The Detective (1968)

Frank Sinatra is a seen-it-all NYC detective on the verge of seeing far more than he ever bargained for when he starts investigating the case of a –- to use James Ellroy’s cruel terms –- homo-cide. The crime starts in a high-end flat with a corpse minus a pecker, but Sinatra’s Joe Leland don’t blink. Yet. The man also has off-job problems, dealing with the collapse of his marriage to a new ager Karen (Lee Remick). These latter scenes are a dud, especially the flashbacks as Joe meets Karen, each sequence intro’d by a twirly camera and goofy “You are getting sleepy!” music that would play better in a Marx Brothers spoof. Scenes involving the gay “lifestyle” are unintentionally hilarious-slash-insulting. Sinatra gives the roll his all, and the mystery is aces, but director (Gordon Douglas) drops balls. Speaking of, dig that perfectly placed fern. Too funny. Film geek alert: Based on a book, Leland got a new name and title in his next novel-to-screen adaptation, “Die Hard.” Yes, John McClane. B

Inside Man (2006)

Spike Lee goes as mainstream (mostly, kind of) in the off-kilter bank-robbery crime drama Inside Man (2006) that dares be honest about all that pent-up hostility we Americans of every stripe, color, language, religion, and tax bracket bury deep. The shit we don’t admit to. Post 9/11. It’s sizzling, like a James Ellroy book on screen, popping with glorious visuals, thank you cameraman Matthew Libatique (“Black Swan”) and music men Terence Blanchard and A.R. Rahman (well before “Slumdog Millionaire”). It’s NYC and Clive Owen has led a group of thieves into a high-end bank to rob it, holding hostages, while NYC dicks Denzel Washington and Chiwetel Ejiofor investigate and keep their careers; see, Denzel’s cop’s nose maybe is unclean. Or maybe it is. The more I watch “Inside,” the more I grove to its trickery and its commentary on America right now. Near 9 years on, it crackles fresh. It is as much a movie within a movie as “The Game.” And who exactly is the title character. Is it even a man? Hello, Jodie Foster. A

Nightcrawler (2014)

Imagine a dead serious “Network” written in the darkest pit of humanity, all humor strangled by an utter lack of empathy, with the journalism game run by any dick with a camera. That’s “Nightcrawler.” Jake Gyllenhaal plays Louis Bloom, a petty thief who one night finds his calling: Filming accidents, murders, house fires, and drive-bys, the fresher the gore the better for a top TV news slot. His “employer” is LA’s lowest-rated station, a bottom feeder with the mantra of fear sells. His “boss” is the vampire-hour editor (Renee Russo) who knows her middle age means job death. Bloom speaks in Internet PR babble, product comments, and tweets, using a deflated voice and spouting his love of accounting. He vibes Leo Bloom from “The Producers,” if Bloom had no soul. (Not Joyce Bloom.) Looking starved with bulging eyes, Gyllenhaal is a monster of success as he places civilians and police in harm’s way for a sell. Director/writer Dan Gilroy never judges, he shows us a mirror of journalism endlessly sinking in its race to hit ratings and print money, where cameras are as dangerous as guns. This is the world “Network” warned us about. A-

Gambit (2012)

“Gambit” takes the 1960s Michael Caine Brit caper of the same name –- which I have only seen sections –- and casts Colin Firth and Alan Rickman in roles tailor made for each man’s screen persona. Firth is the charmer. Rickman is the asshole. Firth’s plan: Sell a fake Monet to Rickman’s media tycoon, and get rich. We have Joel and Ethan Coen given screenwriter credit. Don’t believe that PR move. Whatever version they wrote died long ago. Nor should you believe the flimsy animated credits opener that wants us to think “Pink Panther,” but delivers nothing of the sort. Believe nothing about this romp. The main gag has Firth’s hero as a delusional con artist who sees ideas play out perfectly in his mind before reality kicks in. He attracts disaster. A wink at Firth’s unending charisma? No. Director Michael Hoffman pulls the worst gotch’ya ender in history, negating the entire movie. Worst bit: Cameron Diaz channels Jesse from “Toy Story” as a cowgirl at the center of the wonky plot. She’s intolerable. D-

