The Son

"Four men is sitting at a table playing poker. The scene is rather boring. Suddenly, after 15 minutes, we hear a big bang - it turnes out there was a bomb under the table. This is called surprise as it isn't what we expected would happen.

"If we watch the same scene again with the important difference that we have seen the bomb being placed under the table and the timer set to 11 AM, and we can see a watch in the background, the same scene becomes very intense and almost unbearable - we are sitting there hoping the timer will fail, the game is interrupted or the hero leaves the table in time, before the blast. This is called suspense." -Alfred Hitchcock

The Belgian Dardenne brothers use Hitchcock's insight to great effect in their film "The Son." The premise is deceptively simple: Olivier, a carpentry teacher, takes on a new student who was responsible for the death of his son. The student, Francis, doesn't know of Olivier's connection to him. The whole movie becomes a sort of moral cat-and-mouse game, leading up to a particularly tense trip to a lumberyard. Will Olivier exact revenge? Will he manage to forgive Francis? Will he even reveal his secret? The Dardennes could have kept the characters' connection a secret until the end of the film. That would have given us a great surprise, but it wouldn't have provided the tension that permeates the whole movie.

Olivier's emotions are impossible to read, which only adds to the suspense. The Dardennes' camera follows closely behind him for almost the entire film, yet we can never read what he's thinking. He seems to process emotions in the same way that he works: in short bursts. One moment he's berating Francis, the next he's doing him favors. Will the better angels of Olivier's nature win out?

No CGI. No chase scenes. No explosions. And yet this film is more exciting than almost anything Hollywood produces today.

The Office (U.S. Version)

I'm usually a bit behind the times, and "The Office" is no exception. While other "Office" fans eagerly watch Season 8 unfold every week, my wife and I are just now watching Season 7 on Netflix. We recently watched the third episode, "Andy's Play," which exposed some of the weaknesses in later episodes of the show.

"Andy's Play" has everything needed for a classic "Office" episode: romantic misunderstandings, awkward moments, and, of course, plenty of Michael being Michael. But while it was good television--I laughed frequently--it just didn't have the same transcendent feeling as great episodes of the show. I count three reasons.

First, it just wasn't quite as funny. Now, humor is a notoriously subjective thing, but I think it's clearly the case that there weren't any big set pieces in this episode. (Think Michael wearing a sumo suit to work, or the bat loose in the office.) The show has struggled to find those big moments as it runs out of possibilities for its characters. In fact, the last great episodes of the show were in Season 5, when Michael formed his own paper company and somehow outwitted Dunder Mifflin. You can't exactly do that every season.

It could also be the case that we're so familiar with the humor of "The Office" that it just doesn't have the same impact on us. I would guess the problem is some combination of the two.

The second issue: the romantic entanglements. This episode dredges up the old Dwight-Angela connection, which stretches back to Season 2. The other pseudo-romance was between Andy and Erin, another leftover (this one from Season 6).

These relationships have the same problem as almost all "will they or won't they" storylines on television: 95 percent of the time, they will. The only reason for the romantic tension is to allow writers to drag out a storyline over dozens of episodes.

But there's a deeper problem as well. All of these characters--Dwight, Angela, Andy, and Erin-- are primarily here for comic relief. They're almost caricatures, far more one-dimensional than the main characters: Jim, Pam, and Michael. This is why we rooted so hard for Jim and Pam. It's why we even rooted for Michael with Holly. The man is a jerk, but we know why he's a jerk: a painful, fatherless childhood. (Whereas Dwight is just kind of a jack ass.) Unfortunately, the show can't keep these three characters in romantic limbo year after year, so instead it has to invent new couplings.

The final problem was Steve Carell. The man is responsible for an absolutely classic comic creation in Michael Scott. But here he just seems to be on auto-pilot. A bit in which Carell acts out an entire "Law and Order" episode for an audition should be hilarious, but instead it's merely funny. Likewise, Carell looks half asleep in the big opening montage for Season 7.

It's not hard to see why Carell moved on. He was sick of portraying the same selfish nincompoop season after season. That's understandable--although his film career, which mostly consists of paydays like "Evan Almighty" and dreck like "Dan in Real Life," doesn't seem any more rewarding.

Pop culture snobs will say that "The Office" should have followed the model of its British counterpart: two seasons, a special, then over and out. But "The Office," like many shows, was struggling to find its voice during its first season. Few can be brilliant right out of the box, as Ricky Gervais' "Office" was. I can't say exactly when the right time would have been for the American "Office" to call it quits. But it certainly seems past its sell-by date now.

Fair Game

"Fair Game," based on the story of Valerie Plame and Joe Wilson, feels like a dubious proposition. We already know that the Bush Administration went to war with Iraq on trumped up intelligence. We also know that Wilson and Plame were unfairly targeted by the Administration. What could we learn from a movie on the subject?

More than you might expect--at least in the first half of the film. "Fair Game" shows us the lead up to war from the vantage point of the CIA. It shows us how data were collected and how the Administration interfered with the process. Even better, it shows how the Administration could possibly have convinced itself that Saddam Hussein might have a nuclear weapons program. All in all, it's a more realistic view of spying than you're likely to get from most Hollywood movies.

