Super-Duper: Super 8

I was living in Washington, DC in the summer of 1982. It was hot and muggy, as DC tends to be this time of year, as I waited in a movie admission line that stretched all the way from the one-screen, 800-seat KB Cinemas on Wisconsin Ave., N.W., right next to Rodman's, my favorite DC store (you could -- and still can -- get almost everything there), all the way around the corner on to Harrison St., and deep into the leafy Friendship Heights neighborhood. I was going to see E.T. 

Flash forward 28 years and 364 days later, and we now have the opening of Super 8, a homage to E.T., among other early Spielberg films, from writer/director J.J. Abrams, who not only pays tribute to the filmmaker, but has Spielberg along as his macher co-producer.

No one who comes to my 16-screen megaplex tonight will have to wait on line to get in (we have reserved seating and online ticketing), and today's theaters are filled with more distractions than just talking, but I will be surprised if we have trouble with people texting in Super 8. The secret that nobody tells you about texting during the movies: people tend to not do it when what's up on the big screen is more compelling than what's on their small screens. If you're watching Super 8, you're really going to be watching it.

(There are, of course, exceptions -- from "exceptional" individuals, aka self-involved assholes, who don't believe that courtesy of others is something that's required of them as adults. I applaud the Alamo Drafthouse for making an example out of one of them -- an example that's been viewed 1.4 million times since it was posted this week.)

Super 8 is the first hat-trick for Abrams, as he's written, produced and directed the film. It's also the first non-franchise film he's directed -- his other two directorial credits were the third installment of the Mission: Impossible series and the successful 2009 reboot of the evergreen Star Trek franchise. Super 8 is an original story, set in a small Ohio town in 1979, that evokes the era of the time by using some of the filmmaking techniques prevalent back then, which apparently include excessive lens flares and not showing the monster until the third act. (I grew weary of the former, but applaud the latter.)

Super 8, for those too young to know, was an improved 8mm film stock introduced by Kodak in 1965, and was what amateur filmmakers could afford to use to make films, back in the day when you couldn't use a phone for that stuff because it was still back at home, affixed to a wall. (We used Super 8 stock to make short films in my Visual Arts class in junior high school, a class taught by the prolifically bearded Mr. Greene, who always managed to be playing Physical Graffiti on the classroom's record player. For years I thought of "Kashmir" as "Mr. Greene's Theme," but I digress.)

Young Joe Lamb (a wonderful neophyte named Joel Courtney) lives with the sorrow of his mother's recent factory-accident death and with his depressed father, Jackson, who's Lillian's deputy sheriff (Kyle Chandler). Joe's friends have all agreed to kick off their summer vacation by helping their friend Charles, a pudgy kid from a big family, make a Super 8 zombie movie. To lend it more verisimilitude, they're going to start at midnight, when both Joe's and Charles' ideal 14-year-old woman, Alice (Elle Fanning), will pick up the film crew in a car she's "borrowed" from her dad, a ne'er-do-well townie named Louis Dainard (Ron Eldard).

Jackson, Joe, Alice and Louis, awestruck by something *secret*

Joining Charles, Joe and Alice, the leading lady, are Cary, the pyro kid we all knew growing up, Martin aka Smartin, the lead actor playing a detective on the zombie beat, and assistant Preston. After a rehearsal of a scene at Lillian's tiny railroad depot, the kids see an actual train approaching in the dark night, and Charles' battle cry of "production values!" hurries them into setting up to shoot the scene so that the train can be barreling through the station in the background (Charles directs his actors to talk extra loud).

In the distance, Joe notices a pickup truck racing towards the tracks, then deliberately stopping on them, directly in the path of the oncoming train. A frightening, but cinematically excellent, derailment follows, the children fleeing for their lives, and while the camera is knocked over, the film keeps running. Regrouping afterwards to assess the damage, they are shocked to discover that the truck was driven by their science teacher, Dr. Woodward (played by Glynn Turman, Mayor Royce on The Wire), who terrifies them both by virtue of still being freakily alive, and by brandishing a gun and telling them that they and their parents will come to harm if they tell anyone what they saw. Shaken by a second confrontation with death on the same night, the crew agrees and narrowly escapes the arrival of military personnel flooding into the crash scene.

Deputy Sheriff Lamb rightfully suspects that there are an awful lot of military troops on hand for an ordinary train derrailment, and has his requests for manifest info denied. Joe tells the rest of the kids that this was an Air Force train, something he recognizes from his experiences as a model-builder. Seemingly random stuff starts disappearing from the town: people, power cables, microwave ovens, speak-and-spell toys, car engines, all the town's dogs (ok, one of those is from a different movie). I don't want to talk about the rest of the plot, except to say that there are some good, old-fashioned, goosebumpy jolts along the way and a passing acquaintance with the inchoate longings of youth on the brink of adolescence.

A lot of emphasis is being placed on how Super 8 is derivative of Speilberg's work, as a director, writer or producer, especially relating to the kids portrayed in The Goonies and E.T. I have to say, I'm not particularly disturbed by the obvious references. People used to criticize Brian DePalma for making three psychological thrillers between 1980-84 that were (and still are) extremely derivative of Hitchcock (Dressed to Kill, Blow Out -- which also evokes Antonioni's BlowUp and Coppola's The Conversation -- and Body Double), but he made an infamous remake of Scarface in those years as well. It's clear that Abrams is an otaku of this type of genre and, probably like many men his age, has an affinity for Spielberg's early work. If you're going to be derivative, why not at least borrow a vibe, or a trick or two, from a good director who was working during the time in which you film is set?

I don't think Abrams has enough films under his belt to have developed a style that is clearly his own, repetitive lens flares notwithstanding. Maybe he never will. Is this film as original, ambitious or visually thrilling as last summer's breakout film, Inception? No it is not. (But then I would quibble that Christopher Nolan is no Stanley Kubrick, either.) But with his last two films J.J. Abrams has delivered entertaining summer movies that are a popcorn-gobbling pleasure to watch. In this season of over-marketed/3D/spandex-clad junk, that's an accomplishment.


*Awesomely inappropriate double feature: Super 8 paired with 8MM (which stars Do You Want Butter on That? fave, Nic Cage). I dare you, New Beverly Cinema. I double-dare you.

Woody's Profiterole

Nothing could warm the heart of a lit major more than to revel in the success of Woody Allen's latest, a salut d'amor to the City of Lights, Midnight in Paris.

Midnight in Paris is Woody Allen's 42nd feature in 45 years, since his debut with 1966's What's Up Tiger Lily? (although there was a 3-year gap until his second film, Take the Money and Run). Midnight in Paris was also the apt, out-of-competition opener for this year's Cannes Film Festival and is an interesting contrast to another auteur film that also debuted at Cannes -- and subsequently won the Palme d'Or --Terrence Malick's Tree of Life, which is only Malick's fifth feature in 38 years. Say what you might about Woody Allen, anyone who can make a feature film every year for 4+ decades is not precious, and since moving away from New York stories -- especially with the excellent morality tale Match Point and the overlapping triangles of troubled love in Vicky Cristina Barcelona -- his later work has been infused with both new energy and Euro financing.

Midnight in Paris opens with a scenic montage of the city, much like 1979's Manhattan did with images of that city. The glory of Paris cannot help but stir the longings of anyone who's been there -- is it even possible for a person of artistic sensibilities to visit Paris and not fantasize about living there? (My answer is non.)

Owen Wilson as stars Gil Pender, a writer/Woody-manqué, the maestro himself well beyond the age when he could credibly play this sort of protagonist. Gil and his ill-matched fiancee, Inez (Rachel McAdams), are tag-along guests of her reactionary parents, moneyed francophobes who view Gil in the dimmest of lights. While their daughter admires Gil for his "success," it appears that she has no appreciation for his needs as an artist -- he's struggling with his first novel, set in the milieu of a nostalgia shop. Gil fantasizes about living the life of a real writer in 1920s Paris, living in a garret and walking the city in the rain, while Inez is mentally moving them forward, to relentlessly sunny Malibu. Despite their shared blond tresses, Gil seems muted, and it's Inez who seems to carry a glow wherever she goes -- pumped with her energy, their hotel suite blazes with gold, like a pastry crust cooked to perfection.

