Enemy of the State (1998)

When I saw “Enemy of the State” in 1998 I loved it as a shockingly smart, electric child to the 1974 classic thriller “The Conversation.” Will Smith here plays a D.C. lawyer trapped in an impossible conspiracy involving the National Security Agency, portrayed as a power-mad and secret-crazed demon of data collection, snooping, and illegal spying, with anyone in its way, hunted for  life or left for dead. “There’s no such thing as privacy,” one character says. Director Tony Scott (RIP) and his writers must have seen the future. This is our reality. Our now. The NSA owns us. We willingly gave ourselves over. Now, the great cinematic trick: When Smith’s lawyer – arrogant, a cheater, way too assured of himself – falls hard, his only savior is an ex-snoop played by Gene Hackman, who played an expert snooper in “Conversation.” The casting is genius. Smart. Instant built-in background. The character names may be different, but the faces match. Fast paced with crackling dialogue and action, I once got a giddy charge out of nerds at computers handed the power of America. Now I see it as evil truth. Name one other film more precognisant. A

Broken City (2013)

An ex-cop PI with a dirty past gets marooned in a FUBAR infidelity case among city elites that results in murder and corrupted land deals. Forget it, Jake, this isn’t sharp dagger classic “Chinatown.” It’s dull spoon thriller “Broken City” with Mark Wahlberg as the dick working for a NYC mayor (Russell Crowe) who’s up for reelection. Mayor’s demand: “Find my wife’s lover,” but he has more in play. Money. The plot is threadbare. Jake Gittes worked for his info. Suffered. Wahlberg’s hero *finds* the bad guy’s plans printed on giant poster board with bold font at a Dumpster. Good actors have saved worse, right? Not this. Crowe plays the mayor in a cartoon mashup of 1970s’ Lex Luther and Donald Trump, with spray-on can orange skin and a dippy toupee. Wahlberg? Autopilot. Director Albert Hughes smart, too a tone for Wahlberg, too brave for the sorry studio? C

The Purge (2013)

“The Purge” is horror with a nasty serving of satire that slashes at the Tea Party elites who think wealth makes them holier than anyone below them, and yet angry at anyone who dares have a bigger house or a nicer car. I dug it. Ethan Hawke plays a self-satisfied hawker of home security devices in year 2022 of a post right-wing-revolution “New” America. Money is God. Guns are the Holy Son. The NRA might be running the show. One day each year, true “patriots” –- the haves -– are allowed (encouraged) to rape and murder at will, with the bottom of the economic chain the true target. But, Hawke’s quirky liberal teen son (Max Burkholder) opens the family fortress to a hunted veteran and soon preppy masked hunters come house crashing. (The sociopathic leader is unfailingly polite and dressed in a blazer with a haircut that screams edgy Young Republican. I knew assholes like him in college.) Writer/director James DeMonaco might not have a great film, but it’s daring, even if the end has too many pointers and Lena Headey’s wife remains flat. (I had hopes the “good” son might turn a shocking path, but did not happen.) B

The Naked Gun 2 1/2 : The Smell of Fear (1991)

Comedy sequel “The Naked Gun 2 1/2: The Smell of Fear” is a far lesser return than the first film which remains a laugh-out-loud pleasure of my 1980s youth. Every ounce of joy here can be attributed to Leslie Nielsen, back as Lt. Frank Drebin and in Washington, D.C., for a prestigious LEO honor. As with John McClane, where Frank goes, so does trouble. And death. Here, Frank gets mixed up in a Big Business scam to keep oil as America’s energy source forever and ever, damn the Earth, let’s make some money. The decades old jokes hit Big Oil and George Bush I and yet still feel sharp because the environmental conversation has not moved one inch. Conservatives hold on to their wealth and demand the world to stop. Liberals seek a future. I digress. Apologies. The successful laugh ratio is iffy, at best. The whole movie could lose 20 minutes more and come out sharper. I still dig George Kennedy as the clueless tough cop, and Anthony James -– a regular in Clint Eastwood films –- as an assassin with a song on his lips. B

The Last Stand (2013)