Unfortunately, the second half of "Fair Game" isn't so enlightening. Wilson attacks the President's claim that Hussein purchased yellowcake uranium from Niger. In retaliation, Administration officials leak the information that Wilson's wife, Plame, is a CIA officer. It's a fairly rote rehashing of the facts.

The movie turns into a marital drama, as Wilson fights back against his wife's wishes. Finally, the film ends on a pretty preachy note, using the kind of heavy-handed monologues it had wisely avoided until that point.

"Fair Game" ends up as a solid political thriller. A film that focused more on the CIA would have been much more valuable. Still, as anyone who has seen "W" can attest, this movie could have been a lot worse.

50/50

In the past year, I've reviewed "Love and Other Drugs" and "It's Kind of a Funny Story" in this space. Those movies failed because they couldn't decide what they wanted to be. They mixed comedy and drama without ever committing to one. And while it's fine to have a funny drama or a dramatic comedy, in the end you can't fit into both genres. A movie's message can't be both funny and in earnest.

"50/50" succeeds because it does commit. While it is famously a funny movie about cancer, as the movie builds to its climax it assumes a gravity that comedies cannot. It refuses to shy away from its tragic subject matter.

"50/50" centers on Adam (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), who learns he has a rare form of cancer at 26. But it's really about the people around Adam, and how they fail him. His best friend Kyle (Seth Rogen) makes so many jokes about the situation that it's hard to tell if he really grasps it. His girlfriend Racheal (Bryce Dallas Howard) is totally unequipped to handle his care. His mother (Anjelica Huston) worries so much that she makes things worse.

"50/50" isn't about the jokes. It isn't even really about cancer. It's about the challenge of helping someone through a crisis. Too often, we give victims what we think they want instead of listening to what they need. This makes us feel better rather than those we intend to aid.

The movie has its share of flaws. "50/50" follows the irritating Hollywood trend of using pop songs to score its most serious moments. These songs--particularly because of their lyrics--add a lot of unearned sentiment that a film can drown in. When Adam learns he has cancer, it's a powerful moment. When Radiohead's "High and Dry" kicks in immediately after, it becomes too powerful.

For a good movie, "50/50" also has a lot of issues with its characters. Seth Rogen is on notice--he needs to develop some more tools. His cuddly frat boy schtick is starting to get old. In addition, Adam is a bit thin as a character. Screenwriter and real-life cancer survivor Will Reiser is much better at depicting the flaws of friends and family than at examining the character based on himself. Meanwhile, Rachael is rather unnecessarily portrayed as being heartless.

But none of that can obscure the fact that "50/50" has its heart and head in the right place. It delivers an important message that a truly comic take on cancer couldn't deliver.

As Good As It Gets

There is one heartbreaking scene in "As Good As It Gets." Jack Nicholson's character has just returned a dog he had been watching for a few weeks to its owner. He had formed a special bond with the animal. He begins laughing at himself, saying "Over a dog," but the laughter quickly turns to tears. The cheer is somehow indistinguishable from the sadness.

It's a painful moment, but not for the reason the filmmakers intended. What's tragic about the scene is that Nicholson is wasting his tremendous talent on a piece of feel good pap.

"As Good As It Gets" stars Nicholson as Melvin, an obsessive compulsive writer who doesn't know how to love. His favorite waitress, Carol (Helen Hunt), desperately needs a boyfriend to break up the monotony of caring for her asthmatic young son. His neighbor, Simon (Greg Kinnear), is a cheerful artist who doesn't know how to stand up for himself. Can you guess how these people's lives will be changed in two hours?

But wait, there's more! "As Good As It Gets" isn't just an inspirational drama, it's also a comedy! Unfortunately, the wit in this movie is about at the level of "Dude, Where's My Car?" The jokes are either awkwardly staged, as when Carol's fellow waitresses freeze in mock horror when she suggests that Melvin wait for a table, or based on bodily humor, as when Melvin crushes his crotch while moving his car seat up. (Men have penises, haha!)

Before seeing this movie, I learned that it had garnered seven Oscar nominations. I wasn't sure if this was a good sign or a bad sign. My worst fears were confirmed. The nominations are like cruel jokes. Best Editing for a movie that's a half hour too long! Best Score to Hollywood hackmeister Hans Zimmer! Best Screenplay for a script with no subtlety, nuance, or interesting ideas! Somehow there's no directing nomination, despite a good seven or eight teary monologues which get the zoom-in treatment.

This brings us to the movie's two wins, for Best Actress and Best Actor. Helen Hunt does her best to elevate some lame material, but she's not Oscar-worthy. Nicholson, on the other hand, is very good. And the "Best Actor" is not like a "Most Valuable Player" award in sports, where you can argue that a player is only valuable if his team is good. So Jack's win may have been justified--but it's still depressing to see him waste his talents on such forgettable material.

