most of his scenes are unneeded, with no need to watch him talking to Katniss’ PR handler (Elizabeth Perkins). 

Near the end, Katniss stands in a control room watching from afar as men go into battle, and she watches and watches, and spends what might be 10 minutes repeating, “Are you there?,” to the evil dictator who also is watching the rescue from afar, President Snow (Donald Sutherland). Much more happens and I won’t spoil a drop for those unfamiliar with the book, but just sitting there knowing we have another two hours of film to watch in what should have been a tight, relentless, three-hour film exhausts me. 

“Part 1” wants to sell itself as drums of war, but that pounding is all cash registers clinking, a move the wealth-crazed, Ayn-Rand-loving villains of this tale might ironically approve. The heroes? Katniss, and the haunted veteran played by Woody Harrelson? They would mutter, “I don’t have time for this.” 

“Gone Girl” –- even at two and half hours –- knows the best always leave you wanting more, be it book, film, or food. Flynn’s book was a helluva read, bouncing back for 400-plus pages between man and wife as they delve into their disintegrating marriage, he speaking in the present day after the wife goes missing and police and media come calling and ravaging; her from the past, in diary entries, sliding from happiness to despair. 

That’s three quarters of the film, until Flynn and director David Fincher don’t just turn the car around, they crash it wheels up in icy muck, and watch it -– and us -– sink and freeze. Part of the genius in “Girl” is the casting, with American sweetheart Ben Affleck as the husband and relative unknown actress Rosamund Pike (“Jack Reacher”) as the wife. 

Affleck’s Nick Dunne is a former NYC journalist turned bar owner, back in his Missouri sticks childhood home with a dead mom, a senile father, and a twin sister, and many dark secrets. His shirt always untucked, blue jeans under a gut, and a blank face, he is cold and aloof, so much to the point that the police starting wrinkling their eyebrows. Hard. Especially after the diary of the wife, Amy, is uncovered. Its most recent pages purging tales of abuse. 

Amy was raised a New Yorker and the child of parents who mined their daughter’s youth for books, children’s book that always seemed one step ahead of their own girl, one punch above perfect. “Amazing Amy” the book series was called. How can anyone stand to strive to be amazing, to live up to fiction? I will stop there. 

Fincher again has made a cold, daring film that cuts right to the dark pit of the soul, that little black ball rolled up deep inside, found in “The Game” and “Fight Club.” 

Flynn adapted her own book, gutting sections, condensing others, and adding new ribbons of dark blood toward the end. Spoilers? Harsh drama and part sick satire, “Gone” is a nasty trip through marriage and media, and personality, how people –- all of us -- perform in public, for one’s spouse or family, and even to ourselves, striving to meet expectation or get that life –- that perfect life -– we know we saw on TV, or dream about, or read about once. 

Like that book series. It’s toxic. (How harmful was a show like “Leave It to Beaver” to read, struggling American families?) There are great moments of crushing satire and criticism of the media that bounce the film along and ring true in our age where white wealthy women disappearing is national news, but not so for anyone of color, or low income. 

Tyler Perry plays the part of a sleaze lawyer who comes to Nick’s “rescue,” and he brings a dynamic, comedic charge to the film that saves it from going too dark, and he’s in a magical feat, our way into the film. 

This is a film to watch and talk about over booze and food, not read about. See it for no other reason than Affleck -- a successful director and new Batman -- crushing his role as an ugly man impossible to hate. He is a marvel to behold, as is the amazing Pike.

Yes, “Mockingjay” will make tons more money and get more press, but “Gone” is the film that stays the course. Unwavering.