His Girl Friday (1940)

The perfect romantic screwball. Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell are NYC journalists with the love they have for getting the latest story surpassed only by their love for each other. Odd then that they -– Grant is editor Walter Burns, Russell is reporter Hildy Johnson -– cannot stand each other and were quite recently married. Not enough room in a marriage when the third and fourth partners are outsize egos. The plot is beside the point against dialogue that demands instant replay as every rounded machine-gunned line pops one after the other and on top of one another, leaving the viewer spellbound. But here goes: Hildy returns to the newsroom that is her church and busts in on Burns’ office, declaring her intent to quit and marry an insurance salesman from Albany (Ralph Bellamy), which in newspeak equals marrying a scarecrow from Kansas. Burns has one ace up his sleeve: A sizzling murder trail he knows Johnson won’t refuse. The rest is marvelous. The puns and name drops (“Archie Leech!”) crash the fourth wall, a shout to the audience that no matter how much fun they’re having watching, the actors had more fun playing it. A+

Muppets Most Wanted (2014)

“Muppet Most Wanted” opens after 2011’s “The Muppets” ends as our beloved heroes bask in new found fame until they realize the still-present camera means one thing: Sequel. The Muppets have always played with the fourth wall and the jokes come fast. The opening song declares sequels as inferior and –- in an inspired bit -– surmises aloud that parent company Disney only green lit this because it’s still holding for “Toy Story 4.” The plot, though, is inferior, clever bits aside. Ricky Gervais plays an oily talent manager who fools the gang into a European tour that is a ruse to rob museums, masterminded by his frog boss, a Kermit look-alike with only a facial mole to set him apart. And a twerpy Russian accent. And no talent. Meanwhile, Kermit is sent to a Siberian prison run by Tina Fey, and housed by the likes of Ray Liotta and Danny Trejo, expert villains. There are many cameos. None must see. Director James Bobin goes for the spirit and madcap anything goes jokes of the older films, but the “Shawshank” and “Silence of the Lambs” winks ring awkward. That said, few entertainments balm one’s soul as well as the sight of Beeker. B

Get Carter (1971)

I am supposed to love “Get Carter,” the gritty Brit mob flick about a London enforcer (Michael Caine) going home to north England to kill the bastards who popped his connected brother. And, damn it, Caine is friggin’ brutal bad ass in the role, swinging a woman into bed or swinging a rifle into another man’s skull. But I just could not get into this film, directed by Mike Hodges – who made “Pulp” with Caine, and later “Flash Gordon.” So, I didn’t get “Carter.” There are too many trite names –- Alexes and Allans and Alberts –- and too many scenes where Caine’s Carter has to drive someone palace to meet some guy to talk about another guy he has to go drive to and see and talk some more. And, hey, did Carter even like his brother? No. A gangster film should be watched leaned in, eyes ready for the next blast of violence, not spent studying the bloke under the shepherd’s cap wondering, Now who’s he? The ending, though, knocks you back into the seat. If only all that came previous were as direct. B-

Pulp (1972)

Mike Hodges’ Italy-set dark comedy “Pulp” is the tale of a crime writer (Michael Caine) who fancies himself a gangster and a blowhard retired actor (Mickey Rooney) who was once that gangster. The plot: Novelist Mickey King gets hired to ghost write the memoirs of Rooney’s mobster, and all that pulp fiction that bubbles out of King’s pointy head becomes real with guns, bombs, and bodies. Hodges (“Flash Gordon,” a long-time guilty pleasure favorite) starts strong with a free-spirit slapstick vibe that screams anything goes, but that pitch comes with a price. Vital exposition is endlessly told, rarely shown, by Caine, and when Rooney exits, “Pulp” loses its punch. By the finale, set on a beach and truly unexplainable, nothing seems worth caring about. As that’s how King operates, maybe it’s on purpose, and I’m just not hip to the joke. Caine is marvelous, making a joke of his fantastic accent and lady-killer charisma. But I loved Rooney. I prefer him gruff, here and in “Requiem for a Heavyweight.” (He’s damn funny, too.) This tiny guy blowing fury, tearing down meat-hook-hands guys 6 foot 5? It’s great stuff. B