As if the snide in-laws weren't burden enough for Gil, they run into an Paul, a pompous know-it-all friend of Inez's whom she holds in absurd regard, played to smug perfection by Michael Sheen (whom I spotted in the lobby of my theater a few days ago). Paul holds forth with unselfconscious grandiosity on the subjects of French wine, architecture and art (he even has the gall to argue with a Musée Rodin guide -- played by France's real-life First Lady, Carla Bruni -- about whether Camille Claudel was Rodin's wife or mistress. Mon dieu!)

(Paul's a relative of the pontificator on line to see The Sorrow & the Pity behind Alvy & Annie in Annie Hall, the same blowhard Marshall McLuhan puts so neatly in his place, and the filmed fantasy of many of us forced to overhear the conversations of others in a confined space. Truth be told, though, I'm almost nostalgic for intellectually pretentious remarks in this era, where all we get is the banality of continuous cell phone chats, most of which I crave to be in a language other than English to better ignore the sheer mediocrity of them.)

Fleeing from the continued ordeal of Paul's overbearing expertise, which is about to be wed with the horror of dancing, and tipsy from an evening of sampling vin rouge, Gil makes his own way into the night, walking the cobblestone streets with only a perfunctory concern as to whether he's lost or not. At the stroke of midnight Gil is found by a vintage car full of revelers who stop and entice Gil to join their group. I'm loathe to say more about this group, except to note that Gil has the time of his life and rejoins them on subsequent nights, at last finding the kindred spirits missing from his own life.

Without giving too much away, Midnight in Paris addresses issues of longing and feelings of "otherness" often exorcized in art. As much of a waste of time it is to be nostalgic for one's own past, imagine what a soul-exhausting exercise it is to carry the torch of nostalgia for an era in which you have no place whatsoever? As my mother used to famously say (to me, at least) about the 1950s nostalgia that cropped up in the 1970s (Happy Days, anyone?), what was so great about the Korean War and McCarthyism? In other words, one woman's Belle Époque is another man's nightmare world without antibiotics.

Or, I can bemoan the ubiquitousness of instantaneous communication as being of inverse proportion to people actually having anything to say by typing these lines on a laptop computer at a coffee shop with free wifi, perhaps an equivalent, in this era, to a 1920s brasserie, non?  You will have to see the delightful Midnight in Paris and decide for yourself.

All Wave at Thor: God of Incredible Adequacy

I was at work a few weeks back and after a day spent forecasting the coming week's attendance, roughing out the house placements (which films are going where in our 16-screen megaplex), and putting the previous week's data (attendance, grosses, etc.) into various Excel spreadsheets, I decided to see a movie. We get free passes on weekdays, before 6 on Friday and after 6 on Sundays (provided the shows aren't too full), and I consider it part of my responsibility as a programmer to "keep up with the product." It's a matter of professional pride to me to be able to, on the spot, synopsize for the guests any film currently playing and guests often also ask if I've personally seen and/or liked something. Formulating opinions on film is not something I struggle with; I've been doing my whole life, long, long before I began working at a movie theater. As I once explained to a co-worker, some people went to church every weekend, but my family went to the movies.


Looking at the post-work showtimes, I had two options: the enfeebling Something Borrowed (another of those dreadful "frenemy" romcoms that Kate Hudson seems to crank out. I guess Almost Famous was a fluke. Then again, there aren't any films like Shampoo floating around for her to grab, like there was for her mom, Goldie Hawn) and the the previous weekend's high-grosser, Thor.


Naturally, after the previous weekend, when Fast Five blew the doors off the box office with its revved-up $86M opening, the collective amnesia of the industry kicked in and made them forget the previous four months of mostly mediocre box office, and led to an over-estimation of what to expect from a new superhero franchise of a lesser-known character that starred some anonymous Aussie beekcake instead of Robert Downey, Jr.


The first weekend of May has been claimed for Marvel-related releases ever since Iron Man had its $98.6M opening in 2008. Wolverine bagged $85M in 2009, Iron Man 2 opened to $128M last year, and the next two first weekends in May are already booked for Joss Whedon's 2012 adaptation of The Avengers, starring Iron Man, Craptain America, Hulk, Thor, Nick Fury aka Samuel L. Jackson in an eye patch, et. al, then Iron Man 3 in 2013. Thor's hammer only managed to pound out a $66M opening, making him quite Maypole underperformer in the Marvelverse. (And my anti-3D campaign is catching on -- the majority of our guests opted for 2D presentation.)


Of course I chose the glorious 2D 35 mm presentation, so what I saw on the screen was not negatively impacted by digital 3D. I know I'm not the audience for this film, and I have no axe to grind with those who are. I liked the first Iron Man a lot -- I thought maybe Kenneth Branagh would bring something to the party, directorially, with this one -- he certainly has experience with moody Danes in his resume. Still, I was immediately struck with the thought 'Jesus, they spent $150M on this?' The best I can say is that I found it incredibly adequate.


Thor creaks and groans along on its plot tropes. Asgard looks like a McMansionized version of Superman's old Fortress of Solitude. Showing up as Thor's Daddy is Anthony Hopkins, who wears an eye patch and bellows. I wonder how much of that $150M went to Hopkins, who would show up for anything these days (autopsy? car wash opening? bris?), if the price is right? Thor has a princely shit-fit, gets his hammer taken away by dad and Thor's hammer and ass are kicked down to Earth, where he's immediately run over by that weird chick who was in Black Swan (The releases of Natalie Portman this year have been the stoner flick Your Highness, a rom-com with Ashton Kutcher called No Strings Attached and this forgettable role. She's not quite in you-have-to-give-it-back territory like Halle Berry, but I hope Natalie makes some better choices when she returns from maternity leave.)


Natalie plays a scientist in this one; you can tell how serious she is because she doesn't wear jewelry. She does however drool like a Teen Beat reader over the big, possibly crazee blond guy she mows down in the middle of a New Mexico night. But then again, can you blame her?

With her are a comedic relief intern (Kat Dennings) and Stellan Skarsgård, a bonafide Scandinavian along for the ride to provide some clunky exposition for the "too Norse" moments in the plot (perhaps he also helped construct some IKEA furniture for the sets). 


Back upstairs in Asgard, Thor's trickster brother Loki is up to something, Anthony Hopkins has piped down (he's in a coma), Thor's homies want to rescue him, there are frost monsters, and oh crap I just can't type any more of this meaningless plot drivel. Suffice it to say, Thor does some heroic stuff, gets his hammer back, learns something and will be around for the next film. His brother Loki will be too, which frankly is more interesting, as I prefer tricksters to blond beefcake.


To me, the only spark of life in the entire film came from an edgy soldier guarding the hammer crash site who asks his superiors whether he should "take this guy out, or did you want to send in some more guys for him to beat up?" It's an unbilled Jeremy Renner cameo, priming his pump to play Hawkeye in next year's Avengers movie. This guy can bring it, even when covered in mud and in a night scene.

March (and April) Madness

Yep, it's been a while. Sometimes the craziness of actually working -- even at a movie theater -- can sap one's creative juices.

Before we push ahead into the present, aka The Silly Season of Spandex & 3D, I'd like to do a brief recap of this Spring's hits/misses and everything in between.

The month of March began promisingly enough, with the March 4 releases of the delightfully off-kilter Rango, and the not-nearly-off-kilter-enough The Adjustment Bureau, which, apart from the chemistry of Matt Damon and Emily Blunt, was pretty forgettable. Did anyone else just assume The Man Upstairs was this guy?

The weekend of March 11 brought us the crapfest that is, was and will always be Battle Los Angeles, or as I call it, Battle Louisiana, as that's the only LA featured in it (it was filmed in Baton Rouge). The best part of that was print screening (with audience) the opening midnight show and the peals of laughter during Aaron Eckhart's painfully hokey "inspirational" speech, which literally culminates with the line "But none of that matters now." People were howling.  March 11 brought two other howlers, Amanda Seyfried in the pointless Red Riding Hood (why Red, what big... eyes...you have) and Mars Needs Moms, the dismal $21M box office performance of which (against a budget of $150M) finally killed off horrible, dead-eyed motion-capture 'animation' that Robert Zemekis has been foisting on us for years.