Mockingjay: B- Gone: A-

25th Hour (2002)

Edward Norton rules in “25th Hour,” a knockout post-9/11 New York drama about a dealer on his last free day before staring a 7-year prison stint. His Monty is a brilliant guy who dumped his gifts and turned stupid and lazy by pushing dope. That’s one of the marvels of Spike Lee’s in-your-face drama, Monty is likable, but guilty, he’s never celebrated, and as one of his best friends says, he deserves the millstone. Monty comes to recognize that. The 25 hours sees Monty reconnect with his best chums – a high school teacher (Philip Seymour Hoffman) lusting for a student and a narcissistic stockbroker (Barry Pepper), wonder if his girlfriend (Rosario Dawson) ratted on him, and console his heartbroken pop (Brian Cox). Meanwhile, the attacks of that awful Tuesday morning weigh harsh, how could they not, and how could Lee – a New Yorker – ignore the wound? Brutally honest and caustically funny, “Hour” is anchored by a beaut of a long nightclub scene where Monty learns prison isn’t his only worry. Lee is a genius at showing smart guys getting torched by their own sins. He ought to adapt Ellroy’s Underworld USA trilogy. A

Synecdoche, New York (2008)

Charlie Kaufmann is a mad comic film genius. In the opening of his mind-blasting epic comic-drama “Synecdoche, New York,” he shows a theater director (Philip Seymour Hoffman) dragging himself out of bed, lumping over to the bathroom then down to the kitchen, and walking by his wife and toddler daughter. It’s a grim, boring morning, and he seems miserable, all self-absorbed about not feeling well and blah-blah-blah. He reads the obits first, maybe waiting to see his own name. The radio, the newspaper’s A section, a milk carton, the B-Section, they all flash-forward dates –September, October, November and December. Caden Cotard is watching his life flash by, and he doesn’t appear to notice.

This essentially is the film. When his crap luck hits bottom, he begins a massive autobiographical play, literally staging his own life, as director and spectator, controlling and watching at the same time. Then he loses control of that, trying to rewrite his own script. This is just a quick snatch of the massive story from the writer of “Being John Malkovich” and “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.” What makes the brain, heart and soul connect and work is a Kaufman obsession, and Hoffman is freakin’ brilliant. (Has he ever not been?) But as the film comes to its end, and Cotard becomes more disconnected from himself -- actors are playing actors playing the actors playing him -- the movie loses steam. But maybe that’s the point. That's how we all die, in old age, is it not?

“Synecdoche” disappears in literal smoke, burned up by Kaufman’s unending, almost self- indulgent imagination. “Being” and “Eternal” are personal favorites. This one goes for the same arena, but comes just short of the mark. The concept is just a bit too far wide. But it’s a glorious, brave, wildly imaginative concept. The cast of supporting players includes Catherine Keener, Diane Weist, Tom Noonan, Michelle Williams, Emily Watson and Samantha Morton.

I loved the little bits, even the teeth-gnashing conversations one has with a toddler – “I have blood! I don’t want blood!” “You don’t have blood, dear.” “Don’t tell her that!” There wasn’t a stranger film I saw released in 2008, but it’s these bits that nail life dead center. For better and worse. It certainly makes one wake up and appreciate now, quickly dumping the end credits to go in and see how your wife is doing down the hallway. And, maybe, that’s really the point. A-

Capote (2005)

Watching “Capote” is almost dizzying: It’s a film based on a nonfiction book that documents Truman Capote’s research and writing of the ground-breaking nonfiction book “In Cold Blood,” which was later turned into a celebrated 1960s film. The twist here: Not only was a Kansas farm family butchered in cold blood for roughly $50, but Capote (Philip Seymour Hoffman) reported on the initial crimes and then manipulated the subsequent trials to his own liking, in (ice) cold blood. Capote is played as the ultimate self-centered artist: Everything and everyone is in service to his convenience. When he sees the farm family bodies in their coffins, the moment of horror is about his reaction; after he gets the killers new trials, he panics that he won’t have a solid ending by deadline; he scoffs at the success of friend/co-researcher Harper Lee’s “To Kill a Mockingbird.” This is a fascinating, layered tale of a man who, biblical cliché alert, loses his soul to the gain the world (or the world’s admiration) and seems to realize it. Or does he? That Hoffman manages to not only humanize Capote, but make him a victim of his own ego is a wonder. A-

Pirate Radio (2009)

The British comedy “Pirate Radio” was called “The Boat That Rocked” during its original release in the United Kingdom. Nerd news accounts indicate the film not only was re-titled but re-edited on the trip over the Atlantic. And I can see where: Despite the best soundtrack since “Almost Famous,” this Richard Curtis-directed film is more pop, than rock.