American Hustle (2013)

Director David O. Russell (“Silver Linings Playbook”) opens his great 1970s-set conman comedy/drama “American Hustle” with the tagline, “Some of this actually happened,” which means we’re in for a blast of hellacious fun. Screw the facts. Entertain us. We open on a fat, slouching Christian Bale as he plasters a comb-over job atop his head until –- in his eyes -- he’s the suave lady-killer of his youth. It’s a laugh riot, a self-con from a sad sack unaware he’s done. Bale is Irving Rosenfeld, a NYC loan shark suffocating inside a mafia-heavy squeeze alongside his con-artist partner/mistress (Amy Adams), his metal-in-the-microwave wife (Jennifer Lawrence), a loon FBI agent (Bradley Cooper) with a bad perm, and a Jersey mayor (Jeremy Renner) who’s far too trusting and nice. That’s the gist. “Hustle” is too much a blast to spill more. Channeling early Scorsese with a wink-wink gleam, Russell nails the Me Decade with its big clothes, jewelry, and cars, with everyone wanting the gold ring promised to them by TV, and constantly checking their hair, even after a beat down. The acting is bonkers good, with Louis C.K. stealing thunder as an FBI boss obsessing a childhood ice fishing story. That man amazes. A

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

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-

Vertigo (1958)

In 2012 Sight & Sound magazine named Alfred Hitchcock’s “Vertigo” as the greatest film ever made. I though, no, “Strangers on a Train” is better, even just for Hitchcock. Then I re-watched this detective tale again and just got fully sucked in. I was hit with instant amnesia as I watched Saint Jimmy Stewart as cop John “Scottie” Ferguson near fall to his death catching a suspect, quit the force in fear, and then fall, romantically so, for the likely mentally unstable and suicidal wife (Kim Novak) of a college pal (Tom Helmore). The case has Scottie following the woman through San Francisco out to an ancient forest and then a monastery. It ends badly. One hour to go. It’s gorgeously shot and paced, and carried by hits of failed rom-com for Scotttie, sexual tension, and the absolute best film score ever made, courtesy Bernard Herrmann. But what struck me this viewing: Watch the film, pause in awe, and then re-play it your mind from the viewpoint of Novak’s eyes, and witness every damn single scene explode in a new, thrilling light that swoons and slashes. This indeed is Hitchcock’s greatest film, the mind fuck supreme. Fall for it again. A+

Jack Reacher (2012)

In “Jack Reacher,” Tom Cruise is the coolest guy in the room who’s miles ahead of everyone else, can fight five guys no sweat, and when he walks by -– even at a Goodwill –- every woman swoons. The college girls, too. Yes, Cruise may be “playing” Jack Reacher, but really he’s spinning on his own ego. And since Reacher is one of those secret Army guys with no personality or background, why not let Cruise do so? He is the main attraction. Sorry Lee Child books fans. Here, Reacher investigates a mass murder carried out by an ex-Army sniper who we know is innocent because we saw another man (Jai Courtney) do the deed. Fear not, Reacher/Cruise will down every villain, right up to the one-fingered evil Blofeld cousin (famed director Werner Herzog) with an agenda so uninspired 007 would yawn. Not Reacher/ Cruise. He coolly threatens, scowls, and drives a Chevelle in a kick-ass car chase that’s a riotous hoot. All of this is carried out as a massacre plot that shies at the shock of violence to get a kid-friendly PG-13. But post-Sandy Hook, when a movie killer targets children, why are we not looking at an automatic R rating? B-

Ronin (1998)