Then The Boys of Spring blew into the theater: Matthew McConaughey and Bradley Cooper, in The Lincoln Lawyer and Limitless, respectively, both of which opened on March 18 and kept going, week after week, like the Energizer Vibrator. Yeah, guess what -- turns out that 51% of the population find Messrs. McConaughey and Cooper very easy on the eyes. (My friend Melinda and I watched them back-to-back one afternoon, an event I dubbed a Dirty Manwich Double Feature.) The Lincoln Lawyer made $83.5M against its $70M budget, and Limitless a whopping $78.5M against its $27M budget, which showed that Bradley Cooper can now call himself a bonafide movie star, capable of opening a movie, and that Relativity could finally release a movie that didn't stink like a dead man's balls (see Season of the Witch, previously reviewed here. Better still, see it not.) Both films lasted until almost May, unheard of in the churn-and-burn release patterns these days.

It also helped that the films they were in either featured some other, actually good actors and meaty plot (The Lincoln Lawyer) or enough drug imagery/photographic pyrotechnics to keep eyes of all genders interested (Limitless). Personally, I've always considered Matthew's entire acting range to consist of shirt on or shirt off, but the supporting cast (William H. Macy, Marisa Tomei, etc.) helped prop this one up. Matt's actually wearing a shirt and a tie during most of The Lincoln Lawyer, so perhaps it's an Oscar bid.

I've liked Brad's looks since he popped up on the TV series Alias years ago. Plus he resembles someone else I'm inordinately fond of, prior to his conversion to a scaly heavy (every other Brit thesp has done Potter -- why not hold out for the best role?)

March also brought two strong indie films, a new adaptation of the classic Jane Eyre and the fantastic Win Win. Jane Eyre starred Mia Wasikoska, who starred in Alice in Wonderland, and Michael Fassbender, currently starring in a different kind of literary adaptation as young Ian McKellan (aka Magneto) in X-Men First Class.  In Win Win, Paul Giamatti gave us yet another flawed but redeemable human being in the form of Mike Flaherty, a small-time lawyer and coach in the suburbs of northern NJ (where I grew up) wrestling with making the ends meet without losing what's important. Bobby Cannavale as Mike's divorced friend was hilarious and touching. As a special treat, my theater's rep series was celebrating the Academy Awards during March by presenting films that received Best Picture nominations (but did not win) and we got to show a beautiful 35mm print of Sideways on the big screen. Talk about a win-win.

The month ended badly with the release Suck-It...er...Sucker Punch, a movie with a trailer so sexist and just plain incomprehensible that 51% of the population were uninterested in ever seeing it. Let's see, as near as I could tell from the preview, the lead girl is in some sort of dream landscape she's imagining to free herself mentally from the women's prison she's in and she chooses to dress like the pervy Japanese schoolgirl archetype from a manga series? Um, no. It was director Zack Snyder who took the spanking -- a paltry $19M opening and a $36M gross against its cost of $82M -- after this and Watchmen he's practically the go-to guy to make big money-losers out of incomprehensible material. The only film he made real money on was 300, which I find unwatchable. Best 300 joke ever, from Sarah Silverman: it was called 300 because that's how gay it is on a scale from 1-10.

We get no April showers in Los Angeles, but we do get a dull drizzle of middling film releases. Come April Fool's Day, I was very keen to see Source Code, the second film of Duncan Jones, who directed the superb Moon. Source Code was just okay, kind of a sophomore shrug, if you will. It moved along at a good clip for one of those looped, time-rebooting thingies, and some good moments with of acting, but my memory's been wiped nearly clean of it two months later. Maybe that was their plan...in some alternate universe with meta-plots.


Insidious, which I have not seen, also opened on the first and has gone on the be the biggest grossing film relative to budget this year. Made for a very un-scary $1.5M, it managed to frighten up $52.7M. The heavily-hyped Scream 4, which opened on April 15, hasn't even recouped its $40M budget yet. Low budget horror, provided it offers some real, imaginative jolts, is still a thrill for audiences to discover. More-of-the-same horror reboots, sequels, etc., not so much.

Speaking of thill-less, and pointless, reboots, April 8 brought us a new Arthur. I was always fond of the original, with Dudley Moore, Liza Minelli and John Gielgud, but it seemed to be very much a film of its time (1981). Drunk driving was still funny back then, with Dudley weaving out in his Rolls to meet his future in-laws. This new Arthur stars Russell Brand, some mumblecore indie chick and Helen Mirren. Russell Brand was both too tall and not nearly drunk enough throughout. Also, having his dim chauffeur drive him around Manhattan in the Batmobile is belabored, not funny. There were a few laugh-out-loud moments (I do like Russell Brand, even though he's quite a limited performer), but the thing was generally a sodden mess, with Helen Mirren no match for the memory of John Gielgud. The girl lead, played by Greta whose-last-name-I-feel-not-like-looking-up, was changed from the notably, vividly lower class Liza Minelli (who meets Arthur as she's shoplifting a tie for her father's birthday gift) to a waify little thing who gives tours of Grand Central without [gasp] a permit. Wow, how edgy.

Other second weekend of April releases include Hanna, a violent exercise in style with a propulsive score by the Chemical Brothers that takes you on a high-energy trip that goes nowhere. Your Highness, another unfunny stoner comedy, lasted less time in theaters than an ounce would at Snoop Dog's house.

Tax day brought Rio, a pleasing G-rated musical romp set in a cleaned-up Rio with birds of many colors. It was no Pixar film, but then again, it wasn't hyperkintic dreck like Hop, with an Easter Bunny heir who poops jelly beans [sigh] that kids had to settle for the first two weeks of April. Also on the 15th, a purportedly long-awaited, Tea Party-hyped first installation of a film adaptation of Atlas Shrugged. With free market grosses of $4.6M against a $20M, Atlas wasn't the only one shrugging. Also, selfishness is not a philosophy, it's a character flaw.

April 22 brought the annual Disneynature release on Earth Day. This year was African Cats, which I enjoyed immensely. It featured gorgeous photography and two family sagas, one about a cheetah mom and her cubs, and the other about an aging lioness and a pride that's about to get jacked by a new male lion and his four strapping sons (those were some good looking lions -- don't tell my cat.).

Speaking of African mammals, Water for Elephants released on the 22nd as well, starring Reese Witherspoon, Christoph Waltz (the scary Nazi from Inglorious Basterds) and that sparkling piece of wood from Twlight, Robert Pattinson. Holy shit, can that guy not act. The elephant had more acting chops, and she was way cuter than RPutz -- she had the most adorable freckles. And Reese got to wear some pretty Depression-era clothes. A meh time was had by all.

But the biggest hit of spring came the last weekend in April with another film set in Rio de Janiero, Fast Five. It found a 6th gear to shift into, opening to $86M and grossing $199.7M in the U.S. (so far, my theater just dropped it 2 days ago) and $556M worldwide. It cost $125M before it even backed out of the garage, but it seems to be a straighforward enough genre film that it can translate well into any market. (I'm curious to know how much of that $125M was spent on steroids and body oils for The Rock. The dude was so enormous in this movie that next to him, Vin Diesel looked like some tiny turd he propulsion-shat while lifting weights.)

That big opening for Fast Five got the industry all lathered up about summer, falsely assuming that the months-long box office doldrums were over. Sadly, it stoked the foolish fantasy that this summer's seeming weekend-after-weekend of flaccid superheroes was going to be boffo, that Thor wouldn't rhyme with snore, bore and Anthony Hopkins is a big whore. But that's a tale for another day in the near future...

Like Falling in Hate, All Over Again

Yesterday afternoon I was indulging in a little channel-surfing when I alighted on the train wreck of Sex & the City 2 on HBO.

Thankfully for my sanity, we were past the cliché-gay-wedding-with-Liza-Minelli-performing part, which would have made me throw up in my mouth (again), but I was in time for the 'wacky' Samantha-going-through-menopause-therapy-by-rubbing-stuff-on-her-crotch-while-in-her-glass-office part. Hey, Michael Patrick King -- guess what? Drag queens don't go through menopause. You've turned Samantha into such a caricature of a gay man, if there's another installment [shudder], I expect her to run around and shower people with confetti.