“Pirate” follows a boatload of (mostly true?) Brit radio DJs who blast the Devil’s Music – The Who, Rolling Stones and Kinks -- toward shore from an old fishing vessel, much to the chagrin of proper English pricks on land. The ragtag radio crew includes Bill Nighy (“Underworld”) as the leader, Rhys Ifans as a cooler-than-thou DJ god and Philip Seymour Hoffman as an American away from home. The scenes with these blokes and their groupie fans all are a blast, if not a bit coy. For 1960s hellions, these guys and gals are tame compared to, say, the cast of “Gossip Girl.”

The boat ride truly goes all stop when it hits shore to document the English pricks, mainly a fascist bureaucrat (Kenneth Branagh) and his lapdog assistant (Jack Davenport). The lapdog’s surname actually is Twatt. Ugh. It’s that kind of film – marketed to adults, but written for teens who might not even fully get that joke. Worse, Branagh says the surname to infinity and beyond, “I like Twatt!” and then follows it up with 30 lines where he means to say he’ll dispose of the radio jocks, but ends up spilling out Freudian descriptions of gay sex. Yadda yadda ... y'know.

The gorgeous look of the film, the killer soundtrack – classic after classic rock song played out end to end -- and the top notch cast having a blast make this film hard to hate. But it’s equally difficult to love a film that had me thinking, “Ohh, I gotta Netflix the real version.” B-

Doubt (2008)

"Doubt" has a knockout cast with Meryl Streep, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Amy Adams and Viola Davis, and a well-loved stage play as its source. But it is a let-down.

The set-up: Hard ass, "God Hates You" flag waiver Sister Aloysius Beauvier (Streep) accuses the kind, loving Father Brendan Flynn (Hoffman) of sexually molesting an alter boy under his care. The priest denies doing anything wrong, other than showing the boy (who is black) compassion the child can't get from his own father.

This should be a hardcore, nail-biter game of Did He or Didn't He?!? But it's not. Instead, with Beauvier coming as a seething hell-bent nun who busts pagans, "Frosty the Snowman" and men's balls with devious religious glee, I didn't care if Flynn was guilty or not. And that's saying a lot. Under the glare of this nun, Madoff might come off as sympathetic. A film like this should make you squirm as you chose who is "right" over and over again, think "Hard Candy" where a psychopathic teen took on a child rapist. There's no challenge here, and the end "shocker" is blunted.

But the acting sells the film past all grievances, especially Viola Davis as the boy's mother who unleashes a soul-shocking nest of desire in a brief scene that is among the year's best. This mesmerizing, brilliant woman deserves every award under the sun as she paints a heart-breaking, upside down world where racism in mid-'60s America is the least of one minority family's problems. Hoffman also is in fine form and Streep is good with her 2D role. But, Davis. She's the miracle here, no doubt. B-

The Savages (2007)

Philip Seymour Hoffman and Laura Linney are perfectly cast as self-absorbed siblings suddenly tasked with caring for their dying father in the 2007 drama "The Savages."

Written and directed by Tamara Jenkins, this independent film is a rare gem, pulling laughter and tears in the same scene, with its pitch dark humor. And it pulls no punches as it depicts the bitter squabbles and jealousies that divide grown siblings, especially those dealt raw deals by their parents.

