Step Brothers

"Step Brothers" is the latest film written by Will Ferrell and Adam McKay and directed by McKay. Their first two projects, "Anchorman" and "Talladega Nights," may have been the funniest films of the decade.

"Step Brothers" is not.

Ferrell and McKay have taken their usual manchild formula and replaced all of the witty, madcap humor with profane and unfunny jokes. "Anchorman" gave us Ferrell playing the "jazz flute" atop the tables of a restaurant. "Talladega Nights" gave us Ferrell driving a stock car with a Cougar painted on the hood next to one word: "Me."

"Step Brothers" gives us Ferrell putting his testicles on a drum kit.

That drum kit belongs to John C. Reilly, who, like Ferrell, is a 40-year-old who still lives with his single parent. When Reilly's father marries Ferrell's mother, they have to learn to live under one roof.

The setup is fine, if a little sparse. But where Ferrell and McKay once made fun of the ignorance and self-importance of the American male, they now simply drop F bombs and references to putting various things up various people's anuses.

Part of the problem is that the supporting characters have almost no humor potential at all. "Anchorman" featured Rob Cordry, Steve Carrell and Paul Rudd as Ferrell's hilarious sidekicks. "Talladega Nights" gave us a ridiculous villain played by Sacha Baron-Cohen. But "Step Brothers" just offers a shrill father, a coddling mother and Ferrell's painfully unfunny biological brother.

"Step Brothers" does have its moments. When Ferrell and Reilly put together a ridiculous tape for their start-up venture, "Prestige Worldwide," they become indignant when their father won't invest in a scheme with no ostensible purpose. The film's conclusion is also suitably silly.

But most of "Step Brothers" falls flat. Perhaps Ferrell and McKay rely a great deal on improvisation over multiple takes; that would certainly explain the hit and miss nature of this material. Between this film and the unspeakable "Semi-Pro," Ferrell is on now on a serious losing streak. We can only hope he still has some genuinely funny manchild antics left in his bag of tricks.

Igby Goes Down

melodrama-a drama such as a play, film, or television program, characterized by exaggerated emotions, stereotypical characters, and interpersonal conflicts

melodrama on steroids-see "Igby Goes Down"

"Igby Goes Down" is a perfect example of the pitfalls of melodrama. This film may have worthwhile things to say about the aimlessness of youth or the emptiness and hypocrisy bred by capitalism. But in making these points, it uses a jackhammer where a flyswatter would suffice.

Igby is a 17-year-old professional smartass who specializes in getting kicked out of the expensive boarding schools to which his heartless mother sends him. With a schizophrenic father and an utterly superficial brother, he has little emotional support or guidance.

The film follows a similar vein to "The Graduate" and "Garden State," portraying the frustrations of a young man who just can't seem to care about the things people keep telling him are so important. But while those films were ridiculous at times (they had to be in order to point out their characters' hypocrisy), they stayed grounded enough that their critiques had to be taken seriously.

Thus, the protagonist of "Garden State" struggles to feel anything inside because his father insists he continue to take lithium. Igby, in contrast, witnesses his father angrily hurl pills at his mother, who greedily consumes one while throwing guilty looks at her sons.

Likewise, "The Graduate" pokes fun at capitalism through an older man who urges our hero to invest in "plastics." "Igby Goes Down" goes a bit more extreme, with a one-dimensional character named D.H. who cares about absolutely nothing except making money and keeping up appearances.

Oh, and I did I mention Igby's mother tells him that D.H. is his real father as she cheerily consumes a poison to commit suicide? This sort of thing happens every day among the fabulously wealthy, I'm sure.

The film is further undermined by its endlessly snide tone. We're treated to dozens of verbal jousts such as this:

"Jeez, you would think you hate your brother."
"I do."

"Igby Goes Down" seems to find the notion of hating one's relatives shocking. Even if it were, it doesn't astound quite as much when you pack your film with jokes about it. This line came about an hour in; by this point I already knew what Igby's punchline would be. My dog Chester could probably have figured it out too.