“Manchurian Candidate” -– absolute favorite film -- director John Frankenheimer helms the heist flick “Ronin,” but this is David Mamet’s ride, from frame one. Every double fake-out betrayal twist built in this ’70s European cinema homage bears Mamet’s stamp of black ink and blood red humor, more so than his “Untouchables.” A behind-the-scenes squabble left Mamet out of the credits. Whatever. The fury-hot tough-guy talk? Razors and laughs that sting like bullets? Mamet. Perfectly set in France with Robert De Niro as leader of a band of crooks hired by an Irish dame (Natascha McElhone) to steal a metal briefcase (contents: unimportant) from guys in suits driving fancy cars, “Ronin” is all about -– as every Mamet work –- the smartest guy holding the gun. The jagged post-robbery fuck-up has cars punching high speeds through Paris, “Bullitt” carnage thrilling. De Niro is on fire, kicking man balls raw. I miss this actor, scary and tense. The pull-a-card plot thrives on coincidences and WTF sights (ice skating???) no thriller can bear, but Frankenheimer pushes onward cold and cruel, smashing cars and trucks, pushing a Raging Bull to one of his last, great roles. An imperfect must watch. B+

Now You See Me (2013)

As a comic book geek, I love the crop of summer superhero flicks. This year alone, “Iron Man 3” and “Man of Steel” roar loud, and more Avengers and Spider-Man are on the way. But it’s a genre that is now well-worn, so all the more welcome to “Now You See Me,” what I call a One-Upper Film. That is, a group of great actors play out action -– here’s it’s magicians bent on Robin Hood thievery and the FBI agent on the hunt –- as they try to outsmart, out-trick, and show off to one another. Not just as characters they play, but as actors, too. Yes, CGI and big explosions abound, but “Now” is about the cast: Sharp curious eyes and bows of pleasurable worship as Woody Harrelson, Mark Ruffalo, Jesse Eisenberg, Morgan Freeman, and Michael Caine, among others, show off for us and themselves on camera. Director/ writer Louis Leterrier’s complicated, can you top me?, magic trick plot pitches illusion, flashbacks, and double- and triple-takes, and it all may not stand up to deep scrutiny, but damn, I dug this. A wild card summer hit that’s as popcorn bright fun as “Prestige” –- another magic tale with Caine -– was dark. A-

Alex Cross (2012)

Halfway through watching a shocking dull and vacant Tyler Perry sleepwalk his way through playing James Patterson’s famed detective “Alex Cross,” the actor who should be playing the role arrives for a cameo that kills. Giancarlo Esposito. You know his face. “Breaking Bad.” “Usual Suspects.” He scorches screen as a mob boss called on by Cross as the stalwart detective sinks to “Untouchables” methods to bag the psychotic assassin/kick boxer/artist (!!) who killed his wife. That’s the main plot, set up by a starved-looking Matthew Fox (“Lost”) as the thrice-talented loon slow-tortures and kills a woman and then goes gonzo across Detroit in a mysterious spree that leads to a massively unsurprising conspiracy of typical James Patterson pedigree. But forget the forgettable plot. Back to Perry. Love or hate his “Madea” films, he is undeniably entertaining, and can own a screen. Here, he’s outclassed by furniture. A stiff on moving legs, sans zombie makeup. Is he tired? Put off by the rough (but PG-13) material laid out by director Rob Cohen? I have no idea. “Cross” opens DOA, and save Esposito’s blip, stays a flatliner. D

The Place Beyond the Pines (2013)

