Arbitrage (2012)

Richard Gere is never bolder/better than when he plays an amoral cockup with sins to hide and a clock to beat. He is that and more in “Arbitage,” a timely thriller with Gere as a billionaire hedge fund manager who in one week sees a longtime financial fraud shell game crumble and accidentally kills his mistress in a crash, all while dodging police and his suspecting wife (Susan Sarandon). This is a 1 percenter who has been thieving and lying so long, the light of truth gets him sweating. But he knows the rigged system. That’s the twist in this ethics quagmire: We see-saw between wanting this pig nailed and wanting him to escape unharmed. Writer/director Nicholas Jarecki also takes an open shot at the real “takers” in this land –- not the poor or African-Americans or Hispanics as Fox News preaches, but the rich white Wall Street elite who own the banks. The scene where Gere’s CEO cluelessly asks a young black man who he has drawn into his scheme, “What’s an Applebee’s?” (The man wants to open a franchise), exemplifies modern American values. Money is all. A-

The Double (2011)

Richard Gere is the sole reason to watch “The Double,” a spy thriller that moves the Cold War to modern day, and slings out plot twists with the excitement of mail delivery. Gere plays Paul Shepherdson, a retired CIA agent (drum roll) called back into action after a senator is slain with the exact M.O. of a Soviet assassin that Shepherdson swears he killed. So the hunt is on, with Shepherdson in the lead, and a rookie desk-jockey FBI agent (Topher Grace) in tow. Director/writer Michael Brendt and co-writer Derek Haas (they wrote the recent “3:10 to Yuma”) seem to think they are making a conspiracy film akin to “Parallax View.” They are mistaken. That film vibrated with mind-screwing paranoia. From silly character reveals to foot chases through empty rail yards, and car chases at empty ports, “Double” cannot even compete with a slow episode of “24.” Gere half asleep, is far too good for this. Grace is laughable. The ending too ludicrous for words. C-

I'm Not There (2007)

"I'm Not There" is a musical biopic of the legendary singer-songwriter Bob Dylan. But not really. In what has to be one of 2007's most original film, director/co-writer Todd Haynes ("Far From Heaven") ditches the well-worn historical re-creation path tread by 5,000 other biopics, and instead creates a truly head-spinning work of art.

"There" is a love letter, tribute and sly take on the persona of Dylan and world created in his folk, electric and religious library of songs. In a casting stunt that works marvels, six different actors play different variations on Dylan, and none of the characters actually are named "Bob Dylan." Trust me, it works.

The personas are Jack Rollins (Christian Bale), a meek folk singer turned star turned born-again Christian; Jude Quinn (Cate Blanchett), a superstar who seemingly hates the press and adoration; Woody Guthrie (Marcus Carl Franklin), an 11-year-old musical prodigy so apt at spinning tales, even his name is false; Billy the Kid (Richard Gere), a self-exiled outlaw living in a mash-up time period of early 1900s and 1960s America; Robbie Clark (Heath Ledger), an actor who played Rollins in a straight-forward biopic and has adopted some of the unsavory traits of the role; and Arthur Rimbaud (Ben Winshaw), a young singer-poet being interrogated by either the FBI or the meanest damn suit-wearing editors ever hired by Rolling Stone.

It's a lot, but as the Dylan-like characters' lives overlap and in the strangest scene -- the Billy the Kid period that carries echoes of David Lynch meets Robert Altman meats Terrance Malick -- literally crash into each other, a multi-layered, conflicted entity of Dylan develops. And I swear, this film isn't just about how Dylan has morphed as an artist and as a man, but it's also how America has evolved. Why else focus so much attention on the under currents of the simmering Civil Rights movement of the 1950s and the cultural explosion of the 1960s, among other areas? After all, as far as Americans go, Dylan sure is one of the most eclectic and original.

Some scenes, such as the concert where Dylan (here Quinn) went electric are created in true fashion, but whole chunks are mere whimsy and dreamlike. Franklin's character shows us how Dylan and many other artists such as 50 cent create false backgrounds as diligently and carefully as they create music, film or paintings. I'm still pondering what exactly the outlaw Gere scenes represent, but they are spectacular, haunting entertainment of an old America pushed beyond the breaking point. Ledger is the most scarred of the Dylan-like characters, watching his happy family life melt away because of his sexual escapades. It's a beautiful performance by Ledger, and another reminder of lost talent. Blanchett has to be the stand out, not because she is playing a he, or because she gets closest to Dylan's mannerisms. Her Quinn clearly is toying with journalists (one is played by Bruce Greenwood) and the audience (onscreen and us), maybe even himself, err, herself. You get what I mean.

In a brilliant move that further separates the idea of a "true" biopic, Haynes actually opens the film with one of his Dylans dead on the slab, ready for autopsy. He then closes with a Dylan death by motorcycle crash. Is it the same character stand-in on the slab? We don't know. "I'm Not There" lets us know that no matter how much we talk directly to or study, research, watch and obsess over a person, we can never get inside their head. Or body.

The film's not total manna from heaven -- a scene with Quinn goofing around with the Beatles, seems irrelevant and a goof, but maybe it's my ignorance of the History of Dylan. (And I am ignorant of music in general.) I don't need to understand every scene to "get" a film. "I'm Not There" is the death knell for the straight forward biopic. It has my head spinning not only on who was or is Dylan, but the endless possibilities of what was and is film. Now, that's movie-making magic. A

Days of Heaven (1978)

If Terrence Malick were put in charge of the world, this would be a better place to live. Seriously. Who else makes a war film ("The Thin Red Line"), and shows us the effects that bombs not only have on people, but birds and trees?

"Days of Heaven" is a late 70s classic film from this classic director/writer, who ought to work more. If you know Malick, you know that he isn't necessarily interested in the linear mechanics of plot or expository dialogue. The viewer needs to fill in some holes and suggestions that would otherwise kill the pace of Malick's art. His films movies seem like visual poems or glimpses of a person's memory, fragmented, but nonetheless beautiful (or scary).

Richard Gere plays a Chicago factory worker, who in a fit of rage, attacks his boss and then flees to Texas with his "sister" Abby (Brooke Adams), and a young friend (Linda Manz). They eventually find work on the endless fields of a dying wheat farmer (Sam Shepard), who soon falls for Abby, not realizing her "brother" is her lover. (Set in the early 1900, at the height of the Industrial Revolution, unmarried lovers were considered prime sinners in Christian America, hence the lie. Malick does not judge his characters.) The love triangle is, of course, doomed to a violent end.

The story is almost secondary to what's on film: the sight of two lovers looking at each other, then washing each other, or workers tiling in the fields, or giant polluting farm machines replacing those human hands. The film's climax involves hordes of locusts and a massive fire that burns the land, and it's breathtaking to watch.

One can't describe a Malick film; you just need to experience it. Every shot is an Andrew Wyeth painting come to life, and even without a lot of dialogue or character depth and motivation, "Days of Heaven" feels more alive than 99 percent of the films out there. The cast is marvelous, and Gere has never seemed more hungry and alive on screen than here. Shepard is equally amazing, and quite frankly one of the most sympathetic characters in the film. A+