Charlotte's big problems are that her bratty kids slap cake batter on the ass of her vintage whatever skirt and that her nanny doesn't wear a bra.

Carrie's two years into marriage with Mr. Big, the man of her dreams. She whinged and whined about him for the entirety of the series, yet she can't stop hen-pecking him for wanting to spend a night at their lavish home after watching the stock market crash at his high-pressure job all day. No, she'd rather turn up her nose at the $40 takeout food he's brought home in favor of hustling off the see the premiere of some shitty film that Samantha's ex will be beefcaking in. Carrie's really quite the sympathetic partner, isn't she? No mistaking her for a functional adult.

And Miranda, the only one of them that actually had a 'real,' time-consuming, non-glamorous job, as a partner of a NYC law firm, leaves her firm and is given no screen time to deal with the ramifications of that (like she's the primary breadwinner for her family...hello? anyone?). No, suddenly they're all off the Abu Dhabi on the world's least likely junket for a consumerist orgy for four of the world's least-deserving people. (Not that Abu Dhabi would allow them to film this licentious movie there -- they had to shoot in Morocco--and yet this film completely trivializes the inequality of women in the Middle East, cringe-worthy karaoke scene of the quartet singing "I Am Woman" included.)

So they fly super-first class (with each lavish detail verbalized in what passes for dialogue), each has their own Maybach to tool around in, each their own suite, each their own manservant. Who watches this shit and thinks that this lifestyle has any value or purpose? By the time we reach Samantha's inevitable "Lawrence of my labia" joke, I'm practically foaming at the mouth. (And T.E. Lawrence was famously not interested in labias.)

It's a tale of power run amok. The show on HBO was a frothy delight that did have moments of seriousness. The girls were all dating a variety of good-looking men, the fashion stuff was in the background, the dialogue was sharp and the friendship between the women is what made it a touchstone. And it had a writing staff. That's right, not one person, but a whole team to make sure that characters were intact and nothing was over-indulged.

The rot set in with the first movie, when it became the Michael Patrick King show, but at least that film's story was a continuance of the original series, and had some emotional stakes with all four of the women's relationships. But the film was a good 20 minutes too long, most of which was devoted to the pornographic worship of wealth, be it real estate or haute couture. At least in the series, some of that fashion nonsense had a price, like when Carrie finally realizes that she may be put out of her apartment because she doesn't have the money for a down payment, the $40,000 she's blown on shoes. (Lucky for Carrie, Charlotte could sell her engagement ring from Trey and help a sister out.) But man, women came in packs, in herds, in heels to see that first film. Our 21+ theaters were packed with the Cosmo-drinking sisterhood, and theater-checks involved inhaling toxic levels of booze-sweat and perfume.

The 'surprise' success of the first film (I just love it when Hollywood is surprised that the other 51% goes to the movies) greenlit this second monstrosity, which could not have come out at a worse time to celebrate conspicuous consumption. Hello, unemployment? Foreclosures? Entire 401(k) savings wiped out?

But worst of all, these characters are no longer recognizable as the Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha from the original series. Without a writer's room -- one with some actual women in it, I should add -- they have been allowed to devolve into shallow, unsympathetic, selfish and completely unlikeable hags, albeit hags with very expensive handbags. Like that shit matters.

A Shaggy Lizard Story

He's green, but he's not mean

I loved Rango. Like the old Bugs Bunny Looney Tunes, it's a perfect, layered mix of verbal and physical humor that makes it good for kids (I'd say 7 and up would work best, as there's a big snake in it), and with enough subtext that it won't make parents hate this two hours of their life, the way some piece of crap like Marmaduke did (and Hop will do). And the glorious 2D animation is thrilling to eyes of all ages. The images often echo classic westerns (spaghetti and otherwise) and a key storyline is lifted from Chinatown (I kid you not).

Our verdant hero, a chameleon named Lars (voiced by Johnny Depp, showing far more life than he did in The Tourist) lives in a terrarium, where he acts out elaborate dramas of imagination with the headless Barbie doll, dead cockroach, an orange wind-up fish and the plastic tree that bunk with him. At the start of the film, said theatricum terrarium is whizzing through the Mojave, but is tossed from the car during a spectacular near-miss accident (which includes a Gonzo cameo). The cause of the accident is an armadillo named Roadkill (Alfred Molina), who is crossing the road on his quest to meet the Spirit of the West. Directed by Roadkill toward the town of Dirt, where water can be found, Lars begins his own quest across the high desert.

After barely escaping the grasp of a hawk's talons, Lars meets Beans (Isla Fisher), a feisty girl lizard who's trying to keep hold of her daddy's land in the midst of a drought. She gives him a lift into Dirt, and  obeying the law of westerns, Lars makes an appearance at the town's saloon, where he is greeted with the classic antagonistic suspicion ag'inst strangers. 

To blend in ("it's an art, not a science" he pleads as he changes into a rainbow of garish colors to badly avoid the hawk), Lars reinvents himself, taking the name of Rango (derived from the "made in Durango" on a bottle of high-octane cactus juice), and intoxicated on the juice, creates an outlaw persona for his non-bad self. He gets to prove his character's mettle in a second run-in with the hawk, who suffers a demise at the inadvertant hands of Rango. Suitably impressed, the townspeople arrange for him to meet the Mayor.

Naturally, given the climate, water is the currency of Dirt, and the bank has nearly run dry (its vault is a big water dispenser jug). The Mayor of Dirt (Ned Beatty), however, is an ancient tortoise who offers Rango vintage rainwater. Also, he's Chinatown's Noah Cross (in vocal style, and with the hat to match), wheeling around in Mr. Potter's chair from It's a Wonderful Life.

Not worth it, Mr. Rango. Really not worth it.

I don't want to spoil the rest of the story, though it does track along traditional western lines, with some nice twists (Bill Nighy as Lee Van Cleef as a snake, anyone?). But look at the cinematography and the vistas throughout (gorgeous, with a consult credit given to multiple-Academy Award nominee Roger Deakins), enjoy the wry commentary from the owl mariachi band interspersed throughout, and revel in the inevitable reveal of The Spirit of the West (voiced by Timothy Olyphant, but looking like someone else). Of the dozen or so new releases I watched in March, Rango and Win Win were by far the best. Rango is a far-out tale for film lovers of all ages.

The New Tab Hunter

Alex Pettyfer, a 20-year-old Brit blonde, is the latest in a long line of young actors that are pushed as being "it." He's kind of like a less hot, less talented version of the fictional Smith Jerrod, Samantha's actor boy-toy on Sex & the City. 

Unfortunately for Hollywood, no amount of marketing or shirtless photos can create a true "it," and the disappointing box office of Pettyfer's first big release, last month's lite sci-fi offering I Am Number Four (or as I call it, I Am Number Two, Times Two), has already precipitated a turn away from him -- suddenly, he's "difficult" and the like, none of which would be whispered if the film had been a hit. He's a strictly adequate actor based on his two films currently in release, both of which I was tasked to screen, but when you're pushed as the "it" boy and you're only twenty years old, it's not hard to get ahead of yourself. Just remember, Alex: for every James Dean, there are a hundred Tab Hunters.

I Am Number Four starred Timothy Olyphant. Ignore the blond kid on the right.

Now comes little Alex's next film. Beastly is an adaptation of the Y.A. novel of the same name by Alex Flinn -- a modern-day take on Beauty & the Beast. It was supposed to be released last summer, but got bumped to March 4, I suspect so that less-flush CBS Films could tag along on the I Am Number Four publicity push by Disney.

Alex plays a pretty, spoiled rich high school kid named Kyle who picks on a plain girl who turns out to be a witch (oops). Kendra the witch, played by Mary-Kate Olsen (who shops at the Rhiannon Petite Department), puts a curse on Kyle in the form of an ugly whammy. Shorn of his dreamy blond tresses and given a tats-and-boils makeover, Kyle will remain in his “beastly” state for a one year, during which time he must earn the proclaimed love of another, or he will be ugly forever.