Arnold Schwarzenegger action flick “The Last Stand” ends with a car chase through a corn field. Fitting. The whole movie is a retro-80s action flick with Ahnuld taking on the “High Noon” Gary Cooper role: The aging sheriff facing outlaws who have invaded his Western town. Happily, he stands not alone, but with a pack of deputies and locals (including an NRA freak played by Johnny Knoxville). The invader is a drug lord (Eduardo Noriega) who escapes his FBI captors (led by Forrest Whitaker) and speeds in a demon race car toward our hero’s Mexican border town. He shall not pass. Director Kim Jee-woon and we know Arnold is no longer the screen powerhouse he used to be, so the supporting cast is vital for heavy-lifting, none better than Peter Stormare (“Fargo”) as a psycho with an accent like an BBQ-acid-chugging Swedish Chef. The finale blasts old-school over-the-top action while tweaking cowboy cliches, hence that corn field. The politics split with our hero ripping incompetent fed overlords, while stomping ass and shouting huzzahs for all immigrants. B

Dirty Wars (2013)

“Dirty Wars” will enrage any American with a soul. It’s a grueling and honest Come to Jesus documentary on the U.S. military’s expanding War on Terror, with no bounds, boundaries, or accountability. Journalist Jeremy Scahill is our sole guide as he leaves U.S.-approved field reporting and ventures into rural Afghan homes to investigate raids by the secretive Joint Special Operations Command. During one such hit, nearly an entire family is killed, including women, a child, and a police chief. The distraught relatives have video footage of troops carving bullets out of the dying victims. Our leaders shrug, so what? Scahill asks why, digs deep, finds informants and threats, hits brick walls, and finds more war horror -– the assassination of a teenager -– and a direct line to the White House. Once the promised hope of liberals, Obama has outpaced Bush in secrecy and a body county unknowable and unexplainable. “Dirty” is a stellar work of journalism, and yet double-edged: Overly dramatic footage of Scahill typing in the dark of his apartment whiffs of Hollywood drama. But how else to tell this story? We need Scahill’s ego and hunger, because we’ll get the truth no other way. A-

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

Django Unchained (2012)

In his near-three-hour blaxploitation spaghetti western homage/ripoff “Django Unchained,” Quentin Tarantino serves up a blood-soaked raw piece of pulp fiction that makes “Inglorious Basterds” and its Nazi history redux seem Disney fluffy. He tackles slavery in the 1850s America and shows it in all its vile, morally offensive code, and does not blink -– a black man is ripped apart by dogs as whites standby cackling, and the “N” word is used as verb, noun, adjective, and an exclamation. I winched, blanched, and shut my eyes at the violence, and the images of African-Americans forced into chains and depraved medieval torture equipment. 

Vulgar and soul-killer upsetting? Yes. On purpose. How can it not be, how can any examination -- even fictional and heightened -- of slavery not make anyone with half a soul cringe, and look away in horror. Shame. But, hell, I say “Gone with the Wind” is far more offensive to the core because it shows slave-ripe America as some kind of utopian Candy Land. It was all good. The South was happy. I hate that film. Tarantino must as well. He fires on all cylinders, his anger at America’s past strong. Conservatives hate this film because it dares show America -– of 150 years ago -- as a moral cesspool no better than Nazi Germany. Leftists such as Spike Lee hate it because they didn't think of this film, cathartic in twisted ways, first. Thank God for Abraham Lincoln, and go see “Lincoln.” These films would make a wild double bill. 

Speaking of Candy Land, Candieland is the name of a Mississippi plantation run by a ruthless land owner (Leonadro DiCaprio) where Django –- a freed slave turned bounty hunter played by Jamie Foxx -– and his killer mentor (Christoph Waltz) seek to free the former’s wife. That’s the gist and final hour of this epic that is bloody brilliant in a dozen ways, a long overdue F.U. to Southern Whites, and their modern GOP apologists who use patriotism as a weapon of hate. 

There’s so much more to the plot, but I would exhaust myself spilling every detail. Cinema master that he is, Tarantino cannot justify the 2 hour 45 minutes running time. He takes a dig at the pre-KKK as the idiot cowards they were and are, but the scene is overlong and kills an otherwise tense encounter between the racists and our heroes. More scenes throughout play overlong or repeat themselves over and over again.

Further, his main characters are not strong enough, nor his plot strands or dialogue. No one here reaches the deep well of Waltz’s Nazi in “Basterds,” or Samuel L. Jackson’s hit man in “Pulp Fiction.” Except for Django’s rebirth as a killer throwing hate and bullets back in the faces of his oppressors, no one else moves an inch forward or backward. We get two over-the-top bloody shoot-outs in the same room split apart by a half-hour in which Tarantino drags his ass around as a slave trader with an Australian accent worse than I could ever mimic. 