The film's conclusion tries and fails to show some emotional growth in Igby. He sobs "Sorry..." to his dead mother following her suicide. Yet the very next scene shows him calling her friends to giddily announce her death. He then embraces his brother, accidentally smashing his drink-a clumsy symbol of how they will never be close. Finally, Igby visits the man he thought was his father. Yet he has always felt close to this man, mainly because he believes that he himself will one day suffer a nervous breakdown. Far from demonstrating a desire to reach out to loved ones, Igby's intimacy here merely satisfies his delusions of martyrdom.

The real problem is that this is a film which, like its hero, thinks it's great. But with its hyperbole and too-hip dialogue, it wholly lacks the earnestness necessary to deal with its themes on a serious level.

Yi Yi

Modern cinematography is defined by quick cuts and copious close-ups designed to cater to our ever-shrinking attention spans. One of the problems with this approach is that it fails to give us a sense of place, a feel for how the characters interact with their environment.

Fortunately, there are still some filmmakers willing to pull the camera back and give their characters some space. Edward Yang's urban family drama "Yi Yi" perfectly illustrates the rewards of this approach. Yang lets us watch his players from a distance, paradoxically demonstrating both the claustrophobia and vastness of city life. In one scene, we see a young couple arguing while also viewing the street and park below. In another, the camera looks into a room as a woman sobs, while also showing us the reflection of the imposing city skyline off the windowpane. These characters are painfully packed in like sardines, yet their conflicts seem miniscule in the context of a sprawling city.

"Yi Yi" takes us through a turbulent year in the life of a Taiwanese family. At the center of the tale is NJ, an executive struggling to prop up a failing business while also rediscovering his passion for an old flame. His wife, Min-Min, is undergoing a spiritual conversion, while his children, son Yang-Yang and daughter Ting-Ting, struggle through the hormones and hassles of growing up. Min-Min's brother Ah-Di dreams big but can't get keep his finances or his marriage together, while her mother has gone into a coma.

Got all that? These characters obviously have a lot of emotional baggage, which leads to many poignant moments, as when Min-Min weeps to her unconscious mother over the depressingly dull routine of her life. Their various quests-for love, money, God, wisdom-lead them to a deeper understanding of both the joys and shortcomings of life. Like the characters of "Yi Yi," the viewer will need patience, but the results are quite rewarding.

I'm Not There

I don't generally like music biopics. They tend to come across as contrived, using lines like, "I'm writing a new song!" and "You've got a hit!" to tidily summarize those rare moments when genius connects with the public consciousness.

In his film about Bob Dylan, "I'm Not There," Todd Haynes eschews the biopic formula and its pratfalls--by not putting Dylan in the film at all. Instead, Haynes gives us six characters which reflect different facets of this complex artist.

"I'm Not There" first presents us with Fake Dylan, a black boy who worships Woody Guthrie. Toting a guitar case with Dylan's famous warning, "This Machine Kills Fascists," the Fake Dylan spins tales about his past with a clear eye towards building a myth that will lead to stardom.

When a woman implores the boy to stop aping Guthrie and start singing about the social injustices of his own time, the film shifts to a second character, Jack Rollins. Rollins represents Dylan's folk protest period.

Soon we are introduced to Robbie Clark, a movie star played by Heath Ledger. Ledger ably depicts Dylan's battles with fame and celebrity, as well as his turbulent love life. We also meet Poet Dylan, who simply looks into the camera while spouting subversive Dylanisms, and Pastor John, who briefly shows us Dylan's conversion to evangelical Christianity.

A plurality of the film's time, however, is given to Jude Quinn, brillantly played by Cate Blanchett. Quinn represents Electric Dylan, the disillusioned man who gave up on trying to change the world through song. He pays a heavy price for this perceived treachery, sparring with the press and alienating folk obsessives who cry "Judas!"

Blanchett's performance draws heavily from D.A. Pennebaker's documentary on Dylan, "Don't Look Back." During this time Dylan was combative with reporters and fans, frequently questioning the premises of their queries to him. This led to widespread doubts about his sincerity, to which Dylan generally replied, "What is sincerity? What is truth?"