Naturally, Kyle’s superficial, newscaster father (Peter Krause from Six Feet Under, sporting an odd pageboy haircut), the tree from which his narcissistic son was borne, can’t accept Kyle in his un-fixable, uglified state and ships him off to live in his very own townhouse in what looks to be Brooklyn-by-way-of-Montreal. Kyle mopes and broods a bit, rides around on a Ducati at night (just like the bland rich kid in Tron: Legacy) and gets home-schooled by Neil Patrick Harris, as an allegedly 'funny and wise' blind tutor.

Through a series of not-terribly-believable plot machinations (they “meet ugly” at a Halloween party that Kyle doesn’t have to buy a costume for), pretty-but-earthy Lindy, played by Vanessa Hudgens (High School Musical), ends up bunking with Kyle at his man-pad (separate rooms of course). With the help of his housekeeper, Zola, a Caribbean woman whose “beebies” are still back home [sigh, groan], Kyle learns to be more authentic when putting the moves on Lindy. He builds her a rooftop greenhouse, brings her jujyfruits candy and all the other trappings of true luv.

Naturally, at the last possible moment, Lindy proclaims her love for Kyle and he turns back into the good looking guy from the beginning of the film. Neil Patrick Harris gets his sight back and the maid gets green cards for her beebies. And Kyle sends Kendra to go work as his dad’s new assistant (a small touch of wit in a film otherwise lacking in it).

This movie will appeal mainly to girls around ages 10-12, but disappoint those who are older or on the more mature side. The High School Musical audience has moved on by now (the show’s been off the air for a while), so I’m not sure how much of draw Vanessa Hudgens is (she’s pretty, but not a good actress). The storytelling and acting are quite sub-generic all down the line. 

Frankly, one of the other biggest drawbacks is that Beast is not nearly ugly enough in an era where tattoos and shaved heads are more within the norm. Kyle could go hang in the East Village or clubbing in Hollywood and “blend in” without any problem, especially since he’s still rich. People would probably ask for the number of his 'body artist.'

Dude! Awesome tats!

Nic Cage Update

So, as a follow-up to my January piece "The Nicolas Cage Enigma," I did go see Drive Angry 3D last week. It's a 100% Donald Kaufman movie, as the title would indicate, kind of a guero version of Machete. It's a very bad hair day on the Nic Cage scale -- the finished product looks like chemically straightened pubes, bleached blond.

Holy crap - what's David Morse doing in this movie?

The "story" is that Nic's character, John Milton, breaks out of Hell to avenge his daughter's death and save his grandbaby. (John Milton, hell -- get it?) A man of few words and mucho violence, he hitches a ride with a lissome waitress with a hot classic car and the upper body strength of a Golden Gloves winner, played by some no-name, generic-porn-looking 'actress.' Milton's being pursued by The Accountant, played by William Finchter, with deliciously arid line readings. The rest of the plot is largely forgettable, but it does hit some gonzo moments:

1) Milton having sex, with his clothes on, while smoking a cigar and shooting people. He may also be drinking Jack Daniels at the same time, but it was too loud to tell.
2) A state trooper honcho showing up to a crime scene wearing the awesome movie spoiler t-shirt (below) instead of a uniform, and
3) An anonymous, naked female (of course) satanic groupie shooting a machine gun in the big final battle. Wouldn't you put some pants on -- or at least some pubes?

Feckin' Shite

Liam Neeson reacts to being panned by AARP magazine.

Full disclosure: I'm going to spoil some aspects of Unknown, so if you want to see it, skip this post until afterwards.

I know it was a big hit ($145 million), but I really hated Taken, aka Not Without My Daughter as re-imagined by Spike TV. Bone-crunchingly violent despite its PG-13 rating, it was the sound of one reactionary hand clapping as ex-CIA daddy (Neeson), heavily invested in the evil-that-men-do worldview, warns his teen daughter of the perils of international travel -- and naturally she goes to Paris and immediately gets kidnapped by white sex slave traders, shot up with drugs and auctioned off to rich A-rabs. (The worst things that have happened to me on trips to Paris are stepping in merde du chien and being ignored by waiters.)

Now comes Unknown, which is openly marketed as The Bourne Identity meets Taken (because he can't remember who he is in this one). Set in a wintery Berlin and shot in varying grades of white, gray and blue that often makes it look softly out of focus, which is either a kind of tell or crappy film stock (per one of my chums in projection), Unknown is told from the POV of Dr. Martin Harris (and he's really, really fond of the "Dr."), a botanist arriving to Berlin for some sort of Biotech conference, accompanied by his wife Liz, a role sleepwalked by January Jones.

But Dr. Martin Harris is a Ph.D., a doctor(!) -- and after going through Customs, he puts his passport in his briefcase (not his inner overcoat pocket, like anyone over the age of 12 who's traveled abroad would do) and then leaves the briefcase at the airport curb. The credits are barely over, and I'm already irritated by a plot device...good job, lazy screenwriters! (When you, and Dr. Harris, find out who's who at the end, this makes even LESS sense, because it happens before he bumps his head and gets all forgetful and shit.)

Dr. Harris hops in a cab to hightail it back to the airport, but it plunges into a river (the Spree?) to avoid hitting a motorcyclist, the botanist bumps his noggin and spends four days in a coma. He remembers his name and eventually why he's in Berlin, but when he goes to the hotel to reunite with what he assumes will be his frantic wife, she claims not to know him, and Aidan Quinn is pretending to be Herr Doktor You-Know-Who.

The remainder of the film features Neeson in grim action mode, finding the cab driver who fled to accident scene, getting creeped out by people staring at him and talking on cell phones (dude, it's Germany -- get used to it), being followed on the U-Bahn, driving and crashing a fleet of Mercedes cabs like he's to the autobahn born, hooking up with a former Stassi agent-turned-private-detective randomly recommended by a nurse shortly before her strangulation (because yeah, that could happen), being naked in a shower one minute and clothed and on a roof 30 seconds later, and punching, kicking and shooting people with sociopathic precision, all of which seems entirely unrelated to the study of botany.

By the end of the film, several of the characters are not who we think they are, but I had so little invested in the story I really didn't care, with one exception. Diane Kruger plays Gina, the Bosnian cab driver, who seems genuinely upset by perpetuators of violence who are pursuing Dr. Harris, likening them to the type of men who slaughtered her family. Why then does she go off with that type of man at the film's end? It's one thing for the guy to be ammoral enough to not judge himself (although even Dexter Morgan is not that ammoral), but for her to be okay with it is a loud, sour note.

On the plus side, as Bobby Sol Hurok (John Candy) on SCTV would say -- January Jones blow'd up. She blow'd up real good.

*Looking for an excellent thriller? Check out The Day of the Jackal, Fred Zinnemann's 1973 adaptation of the Frederick Forsyth thriller of the same title. It's set in 1963, and is about an assassination plot against Charles De Gaulle. Edward Fox is fabulous as the enigmatic Jackal, a clear antecedent to George Clooney's assassin in The American.

Casino Jerk...er, Jack

Stop slouching.

I wanted to like Casino Jack, what turned out to be director George Hickenlooper's final film (he died of an accidental drug overdose last October, at age 47, a few months before the film was released). I'm a big fan of Hickenlooper's The Man from Elysian Fields and of Hearts of Darkness, his classic documentary about the making of Apocalypse Now.

The Jack in Casino Jack is Jack Abramoff, conservative lobbyist who went to jail in 2006 (he was released in December of last year). He was big during the Clinton years, but really came into his fullest powers during the Bush Administration. He was also best buds with Ralph Reed, Grover Norquist, and Tom Delay. Business, as usual, with a big take-no-prisoners credo. He got his "casino" nickname from all the lobbying work he did for Indian tribes who set up gambling businesses.

I think the reason I couldn't get into Casino Jack is that Kevin Spacey plays Jack Abramoff. People who like Kevin Spacey like him very much, but for me, he just seems too much. He's like an ingredient that has an overwhelming flavor, or a seasoning that can take over a dish. If a dish has green peppers or rosemary in it, those are the only ingredients I can taste. I'm not saying that's true of everyone else, but it's true for me. (I suspect that it takes a very strong director to get Kevin Spacey down to a tolerable volume.) I haven't been able to watch a Kevin Spacey performance in which the "Kevin Spacey factor" didn't get in my way since he was Verbal Kint in The Usual Suspects. In Casino Jack, I couldn't see "Jack Abramoff" because he was wearing a Kevin Spacey suit.