In “Basterds,” Tarantino staged a key scene around a dinner and ratcheted the tension so tight, just as my heart was about to explode, his mayhem onscreen exploded. Here, during the big dinner scene, the air lets out, the talk drags on for 20 minutes, then the carnage hits. Then more talk. Then more carnage. Then more talk. Tarantino seems to have written a screenplay in which no idea was bad, and he could not depart with a page. 

So many grand ideas go unrealized. For the first time, I second-guessed Tarantino’s leadership as the Cinema God. See: DiCaprio’s sick twist prince -– and by gosh, he is damn good as a hothead-maniac -– runs a slave gladiator camp. He enjoys watching men of color kill each other in forced do-or-die sport, and his character demands a certain … repayment. Yes, he dies. But that death is cheap, quick, and with no deep wit.

But the real disappointment for me is Kerry Washington as the wife of Django. Great actress. Wonderful. But she is given nothing to do but react -- scream, run, serve, faint, and stand still when a gun is at her head -– after a lengthy buildup that promises a bad ass woman of fire. I wanted to her bash in skulls with the wine picture she is forced to carry, scream and tear apart people. Tarantino bares her body and scars, but not her inner-raging soul, and damn hardy, I know Broomhilda (her name) has one. I hardly believed this character came from the same mind that wrote “Jackie Brown” and “Basterds.” Or the “Kill Bill” series. Tarantino loves women in the best way.

I’m being far too negative. This is not a bad movie. It screams genius, daring, red-faced anger for great lengths. The acting is aces all around (Foxx is deadly cool, and Waltz is clearly relishing every line and twist of his beard), and Samuel L. Jackson re-creates the entire character of the “house slave” as a villain named Stephen. He’s no -– get that name, step n’ fetch it character -– but the true brute force behind Candie’s world. Watch him stand tall at the end.

Tarantino spends so much time making homage to spaghetti-western troupes and bringing in cameos (Johan Hill, Bruce Dern), I wished he focused more on Jackson’s traitor of all traitors, a bent-back man who is a far better power player and con man than Waltz’s bounty hunter. I would have watched another our of Jackson and Foxx going at each other. And sat in fear and awe. Nonetheless, this is near-unshakable film, and Tarantino knows it. Genius? Classic? Must own? No to all three. But unshakable, for sure.

After taking on fantasy Jewish revenge on Hitler, and now putting an African-American in a saddle with guns blasting racist Southerners, one has to wonder where QT will go next: A grindhouse take on Jesus? Or back to gangster-types? Tarantino still remains the most-surprising American filmmaker of our time. Whatever he does next, I’ll be there, eyes wide open. B

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-

Killing Them Softly (2012)

Brad Pitt's grim crime thriller “Killing Them Softly” already has much box office notoriety: A money loser slapped with an “F” from CinemaScore. Hell with that. This is ballsy filmmaking of the highest order. Andrew Dominik -– who made “Assassination of Jesse James” with Pitt -– is behind “KSF” as director/writer, and he is not out to please anyone. We follow two low-end criminals (Scoot McNairy and Ben Mendelsohn) who rob a mafia-run card game, and escape with cash in hand and angry men in pursuit, one of them a world-weary hit man played by Pitt. “KSF” is set in 2008, during the economic meltdown and Obama/McCain election, and Dominik uses the panic and uncertainty of the time to explode the panic and uncertainty onscreen. There are no heroes, jokes, or happy endings. It’s a devastating punch about real criminal life, peppered with sad-sacks, drug-users, and average joes in over their heads. Not necessarily evil. Unintended fuck-ups. Dominik dares say our politicians, Wall Street bankers, and Founding Fathers are/were no different. It's the American way. Even a tedious slow-mo killing and oddball fireworks scene can’t hide that “KSF” is shockingly true cinematic art. A-

Equilibrium (2002)