The sixth and most puzzling character is Billy the Kid, played by Richard Gere. This incarnation of Dylan has escaped the rigors of civilization by living alone near a nineteenth century small town. Though he prefers seclusion, Billy comes into town to protest the construction of a railroad. With his final character, Haynes seems to be demonstrating that even a world-weary Dylan still clung to his principles.

On one level, "I'm Not There" can be viewed as a jumbled mess. The story jumps back and forth between the characters with no rhyme or reason.

But in some sense, can't Dylan's music also be viewed as a jumbled mess? So many of his lyrics are a hodgepodge of vivid imagery, witticisms and non-sequiturs, yet it all comes together to achieve a strange poetic beauty.

I didn't always understand "I'm Not There." But by the end I found myself nodding and thinking "Yeah..."

Wall Street

Some people will do anything for money and power.

Most of us take this truism for granted and move on with our lives. Oliver Stone sees it as a justification for a career's worth of crappy movies, from "Salvador" to "Nixon". "Wall Street" is a prototype for his heavy handed schtick.

Charlie Sheen stars as Bud Fox, an up-and-coming stock broker who manages to befriend his idol in the investment world, Gordon Gekko, played by Michael Douglas. (With these names, though, you could be forgiven for thinking it's a film about a used car salesman and a porn star.) Fox quickly learns the secret to Gekko's success: trading on inside information and ruthlessly tearing apart companies for profit.

Inevitably, Fox turns to the dark side, tempted by money and women (represented here by Daryl Hannah, whose butch features and inept acting call to mind Hulk Hogan rather than Hollywood hearthrob). Fox's inevitable turn to the dark side can be summed up in three conveniently ham-handed quotes:

"But that's illegal, Mr. Gekko!"
"Everybody's doing it."
"Who am I?"

Adding to the embarrassment is the fact that "Wall Street" is hilariously dated, and not just because the characters' cell phones are the size of small children. Talented auteurs, the Scorceses and Tarantinos of the world, put a stamp on their films that allows them to transcend time ("Mean Streets" and "Pulp Fiction" retain their remarkable cool years later). But with its atrocious '80s soundtrack and paint-by-numbers cinematography, "Wall Street" is very much of its time.

Stone doesn't seem terribly interested in making a good movie here. After all, when you write lines like "You don't actually think we live in a democracy, do you Bud?" or "Money makes you do things you don't want to do," it's clear you're more interested in making adult after-school specials than films.

Ghost World

If there is one thing American cinema has too much of, it's coming-of-age dramedies. At this point, you can't go to the bathroom without a new semi-autobiographical teenage quirkfest being released while you're gone.

While it is far from a great film, "Ghost World" manages to set itself apart in this genre by refusing to substitute idiosyncracies for genuine characters.

The film begins at the high school graduation of Enid Coleslaw (Thora Birch) and Rebecca Dopplemeyer (a 16-year-old Scarlett Johansson), two social outcasts happy to break free from the yoke of academia. As a practical joke, Enid answers a "Missed Connection" classified ad placed by a lonely music collector named Seymour (Steve Buscemi). Watching him from afar at the diner at which she instructed him to meet her, Enid begins to take pity on Seymour. The two soon strike up a friendship which burgeons into a crush. Meanwhile, she begins to drift away from Rebecca, who has more conformist tendencies.

What makes the movie work are its honest, real characters. Enid constantly changes her appearence; like so many teens, she can't seem to settle on an identity. Rebecca, meanwhile, is torn between her longing to be accepted and her desire to maintain her dignity.

The huge age difference between Enid and Seymour may make her attraction seem a bit ridiculous. But their bond is not as unreasonable as it sounds: have you met most male college freshmen? I wouldn't want to hang around them either.

The film is not without its faults, chief among them the mediocre acting. Birch and Johansson are very stilted at times, their inexperience showing through. Buscemi is fine, but he hasn't been given much in the script to sink his teeth into.