I think a better choice on the subject would be Alex Gibney's documentary, Casino Jack and the United States of Money. Gibney made that fantastic Enron doc, The Smartest Guys in the Room, and also last year's well-received Client 9: The Rise and Fall of Elliot Spitzer. He's in post-production on a doc about Lance Armstrong (I love that The Onion sells "Cheat to Win" bracelets -- I'm curious to see what Gibney's doc finds out about the performance-enhancing drugs in cycling) -- and Gibney's in pre-production on a Wikileaks doc. Can't wait -- but please, don't let Kevin Spacey narrate either of them.

Oh, I Wish I Was an Oscar Meyer Winner

The Academy Awards have successfully managed to become the Super Bowl of awards shows. They mean so much to some, and yet so little to me. If I love a film, I love a film. I don't need the validation of an outside body. For people who are less plugged-in to films in general, awards seem to point them in a direction to see something that they might not have otherwise. But no award can ensure that a film will withstand the test of true quality -- that future audiences will watch and respond to a film. No one who's taking a film history course will ever have to watch 1968's Best Picture winner, Oliver!. They'll be watching and studying Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey, which was released the same year and not even nominated.

Awards mean extra business to a film still playing, such as The King's Speech or Black Swan, but a high-quality winner that isn't rolling in box office gets slighting postscripts -- can we ever read that The Hurt Locker won Best Picture last year without some asshole adding that it was the lowest-grossing winner? What should that have to do with a film's merit? Oh wait, I keep forgetting that this is a business, and that it's fair and reasonable to pit artistic endeavors against each other and decide what's "best." For whom, for whom?

The show itself is another aspect of the carnival -- this year it's being hosted by Anne Hathaway and James Franco, for some random reason. It'll be too long and have crap, time-wasting musical numbers, just like any other year. Someone will wear something weird or say something strange, just like every year. Everyone sitting in the audience will either be frightened or will have been Botoxed into looking that way, just like every year in the past decade. Audiences at home with high-def TVs can now speculate on who's had work done on their faces. West Coast audiences can enjoy watching it live, and early in the evening, which helps make it less of a slog.

For what it's worth (and I would argue, not much in the historical, long-view sense), here are my thoughts on who and what may win tomorrow night.

Best Picture: The King's Speech. What I'd Vote For: The Social Network. The King's Speech is a fine film, but it feels like it could have been made 30 years ago. The Social Network feels like now, and represents a greater challenge in dramatization. Just my opinion.

Best Actor: Colin Firth. Who I'd Vote for: Javier Bardem or Jesse Eisenberg. Firth is widely considered a lock, as much for this role as for his general excellence -- last year's A Single Man might have been a wee bit too gay for the aged Academy members. And Firth was excellent, but so was Bardem, as a dying man with a complicated life and Eisenberg as the blank (or is he?) creator of a communication watershed. How do you decide who's the best unless they're all playing the same role?

Best Actress: Natalie Portman or Annette Bening, but I'm leaning towards Bening for the win. Black Swan was a polarizing film, and older viewers, who may have a greater awareness of the distinction between art and camp, were cool to it. Bening's been nominated (but not won) three times before, and this fourth time might be the charm. Also, she was excellent in The Kids Are All Right.

Best Supporting Actor: Christian Bale. Who I'd love to win: John Hawkes. A study in contrasts -- Bale's performance is so large it overshadows the film that it's in, and Hawke's is small but integral to Winter's Bone.

Best Supporting Actress: Melissa Leo in The Fighter. I don't have any problem with Leo winning, provided that she doesn't allow her stylist to render her unrecognizable, as was the case at the Golden Globes. Very, very scary.

Best Director: David Fincher, The Social Network. He's supposed to be a prick to work with, but it's always about the work. I respect that.

Adapted Screenplay: Aaron Sorkin, The Social Network. Full stop.

Original Screenplay: The King's Speech may whisk it away on the feel-good vibe, but wouldn't it be cool if Inception won? But would the top stop spinning at the end, or not?

Animated Film: Toy Story 3

Documentary: Inside Job. But really, this year's crop are all good, I'd be happy for any of them. I'm especially glad the nominees does not include Waiting for Superman, which was a weak doc, despite the attendance bump it got from all the pious hand-wringing on the subject.

Cinematography: Roger Deakins, True Grit. Another veteran owed his due.

Editing: The Social Network. I haven't seen a film this well-edited for speed since Goodfellas.

Original Score: I'm hoping for the spare, mood-enhancing music of The Social Network, but we may get stuck with The King's Speech. Chin up.

Original Song: Randy Newman wrote a song for a Pixar movie? Yeah, whatever's from Toy Story 3 will win.

Foreign Language: the Danish film, In a Better World, is supposed to be the front-runner, but Biutiful, from Mexico (but set in Barcelona) was excelente.

The "Throw 'em a Bone" categories -- awards considered to have less prestige in the public's eye, but often given to big, noisy moneymakers so they too can claim critical validation:

Art Direction: The King's Speech or perhaps Inception
Costumes: Alice in Blunderland
Makeup: I hope it's The Way Back, which did an excellent job showing the ravages of Gulag living and continent-crossing on the actor's faces, but it'll probably be the dude with fur on his face -- The Wolfman.
Sound Editing: Inception
Sound Mixing: Inception
Visual Effects: Inception

Short Films: Don't know, don't care. These are the categories that cost you the Oscar pool every year. Poke around online if you care enough to handicap the choices. The only one anyone in the at-home audience is likely to have seen is Pixar's Day & Night, a short that ran before Toy Story 3 and which I found pretty meh. The folks who vote on them actually have to watch them all, so they are a smaller subset of the Academy.

The Oscars, like everything else on the planet, are largely political -- and you and I don't get a vote in this election. Just remember to love what you love, despite what "wins."

Movies in the Present Tense: All the President's Men and The Social Network

Movie Bernstein & Woodward, 1976

Movie Zuckerberg and someone irrelevant to him, 2010

Zeitgeist, n. German. the spirit of the time; general trend of thought or feeling of an era. (From my trusty Random House College Dictionary. I don't know its year of pub -- my cat has ripped that page out.) From Wikipedia: The term zeitgeist is from German Zeit- 'time' (cognate with English tide and "time") and Geist- 'spirit' (cognate with English ghost, without being really translatable into English - this is why the German term is used).

In America, one of the things the 1970s came to be defined by was an event that occurred on June 17, 1972: a break-in at Democratic National Headquarters, located in the Watergate office complex in Washington, DC. In the first decade of the 21st century, a social networking site launched in February 2004 achieved global membership of a million users only two years after its launch, and now has an estimated 600 million active users, worldwide, changing the way we communicate. "Facebook me" is shorthand the way that American political scandals have been given "-gate" suffixes since the 1970s.

Alan J. Pakula's All the President's Men was released in 1976, a mere four years after the American history-altering newspaper story it depicts. David Fincher's The Social Network was released in 2010, seven years after its real-life storyline began. Both films were adapted from nonfiction books and depict events that have come to define the zeitgeist of the decades in which they were both set and made, doing so ways that are nuanced and visceral and which find the universal stories underneath the events. It is no easy feat to recognize the 'time ghost' when you are living inside it, but it's even more amazing to document it with the kind of verve found in All the President's Men and The Social Network.

All the President's Men is about the loss of innocence of the American voter. It's a different kind of loss than what the nation experienced with the Kennedy assassination, because the events were so cynically engineered by people who wantonly abused the trust of the electorate to maintain their power. That this may or may not have always been the case in American politics is not the issue -- this was the moment that the blindfold was permanently ripped off. These domestic covert ops were a secret held closely by the entire U.S. intelligence community (Deep Throat, Woodward's appropriated name for his famously unnamed source, was revealed in 2005 to have been the number two man at the FBI, W. Mark Felt). It took months of hard work and white-knuckle nerve to crack the story and it ended a presidency.