“The Place Beyond the Pines” is a rare piece of work, a three-act morality crime thriller heavy on family throes, modeled -– in scope, length, and music-heavy beat -- on “Heat,” but subbing tiny New York town called Schenectady (great name!) for sprawling  Los Angeles. Director/co-writer Derek Cianfrance (“Blue Valentine”) casts Ryan Gosling as Luke, a carny motorcycle stuntman who learns that a one-night stand has produced a son. His jailhouse tattoos signify a hard-scrabble life, Luke but sees the Light in that baby boy’s face. But his way to get cash is criminally stupid, and with a crook, we must have a cop. Bradley Cooper is Avery, a law-school grad who drives a squad car. His story is Act 2. Act 3 jumps 15 years to the sons of cop and crook as the youth play out a track the other chapters deftly avoided: a finger-waving melodrama that fails against the previous action, including a true gut-punch shocker. Gosling and Cooper bring their best, and the actors playing the sons –- Emory Cohen and Dane DeHaan -– leap over the cliché roles. “Pines” could have been massive, daring follow-up for Cianfrance, but his need to dispel lessons breaks the spell. B-

Sleuth (1972)

I saw the original “Sleuth” ages ago, whilst in college, and remember it as highly entertaining, a wild cinematic shape shifter, turning in on itself repeatedly as a cuckolded old man of wealth (Laurence Olivier) invites the hairdresser (Michael Caine) sleeping with his wife to his home for a cruel game of psychological torture. But the tables turn, and the characters onscreen one-up each other, as do the actors, classic theater thesp versus young hotshot sex symbol. I also recall it being painfully overlong, just one damn parlor trick too much. And, damn it, I hold at exactly that. Seriously, watch this film if you love acting, the way people play at bouncing off each other on screen, revealing -– and more importantly, holding back information -– until exactly the most painful or ludicrous moment. But beware, past the two-hour mark, you as I did, may get antsy and there’s 20 minutes to go. Based on a play, Anthony Shaffer’s screenplay desperately needs shortening. Olivier and Caine are beyond great, I can barely imagine the thrill of being on set. So watch. But squirm. Avoid the remake. B

Stolen (2012)

If Liam Neeson from “Taken” showed up in Nicolas Cage’s my-daughter’s-been-kidnapped thriller “Stolen,” the movie would have lasted 15 minutes. But he doesn’t. Cage plays Will, a master thief who sees life get worse after an eight year stint in prison. Case 1: Cops are on him like creepy on a Southern politician. Case 2: His presumed dead ex-partner (Josh Lucas) is out for revenge, snatching said daughter. The plot centers around taxi cabs. Lucas’ thug tools around in one. Will steals another. Why? No idea. Up against the always unhinged Cage, Lucas seems to have taken the villain role as a one-up challenge. After the prologue, he sports greasy surfer hair, a lazy eye, shaving scars, rotten teeth, an emphysemic cough, and a fake leg. He screams and growls every line. If this freak dropped into a “Pirates of the Caribbean” film, he’d get strange looks. Cage reacts by talking Swedish. Seriously. The climax of this Simon West flick one-ups the actors with a fight to the death not seen since “Freddy vs. Jason.” At an abandoned amusement park. Zany. Crazy. Terrible. Laughable. Grotesque. Better than the “Taken” sequel. C-

Spring Breakers (2013)

Harmony Korine’s purposefully delirious drama/horror/satire “Spring Breakers” is shocking, but not for any onscreen debauchery, but how bright and shiny, and dull it is, and how much it strives to be “Girls Gone Wild” meets “Natural Born Killers.” Circa 1994. The story: Four college girls (led by Disney princesses Vanessa Hudgens and Selena Gomez, plus Ashley Benson and Rachel Korine) head to Florida and plunge into binge drinking, drugs, sex acts, and scooter racing without helmets. When they land in jail, a redneck drug dealer (James Franco) “saves” and woos the group with guns, piano skills, and love of “Scarface.” After Gomez as a Christian named “Faith” (fancy that, eh?) bolts for home, the other three turn pink-masked gangbanger. Really. Korine spills ironic observations about youth obsessions with sex, gun culture, and celebrity, and our affinity to get bored, no matter where or what we are. But he’s working from a sketchy 30-page culture thesis triple spaced to 90, with scenes and sounds (guns!) repeated without end. Boiled down: Korine’s only real trick is getting two Mickey Mouse stars to go Mickey and Mallory for faux shock value. To break taboos? Or filmgoers’ patience? Franco, btw, is madly genius. C+