“Equilibrium” is sci-fi loaded with dystopian fears of left-wing fascism zinged up by woo-hoo martial arts action set pieces. But it’s a shrill, dull, laughable rip-off of “Matrix” made for folks who have vaguely heard of “THX-1138” and never actually read “Nineteen Eighty-Four” or “Fahrenheit  451.” It’s recyclable parts from the start, melted down and served up with a cast that makes eating nuked leftovers almost palpable. Pre-“Batman” Christian Bale is our Winston Smith-meets-Neo hero, a futuristic soldier for a Big Bro gov’mint that has banned emotion and arts through drugs and force, all in an effort to prevent war. Irony being “Father” kills all protesters. Poo politics though, writer/director Kurt Wimmer (“Salt”) salivates over slo-mo fights with dudes dressed in black long coats stomping, kicking, and shooting each other into oblivion, until the finale when Bale (and his double) dons a white suit that would make Mr. Roarke’s tailor swoon during an anti-climactic O’Brian kill zone. Bale stars, the lovely Emily Watson plays a dissident, while Taye Diggs co-stars as a rival. All are upstaged by a puppy. No, really. C

Five Graves to Cairo (1943)

Billy Wilder’s World II spy drama “Five Graves to Cairo” starts off grim as hell: A Brit armored tank drives aimlessly through the Egyptian desert, its crew dead except for one man who falls from the vehicle onto the desert sand. John Bramble (Franchot Tone) stumbles and then crawls his way to a nearby town, to a hotel called the Empress of Britain. Recall, the Brits ruled this land, lock, stock and key. But the Brits scrammed. The Nazis are in, full force. The sun-stroked Bramble is certainly dead. Except the hotel owner (Akim Tamiroff) takes pity, and sets Bramble up as the dead-by-bombing waiter Davos. Bramble as Davos learns the latter was a Nazi spy, so now Bramble can play the espionage card triple against Rommel (Erich von Stroheim). This is a great yarn, suspenseful, fun, gritty, and full of the era’s patriotic Us-Against-Them/Country-First propaganda, up to a fault: See the damsel-in-distress (Anne Baxter) of the pic is -– SPOILER ALERT! -– doomed because she dares put family first. It smacks not so much of war-time tragedy, but a sexist streak absent from Wilder in lighter classics a la “Apartment.” B+

300 (2007)

My snob self should hate the sandal-and-swords war romp “300” and its acid-trip virtual reality CGI effects salted by cliché dialogue about oaths of brutality as honor, and it’s need to be the War Porn film to end all War Porn films. Hell, it pits brave European men against soulless Prussians, i.e., lots of white guys squaring off against dark-skinned guys. But the hell with snobbery and politics, “300” is a blood-in-the-head, scream-at-the-top-of-your-lungs shock-and-awe blast for the eyes and ears that takes Frank Miller’s gloriously bloody graphic novel of King Leonidas’ last stand against Xerxes and puts it on the screen frame by panel, splatter by splatter, blood mixed with ink. Director Zack Snyder takes all the carnage of the page and adds in screaming, raging men, and thundering music primed for the male ego. Sexist? Homophobic? Ha. “300” has a massive female and gay fan base. One guess why: Those 300 men. This is not Best of the Decade film a la “There Will be Blood,” but when Gerard Butler -– in a star-making performance -– as Leonidas screams “This! Is! Sparta!” and kills a dude … “300” is my Guilty Pleasure of the Decade. A-

Detropia (2012)

No matter one’s politics, everyone knows the American economy started tanking in 2007 and crashed in 2008, and has yet to really recover. The documentary “Detropia” is about, of course, Detroit, and its past glory crushed by a collapsed auto industry hit hard by economic woes, international competition, and its own greedy execs who would rather pay foreigners pennies per day. Directors Heidi Ewing, a native of the city, and Rachel Grady, from the East Coast, talk to union reps, a retiree running a dying restaurant, and a video blogger among a few others helpless to save their homes. The city’s broke and every cure is bad and –- in the idea of creating massive farms -- lunatic. Ewing and Grady offer no answers or judgments, nor do they talk to big wigs or CEOs, but they do show some ironies -– including an opera house that plays to the rich, while the jobless suffer outside. One man sings in an abandoned train station that must have buzzed with a few hundred thousand people every day. It’s certain things will never be the same in Detroit or in America. Grady said she wanted subliminal. That’s cool. But it’s also fleeting. B+

A Separation (2011)