All the President's Men was adapted by William Goldman, considered to be one of the best screenwriters of his era (and perhaps of more than just that). He also scripted Marathon Man and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid prior to All the President's Men and The Princess Bride after it. Alan J. Pakula directed the darkly moody Klute in 1971 (the film that won Jane Fonda her Oscar) and The Parallax Viewin 1974 -- a taut, paranoid thriller with Warren Beatty playing a journalist trying to unravel an assassination story -- that no doubt served as a calling card for when Robert Redford was looking for a director.

The story has a Shakespearean arc, as one in power falls from grace (Tricky King Richard, the one without the hump), brought to justice by some lowly commoners (Woodward & Bernstein). All the President's Men plays as a highly suspenseful detective story, but in a world where being a detective, or a reporter, involved shoe leather, not Google. This was the fruit of collaborative work between two young reporters, Bob Woodward (portrayed by Robert Redford) and Carl Bernstein (played by Dustin Hoffman), who are shown as bringing out the professional best in each other.

(Both Woodward and Bernstein inspired young people to pursue careers in journalism, a once-noble profession that has become yet another victim of the bottom line. "Woodstein" became celebrities themselves, Bernstein marrying and famously cheating on Nora Ephron, a tale brought to the screen in Mike Nichol's adaptation of Ephron's roman à clef novel, Heartburn, with Jack Nicholson playing Carl to Meryl Streep's Nora. Woodward remained with the Washington Post and is part of the Washington Establishment and has written breathlessly-close-to-power books about the last three presidents. The worm does turn.)

Although it depicts the lives of very young men, The Social Network is the collaborative work of older, creatively mature men, namely screenwriter Aaron Sorkin and director David Fincher. The Social Network has strong dramatic underpinnings, telling a story of betrayal, class warfare and cutthroat creation, with a complex barrage of dialog. A key difference between the two films is that although the script of The Social Network "feels" true, it is not dependent on facts, and finding factual truths is at the core of All the President's Men. In an excellent, in-depth article about the film published on Sept. 17, 2010 in New York magazine, screenwriter Sorkin came clean about his approach: "I don’t want my fidelity to be to the truth; I want it to be to storytelling."

The story is ostensibly about Mark Zuckerberg, a Harvard undergrad who gets dumped by his girlfriend one night and goes back to his place and cooks up Facemash, an online site to rate real women at Harvard, a site that generates enough traffic to crash Harvard's server. Not much is known about the real Zuckerberg, who is famously unforthcoming, but Jesse Eisenberg manages real dimensionality with what could have been a flat, robotic Aspberger's poster child of a character. Movie Zuckerberg is a study in aspiration who wants to join the highest eschelons of Harvard without having been to the manor born. Turns out the best route was to plow right over them (and your best friend) and redefine success.

Aaron Sorkin is best known for his scripts of A Few Good Men (adapted from his own play), The American President and the television series he created, Sports Night, The West Wing, and an upcoming HBO show set behind-the-scenes at a news network. He is held as high in regard as William Goldman (higher, if you count his opinion of himself). The source material Sorkin loosely adapted The Social Network from was not even fully published when he began work on the script, so although the script contains elements of actual events, it seems best to regard it more as a work of pure fiction that shapes events into much neater arcs than they have in real life. (This is the technique "reality" television also uses, but with non-union writers and more gullible viewers.) This fictionalization didn't detract from the impact of the film for me, and I think that structuring it in the mode of Kurosawa's seminal Rashomon by using the framing device of multiple, contradictory depositions also bought a huge degree of wiggle room.

Director David Fincher began his career in music videos, something Alan Pakula never got around to before his death in 1998 (Fincher directed Madonna's "Vogue," among others). Fincher made his first splashy film directing Brad Pitt in 7even (although his debut was the third installment of the Alien franchise). Some of his other films include a killer adaptation of Chuck Palahniuk's novel, Fight Club, and Zodiac, the story of the real-life serial killer in 1970s San Francisco. (David Shire, who composed the music for All the President's Men, was also hired to compose the score for Zodiac. I can't help but think that Fincher was looking for an authentic seventies sonic feel.) Fincher is known for being a very exacting director (aka a prick), but he is working at the top of his craft in this film and got outstanding performances out of all the cast and crew (Justin Timberlake -- who knew?), and the sparsely complex score, by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross, layers on an aural ache to the proceedings. I now have very high hopes for Fincher's adaptation of Stieg Larsson's The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, due to be released on December 21.

On the box office side of things, All the President's Men has made $70.6 million domestically, about $275 million in 2010 dollars if the calculator on this site is to be trusted, and The Social Network is about to cross the $100 million domestic mark theatrically, thanks to a strategically timed re-release to coincide with its Academy Award campaign. The film is already out on DVD, and it still made another $0.4 million last weekend on 367 screens. I can tell you anecdotally that a lot of older people who may have not been keen on (or aware of) the subject matter are coming to see The Social Network now that it's been nominated for Academy Awards.

All the President's Men won four of the eight Academy Awards it was nominated for in 1977 (Best Supporting Actor for Jason Robards as Washington Post editor Ben Bradlee, Best Art Direction-Set Decoration, Best Sound and Best Adapted Screenplay for William Goldman), and a collection of film critics prizes that seem to track along the same lines as The Social Network is for this year. I expect that Sorkin's screenplay will win, and I suspect the score and Fincher's direction will as well. With three weeks to go, it appears that The King's Speech is gathering momentum for Best Picture, and the Best Actor prize has widely been regarded as Colin Firth's to lose for months.

Not to knock any of the other nine contenders, but The Social Network is my non-voting choice for the Academy Award for Best Picture this year. But I won't lose my mind if it doesn't win: The 1968 award for Best Picture went to Oliver!, a musical adaptation of Oliver Twist, but the zeitgeist belonged to a film not even nominated, 2001: A Space Odyssey. History tends to correct the slights of today, even when those of vision can recognize their times in the present tense.

Ooga-Booga

The Devil made him do it. Or maybe his agent.

Films are often marketed by what "quadrant" they appeal to, the four quadrants being male, female, young and old. For instance, Sex & the City is a "single-quadrant" franchise, appealing almost entirely to women, whereas something like The Blind Side owes its box office success to being a four-quadrant film that ended up appealing to men and women, young and old. (Four-quadrant films are almost impossible to successfully conceive; they tend to be happy accidents that the Monday-morning quarterbacks pretend to have planned that way.) Avatar also transcended its genre origins (SciFi adventure) to become a four-quadrant film, whereas Tron Legacy (ha!) remained a two-quadrant (young males) and its box office died after its big opening weekend, killing this year's Christmas business with it.

Horror films are also single-quadrant films, appealing primarily to teens/young adults. However, these days the majority of horror films seem to be R-rated and gory (like the Saw franchise) or faux-Cinéma vérité (a la Paranormal Activity). An R-rated horror film is perceived to be more scary automatically in today's marketplace. I don't think it's impossible to make a scary PG-13 movie, but it requires real skill, all down the line. You need a tightly written tale, crisply edited, great spooky music and sound effects and a memorable baddie; instead audiences seem to get journeymen who are just picking their collective pocket for a quick buck with a cheap genre film.

The makers of The Rite, which opened last weekend, seem to have opted to try to buy themselves a second quadrant by paying for a big actor rather than punching up the story. Having sat through it, I can attest that the scariest thing about The Rite is what Anthony Hopkins will do for a dollar. (He's joined in the slumming by Ciaran Hinds, Toby Jones, and Rutger Hauer, all of whom are old enough to know better, but can be absolved by virtue of the fact that they cannot command the kind of salary Anthony Hopkins does.)

The second scariest thing about The Rite is how much business it managed to do ($14.8 million opening weekend), but that's largely reflective of the lack of new product in the marketplace. Exorcism stories seem to hold some appeal, no doubt kept afloat by the pea-soup ocean of still-scared-stiff memories generated by The Exorcist, which was released in 1973 and is number 9 on the all-time box office list (with prices adjusted for ticket-price inflation, which is the most meaningful way to gauge a film's true popularity). The Exorcist is still one of the scariest effing films I've ever seen, and I don't even believe a lick of its dogma.