Wendy (Linney) is a freelance writer living in New York, bonking a married middle-aged dope. She pops any pill she can get her hands on, and will lie about anything, including a cancer scare. Meanwhile, John (Hoffman) is a college professor who looks like he hasn't seen a bar of soap, a razor or a barber in a decade. He lives in a house covered in research papers and books, and is standing idly by as his Polish girlfriend is deported. She longs to be a playwright; he longs to write a book on Breck. In short, they need to grown up. (The John and Wendy of "Peter Pan" analogy is not subtle).

Tasked with decisions regarding nursing home care, death by right and funeral arrangements for their long-estranged monster-father (Philip Bosco), the two fight, bicker and slowly get to know each other. But the whole way, it's obvious they love each other. Bosco's character is the heart of the film -- an apparently abused child grown to an abused father, and now an old man stunned at his brutal acts, the decay of his mind and how his children turned out. Bosco doesn't have much dialogue, but his character, through the murk of dementia and Parkinson's, watches carefully. As John and Wendy explode in a fight during a car ride, the father turns his hearing aid off, pulls his parka hood over his head and tries to hide from the two messes he's created. It's a magical scene that's brutally sad and touching.

The chunks of dark comedy are not outright funny, but stem from painfully embarrassing moments -- eating from a public desert tray before it's officially served, or being stupid enough to show the racist 1927 film "The Jazz Singer" to a public audience. There's rarely a note in this film that feels false. Linney and Hoffman work so well together, you buy wholesale their heritage. Flawlessly acted and scripted, brutal, funny, sad and in the end uplifting, Jenkins' film runs circles around the hip but clueless "Juno," which inexplicably won the 2007 Oscar for Best Original Screenplay. A-

Charlie Wilson's War (2007)

"Charlie Wilson's War" is one of those rare must-watch films. To explain its plot might put some folks to sleep. That's a shame since it's one of the finest and smartest political satires of our time. And it's all based on a true story.

Tom Hanks, Julia Roberts, Amy Adams and a scene-stealing Phillip Seymour Hoffman headline the top cats in this Mike Nichols film. Here's the rundown: In late-'70s America, Congressman Charlie Wilson (Hanks) learns of the hopeless fight native Afghans are waging against infringing Soviets. The Muslims use rifles to fight armored tanks and helicopters that slaughter all in their way. Wilson learns from watching "60 Minutes" while sitting in a Las Vegas hotel Jacuzzi with a Playboy bunny, two strippers and a TV producer, all of whom are using coke. True story, folks.
A now determined Wilson soon uses a right-wing, anti-communist millionaire (Roberts) and a CIA operative (Hoffman) to funnel money and weapons to the Afghans in a top-secret op.

This is a brilliant story well worth telling, and screenwriter Aaron Sorkin provides some of the best political dialogue in ages. ("Why is Congress saying one thing and doing nothing?" "Well, tradition mostly.") The film drives home an important lesson as we all know that many of these same Afghans we helped save soon turned to the Taliban, and we know where that led. The film damns America's constant stance of abandoning those who it most needs to help. And it's beautifully acted. A-

Before the Devil Knows You're Dead (2007)

Philip Seymour Hoffman and Ethan Hawke tear up some serious screen as brothers caught up in a crime gone wrong in "Before the Devil Knows You're Dead." This is a damn good film from director Sidney Lumet, the towering, 80-year-old director of the classics "Network" and "Dog Day Afternoon." This isn't nearly as great as those touchstones, but few films are.

Hoffman is Andy, a higher-up accountant deep in debt and drugs and a bad marriage; Hawke is Hank, who's deep in misery, self-pity, a bad job and an ex-wife from hell. Andy pushes Hank into a robbery scheme to get $$$. The hitch: They'll rob their parents' jewelry store. Bad things happen.

Hoffman plows depths of pent-up anger, Hawke has never looked so wounded, and Albert Finney as the father is a god. The film has some sore spots, notably Andy's wife (Marisa Tomei), who's sleeping with Hank. It's an unneeded "man is this family wacky or what?!" subplot. Also, it never occurs to the brothers that police always look at family first in just about every crime? Ugh. Still, this is an actor's film, and on that level it doesn't disappoint. B