“A Separation” follows two families in modern Iran, at war with and amongst each other, boxed in by iron-clad rules of a sick, empty theocracy. Writer/director Asghar Farhadi makes us a participant in his first, bold scene: A young, devoted married couple nonetheless seeks a divorce, spouting their arguments directly into the camera. Simin (Leila Hatami) wants to raise their daughter in a free nation, while Nader (Peyman Moaadi) insists they stay, to care for his Alzheimer’s stricken father. “He doesn’t know who you are,” she pleads. “But I do,” he says. Within a minute, Farhadi makes his cast fully universal, as he nails the staggering toll of Alzheimer’s on any family. Simin moves out, forcing Nader to hire a caretaker for his father. That hire will cost everyone involved greatly as deceits and fears abound. In brilliant, wordless cutaways, Farhadi uses the pained faces of two girls to show a nation of lost, exasperated adults so fully separated by religion, sex, class, economy, and have and have not, they and it will never move forward. American Christians, take note. Screenplay, cast, camera work, the very feel and noise of Tehran, and that finale ... all flawless. A

Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011) – A Second Look

I reviewed Thomas Alfredson’s “Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy” in January, calling it a good film, moody, with an overly complicated plot. Not worthy of a Top 10 for 2011. I just saw it again, and fell spellbound by how Alfredson frames his characters within windows, library stacks, doorways, and gates, every character boxed in, objects cut off, by the life they lead: Serving queen and country as spies. It’s the smartest, most intense spy film I’ve seen in years, taking away every thrill we expect in a spy flick. It’s a marvelous move from Alfredson, who has taken the classic novel – I’m re-reading it right now – and reworked into a drama about men not just battling the enemy, but each other for “treasure.” Absolutely perfect is Benedict Cumberbatch’s soul-crushed homosexual, dispatching his live-in boyfriend for career and country. That wasn’t in the book. Gary Oldman, as the fired spy tasked with finding a mole, marveled me all over, as a man who has spent so long repressing his own life and wife, he is left horrified at his loneliness. Give the man an Oscar. Absolutely one of 2011’s best. A

Margin Call (2011)

“Margin Call” is an end-of-America disaster flick with a Too Big Too Fail Weapon of Mass Destruction: Lehman Bros., slightly fictionalized. The harbinger of doom is a literal rocket scientist turned stock market shark (Zachary Quinto) who discovers his firm is a monstrous pig gorged on a diet of bad mortgages, and a heart attack just hit. His revelation sets off a chain bomb up the corporate ladder, from the floor manager (Kevin Spacey) to the CEO (Jeremy Irons at his most “Dead Rigner”ish). The reaction is not a heroic effort, but a scam far more sinister than anything in “Glengarry Glenn Ross,” another great F.U. to the Capitalism at All Costs mantra that fuels America. (GOP cheer!) A guy named J.C. Chandor makes his writing/directing debut, and he plays as if a decade-old pro as “Call” races like a thriller, and sports an acidic wit (no one in charge understands math). Quinto produced, and is a major star here, not just through massive-high-IQ acting, but because he lets the lions (Spacey, Irons and Demi Moore among them) rule the den. Sick twist: It all happened. A

Ides of March (2011)

See “Ides of March” for its standout cast. Ryan Gosling. George Clooney. Paul Giamatti. Philip Seymour Hoffman. Jeffrey Wright. Evan Rachel Wood. A Giamatti and Hoffman face off? How cool is that? They need a better movie. This grim political drama should torch the screen. It barely sparks a flame. It’s about a suave campaign director (Gosling) devoted to his governor boss (Clooney) who is eyeing the presidency. And then – bam! – our hero learns his boss is a loose cock. Shocker? Not to the audience. But to Gosling’s Stephen Myers, yes. In modern America!?! Go on, watch. See if you can pick up motives I did not. Why does the governor reek of a trite symbol and not a person, and his wife (Jennifer Ehle) barely human at all? Did Wood’s intern eye Stephen with an agenda? She must have. How can anyone as smart as Stephen still believe in the whole candidate-savior crap at age 30? The dialogue should sting “Sweet Smell of Success” style, but it slumps. Clooney directs, with grey skies, dark bars and kitchens. Shakespearean? No. Melodrama? From start to finish. The high grade is for the cast alone. B

The Help (2011)

“The Help” is impossible to hate or dismiss. If you have a sense of justice. But make no mistake about it, this is a Disneyfied dramatization of the long civil rights struggle by African Americans, and yet – a Hollywood tradition in “Glory” and “Mississippi Burning” and dozens upon dozens of other films – it chooses to focus on wealthy white characters. The people who should be our total and absolute focus are secondary.