The Rite, which opened last weekend, was directed by Mikael Håfström, whose resume includes 2007's 1408 (which I haven't seen, but I hear is of decent quality and has well-written underpinnings in the form of being based on a Stephen King short story) and a piece of dreck called Derailed, which I made the mistake of watching on cable (I'm a Clive Owen fan). The Rite is "suggested" (ruh-roh, as Scooby Doo would say)) by a book about the training of modern-day exorcists with same title by Matt Baglio, who alleges it is nonfiction; to say I am 'skeptical' of its veracity would be too slight an adjective.

Some never-heard-of-him actor named Colin O'Donoghue plays an American priest called Michael Kovak who attends a seminary (for the free education...ooh, snap!) instead of running the family mortuary with his bloated old dad (Hauer), but seems to be deficient in the faith department. His priest school mentor (Jones) sees potential in him, so Michael gets shipped off to the Vatican for some brainwashing -- er, further education -- and attends exorcism school (talk about a sucky major). Seems that Michael, the poor unbelieving sod, still thinks people who call the exorcist might actually be oh, I don't know, mentally ill, so his exorcism prof (Hinds) makes him go see wacky old exorcist Father Lucas Trevant (Hopkins), who has hordes of Roman cats overrunning his courtyard (arguably the only realism in the film).

There's this and that in the way of scary deep voices coming from 'possessed' teenaged girls (yawn. who hasn't heard those?) and Hopkins riffs shamelessly from his Hannibal Lecter litany of ooh-scary calm line deliveries (where's Count Floyd when you need him?). Naturally by the end of the film, Michael gives up on reality and joins Team Exorcism (I don't want anyone to think there's a happy ending).

Isn't Anthony Hopkins rich enough to pay for his own Roman Holiday without dragging us along on this nonsense? Last year he played daddy to The Wolfman and 2011 promises yet another embarrassment from Hopkins as he bellows his way through a scene as Thor's eye-patch wearing pops, Odin, in the upcoming Thor movie (rhymes with bore...and snore). What's next, a frigging Magic sequel?

Want to make a Catholic-themed movie that'll scare the crap out of people? Oh wait, someone already did. It's called Deliver Us From Evil, the 2006 documentary about Father Oliver O'Grady, who abused more than two dozen children (by his own admission) over a 30-year period, while the Church systematically shuffled him from parish to parish. He went to prison in 1993, served half his sentence, was paroled in 2000 and deported back to Ireland in 2001. The Irish authorities lost track of O"Grady in 2006 or so, and there were reports of him living in The Netherlands. Last month he resurfaced; he was arrested in Dublin, in possession of a laptop computer crawling with kiddie porn.

There's no exorcism for the real evil in the world, is there?

Father O'Grady

Where's the Beef?

The Company Men has been kicked around, release-wise, since last year. Slated to open in October, then given a one-week, award-qualifying run in December, it's now finally out to just over 100 theaters this weekend. The Company Men was written and directed by John Wells, the man who gave us TV's ER, which in retrospect seems like a Cassavettes film in its nuances compared to the current likes of Grey's Anatomy, a poorly written hospital show populated with the world's most repellently narcissistic characters (it's a miracle that the superfluous patients get any attention at all). Most importantly, ER gave us George Clooney, for which we are forever grateful.

(Mmmm...Clooney)

The Company Men is set in Boston, during the fall of 2008, when the financial markets all fell down and the best minds of corporate America tried to put Humpty Dumpty back together again by getting rid of all their employees, who apparently were interfering with their profit margins. It's about men getting laid off from really, really high-paying jobs and having to cope with downgrading from their Mc- and actual mansions, which are stuffed with stuff. Some of these guys are old and actually knew how to do things with their hands once-upon-a-time, and are played with appropriate gravitas by Tommy Lee Jones and Chris Cooper. Some of them are arrogant dickwads with MBAs who, in their late 30s, will finally have to grow-the-fuck-up and are played by Ben Affleck, an actor who arouses an instant schadenfreude in me.

Sadly, a large part of the story centers on Affleck's character, Bobby Walker, who is a two-dimensional, textbook study of how people react to these things. It's the classic Kübler-Ross model, commonly known as the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. In Bobby, this translates as 18-hole delusion, snark, whining to his mortgage company over the phone, losing his Porsche, and having to go actually work, for his [gasp] working class brother-in-law (then, at the end, getting a fairy godfather reprieve of sorts -- more on this later). Bobby's wife, Maggie (played by Rosemarie DeWitt), returns to work as a nurse (nice breadwinning skills to fall back on), so I can only assume that she must be able to tap into some Nurse Jackie-level meds that enable her to put up with Bobby's behavior with the saintly acceptance she gives him. (I can't help thinking that if Maggie was a real-life New Englander with working class roots, she would have given him the beat-down he deserves: see The Fighter.)

Tommy Lee Jones plays Gene McClary, the number two guy at the company, which is run by his best friend and former college roommate (we learn at an expositional testimonial dinner), James Salinger, played with appropriate blankness by Craig T. Nelson. TLJ gets the millionaire-with-a-conscience role, conflicted about sugar-coating the stock value, upset that underlings are being trimmed from the roster, sometimes -- gasp -- talking back to the CEO. He's got a wife back home at the manse who wants to take the corporate jet down to Palm Beach for a shopping weekend, but old Gene's banging the hot HR lady, Sally Wilcox, who's laying off more than she can chew (Maria Bello). When Gene gets his walking papers, he walks them over to Sally's place for a little late-mid-life shack up.

Chris Cooper plays Phil Woodward, a 60-year-old who worked his way up from ship-welding to constructing a white-collar gilded cage that houses a realistically frumpy, headachy wife and a teenaged daughter whose senior trip is going to Italy (on Cooper's face, you can see the cost being tallied in Phil's weary head). Laid off, he gets to endure a banal resume review by the overly familiar, up-with-people harpy at the outplacement center, another moment Cooper nails with minimal dialogue. (Of the three leads, Cooper's character is both the least-written and the most satisfying. The man knows how to make silence matter.)

Kevin Costner pops up as Jack Dolan, Bobby's contractor brother-in-law who regularly taunts Bobby about his paper-pushing uselessness but makes a Bobby an initially-rebuffed job offer after one of the adorable kids lets it be known at Thanksgiving that her daddy is unemployed. (News flash: the cute Kevin Costner has left the planet. He has thickened in body, and now sports hair akin to glued-on ginger pubes.)

So Bobby gets to make new pals at his outplacement center (they even play touch-football together!), and doubles-down on the humble pie, moving his family into his parent's house after the McMansion goes bye-bye, and schlepping buckets of cement for Jack. He goes to a Hail-Mary job interview in Chicago, only to have gotten the date wrong (d'oh!) and now is too poor to fly back the following week. Lucky for him, rich old Gene decides to start a consulting firm and hires Bobby to help restart a shipping yard in Gloucester (because yeah, that could happen). It pays $80,000 a year, half his original salary but, by golly, he might just make it after all. On $80,000 a year.

Luckily for John Wells, both Tommy Lee Jones and Chris Cooper are excellent actors who can breathe life into clichéd characters. Their scenes are the ones that make The Company Men worth watching. The rest of it has a generic feel, and despite the presence of Roger Deakins as cinematographer, the film has little in the way of visual flair. It's kind of like a really long, middlebrow network TV episode. Lifetime Television for Male Menopause -- complete with tenuous relation to "real-life" events.

But where's the beef? The outrage? The actual financial events in this movie are often literally going on as noise in the background -- on TV, the box of John Wells' power (most of which manifests itself in the role of producer. not writer/director). Few things in cinema piss me off more than bad movies about important subjects, because they get graded on a curve. For instance, Gandi -- great guy, Gandi -- overrated, bloated film. The Company Men ends with the lead's problem solved in a deus ex machina manner -- while millions of Americans continue to live day-by-day in a "jobless recovery," the oxymoronic elephant in the room, -- that it really makes me mad that I wasted two hours of my underpaid, underemployed life on it.

Skip The Company Men and see Charles Ferguson's intellectually rigorous and righteously angering Inside Job instead. It's still playing theatrically, and comes out on DVD in March. You won't be sorry -- and maybe if enough of us peons get angry, the powers that be will be. (Hey -- you have your fantasies, I have mine.)