A few of the egregious quirks that can plague films like this do pop up as well. Why, oh why, must we be subjected to Norman, an old man who sits at a bus stop 24 hours a day? The point he illustrates--that everything but Norman is changing in Enid's life--could easily have been left unstated.

Ultimately, though, "Ghost World" succeeds in the same way that all good stories do: by connecting us with the characters and making us care about what happens to them.

Fast Times at Ridgemont High

Before Mark “Rat” Ratner goes on a first date in the severely undercooked “Fast Times at Ridgemont High,” he is advised by his friend to play the first side of Led Zepplin IV for his lovely lady. Cut to the date scene, with Ratner driving and blasting—you guessed it—“Kashmir.”

But wait—“Kashmir” isn’t on Led Zepplin IV, it’s on Physical Graffiti. This may seem like a minor error, but the carelessness is symptomatic of the pervasive half-assed filmmaking featured in “Fast Times.” Scenes and storylines feel underdeveloped, like sketches never really filled in. In one particularly egregious example, a fantasy scene is plopped into the middle of the film in which a surfing trophy is given to stoner Jeff Spicoli (Sean Penn, in probably his least intelligent role--yes, I am including the retarded man in "I Am Sam"). There are no references to surfing anywhere else in the film. There isn't even evidence that Ridgemont High is anywhere near a body of water. The scene seems to mostly be an excuse to show off a couple of scantily clad women and the finest stock footage of ocean waves money can buy.

The sloppiness would be forgivable if “Fast Times” offered a realistic portrayal of life as a teen in suburbia, but it largely fails on this point as well. When Phoebe Cates gets an abortion, it’s treated as nothing more than a minor inconvenience, like getting a flu vaccine. Contrast this with the weight given to the abortion decision in “Juno” and you see just how far “Fast Times” falls short.

And of course, matters aren’t helped by the painfully unfunny stabs at humor. When Phoebe’s friend Stacy discovers that Mike, the man who knocked Phoebe up, neglected to take her to the clinic and pay for the procedure, it’s payback time. So Stacy writes “prick” on Mike’s car and his locker! Major burn! (This under reaction would be akin to the President declaring that we needed to fight carbon emissions with a voluntary program. Oh wait...)

Even the film’s iconic scene (altogether now, “JENNIFER JASON LEIGH TOPLESS!”) is a pathetic throwaway masturbation joke. When you’re making the “American Pie” films look clever, you might want to quit while you’re ahead.

Dogville

"Dogville" is one of the most depressing films you will ever see. It is not dark because of a glut of acts of violence and cruelty--although it certainly has those--but because it questions our very abilities to forgive and be virtuous.

Nicole Kidman stars as Grace, a fittingly named young woman who mysteriously arrives in the town of Dogville in the wake of gunshots in the distance. Tom, the town's resident philosopher, senses she is in danger and suggests she hide in the village. Located deep in the Rocky Mountains and boasting a grand total of 15 adult residents, Dogville is an ideal place for Grace to seclude herself.

Tom convinces the townspeople to hide Grace from the gangsters and policemen who periodically come searching for her. In exchange, Grace performs menial labor for them. At first, the inhabitants are too proud to accept her help. Seeing how easily she is manipulated, however, they soon grow accustomed to exploiting her. Grace is raped and punished with ever increasing amounts of labor. She tolerates these indignities, reasoning that she would do the same things if placed in the shoes of these impoverished people.

How long can Grace endure this abuse? And why are mobsters and policemen on her trail? These questions sustain the energy of a film that stretches nearly three hours.

The film is all the more impressive for captivating us despite appearing to have been shot on a soundstage. The town has no buildings and a minimum of props. The streets are outlined with chalk; characters open and shut imaginary doors. At first this is a distraction, but after an hour I hardly noticed it.

Indeed, writer-director Lars von Trier has a gift for convincing us to accept melodramatic and unrealistic situations. We go along with his unreasonable premises because we wish to see the vision of a truly original auteur.

If you don't want to question mankind's capacity for compassion, don't watch "Dogville." But if you want true insight into the frequent horrors of the human condition, von Trier has made a compelling statement.