Worse, for every heartbreaking scene of racism, evil decorated in twisted Southern American Christian pride, the filmmakers serve up a comedic aside or comeuppance to let us know, we will leave the theater feeling good. No, “Help” is not great. But by the sheer strength of Viola Davis’ acting and the scary notion that an entire block of American voters consider this era to be America’s finest, it must be seen. Flaws and all.

Let us get my major grind out of the way. “Help” is geared toward the widest American audience possible, so it will not cut bone. It will not show the true Jim Crow South, made horrifically real and alive in the book “Carry Me Home.” (Read that book. Do it. Now.) It will not dare go the route of Spike Lee’s “Malcolm X,” with a rightfully angry black man -- that is a fine, true Civil Rights film -- ready to tear down the institution that has torn him down his entire life. It mostly avoids blood and death, and follows a liberal, white, pretty girl, because that’s what Hollywood thinks we want. Looking at box office receipts, they nailed an “Easy A,” to bring up Emma Stone. (“Easy A” is Stone’s biggest hit film.)

Stone plays the hero: Eugenia, a … wait for it … newspaper reporter (liberal!) who starts out writing a housecleaning advice column but soon dives incognito into telling the stories of black maids/ nannies – The Help -- hired by wealthy families. Including her own. In a Hollywood story, a young black woman or man could never dream up this idea. No. Help, so to speak, has to come from outside. Just like the heroic FBI (!!!) had to help in a certain Gene Hackman film I mentioned above. (Talk about a crock of history.) And, I know, it’s all based on a book. A best-seller. Whoopdeefriggin’ do, my point still stands.

But I digress. Stone’s newly minted University of Mississippi grad Eugenia returns home to the town of Jackson as an aspiring writer, her eyes now open to the horror that she was raised in and never thought of for a second. Eugenia’s first choice for the book is Aibileen Clark (Viola Davis), the caretaker of her best pal’s daughter. Aibileen is, of course, scared of revenge from her white employers and local Klan, the latter of whom never actually appears. That would scare test screening audiences after all.

Eugenia asks upfront dumb questions: Do you regret raising the babies of others, whilst missing out on the lives of your own children? And do you have dreams other than being a maid? Well, no, shit, girl. Really? But here’s the beauty of this film: Davis rips the film from Stone with a fierce, devastating performance. She makes that awkward scene work. When Aibileen talks of her life, her body language vibrates with heartbreak, sadness, regret and, yes, anger, directed at herself and the world that belittles her based on skin color. (I can’t image being so treated, I’d rage forever. I would burn buildings down, no lie? Would you not?)

We also follow another white family, headed by a Stepford Wife-type monster, played by Bryce Dallas Howard. She is the villain, a young lady who speaks of Christian charity and yet proclaims Separate but Equal must always stand. The character veers close to caricature, but Howard – pouring out judgmental evil from her eyes – makes it work. Hilly, that’s her Southern Belle name, takes great pleasure in ridiculing her own maid, Minny (Octavia Spencer). And Hillies still exist today, no lie, and I have met them.

It is Minny who serves a dish of revenge, the comedic comeuppance, and brings about the film’s most controversial moment. It’s funny. I admit I laughed. I did. I also wondered if any such thing could have ever truly happened, in a state where murder upon African-Americans for the lightest infraction was the norm. The whole gag seems a modern, not historical, touch. I suppose from the book. I skipped reading it. Thankfully, the final scenes have Aibileen taking on her oppressors. No Eugenia about. It ends seriously, with quite a heart-breaker, and with an uplift.

So, see the film. Watch it for the scene toward the end where Eugenia walks into Aibileen’s home and sees a roomful of African American women. It is the first time I have ever seen a summer Hollywood flick that featured a roomful of African American woman, and that in itself says the struggles depicted here are not ancient history. They still exist. And be warned, when we have presidential candidates saying our Founding Fathers worked to end slavery and congressmen who shrug off the Civil Rights Act as passé federal oversight, and make a half-hearted apology that they were taken out of context. Jim Crow, institutionalized racism with state’s rights ... it could happen again. (That “Take our country back” mantra is a threat, do not doubt it. We have a black man in the Oval Office.)

But also know this: When you are watching and laughing along at the funny bits (and I am guilty) in a movie about this era, remember not many people were laughing during the real 1963. Not in the South. The emotions, I gather from stories told to me and read by that occurred before my birth, were far more grim. On both sides of the divide. Give me “Malcolm X.” It is far closer to the ugly truth. This could play on TV, Sunday night movie, uncensored, and not raise a pulse. B-

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