Product Placement

Product placement has been around in movies since the silent era, or so Wikipedia tells me. The earliest movie in which I can recall seeing product placement is 1967's "Point Blank." Lee Marvin turns on a television and watches a commercial. (I believe it's for panty hose.) Not very subtle.

More recently, product placement has become both more profuse and more tolerable. In fact, I think it can actually add realism to a film. Who cares if a character is drinking a Heineken? In real life, people drink Heineken.

Lately, filmmakers have been finding new ways to stick products in their films. "Talladega Nights" uses product placement to make fun of product placement, as when Will Ferrell mentions his sponsor, Powerade, while saying Sunday grace.

A couple of recent films use product placement to help define their characters. In "The Other Guys," Ferrell's character is a pansy in part because he drives a Prius. Similarly, Steve Carrell's character in "Crazy, Stupid, Love." is a dork in part because he wears 504 New Balances and buys jeans at The Gap.

These money-raising efforts seem reasonable. However, the Farrelly brothers' most recent film, "Hall Pass," goes even farther to plug products. When Owen Wilson's character wants a steak, he asks, "What better place to do it than right here?"--at Applebee's, where he's gone to pick up women. Later in the film, Jason Sudeikis tells Wilson, "Your wife wanted to cook, so you bought her a Viking." Dejected, Wilson sighs, "I got her a GE." It's a moment that's supposed to demonstrate how he's let his wife down. But it could easily be a radio ad from the '40s. And when Sudeikis and Wilson get high, Sudeikis complements Wilson on his smooth skin, which Wilson credits to his Dove soap.

These exchanges are more than product placement. I would call them product endorsement. They're grating because people don't actually talk about how great a brand is. These plugs take us out of the film and force us to watch a brief ad for a product using the same characters with whom we're supposed to be identifying in the story.

Still, product placement--or even endorsement--isn't going away any time soon, especially in one particular genre. All of the more recent films I mentioned were comedies. American comedies are now struggling to get financing because they don't translate well abroad. Overseas grosses are becoming ever more lucrative and important for a film. This trend favors blockbusters--Michael Bay speaks the universal language of boobs and bombs--over films that rely more on culture-specific wit and subtlety.

So, do the ends justify the means? Is a good film worth making if it has to be paid for by egregious product placement? So far, I would have to say yes. I love "Point Blank." If the advertisement was necessary to finance it, then so be it. Still, I'm bracing myself for the day when we see a film with a close-up of Shia LeBouf drinking a Budweiser in slow motion with pretty girls on both arms.

The Color of Money

"The Color of Money" has disaster written all over it. It's an unnecessary sequel to the much-loved classic "The Hustler," which starred Paul Newman as an ace pool player. This time around, Newman is a mentor to the frequently irritating Tom Cruise. (Here he sports a ridiculous haircut and twirls his cue around like a samurai staff. It's not hard to imagine why he took the role.) Behind the camera is Martin Scorcese, who typically works on passion projects, not studio-hire stuff like this.

And yet "The Color of Money" sings, thanks to the pairing of Newman and Scorcese. Newman is literally the perfect actor for this role, possessing all the poise and self-assurance needed to sell himself to both Cruise and the audience. Scorcese brings his signature verve and energy to the pool hall, turning potentially dull or hackneyed scenes into visual thrills. (Although it must be said that Scorcese's longtime musical consultant/composer, Robbie Robertson of The Band, contributes a dreadful score.)

Beyond the technical stuff, "The Color of Money" works thanks to its unorthodox plot. This isn't your typical sports movie, where a young up-and-comer takes on a longtime champion/asshole. Instead, "The Color of Money" is about the conflict between passion and pragmatism. A born competitor, Cruise is only interested in destroying the competition. But as Newman teaches him, constant winners can't make much money in pool; pretty soon, no one wants to play them. To make money, a hustler has to deliberately lose for a while. Then, once his competitor gets too cocky, he brings his A game to win back his money and then some.

That's a profitable hustle, but it's contrary to the spirit of the game. And that's what "The Color of Money" is about--not who wins, but what the mentality of the players is. It's a sports movie where the outcomes don't matter. Pretty refreshing.

Drive Angry

I'm not usually a fan of the "so bad it's good" argument for films. Don't get me wrong--bad movies can be hilarious at times. But once the novelty of their awfulness wears off, you're just stuck watching a crappy film.

"Drive Angry" is an excellent example of this. The first 30 minutes have plenty of funny moments. Many of these revolve around 47-year-old, balding Nic Cage evidently being irresistible to women. His ridiculous badassery reaches its peak when he shoots about ten men while having sex with a woman. Did I mention he is smoking a cigar while doing this? And that he takes a swig of Jack Daniels immediately after the shooting? And that, just before firing, he tells the woman "I never disrobe before a gunfight"?

After that hilarious scene, though, the movie settles down and becomes a standard bad action movie, with plenty of drivin' and shootin'. There are lots of dumb plot twists. But once we've adjusted to the fact that the director went to the Michael Bay School of Filmmaking, it stops being funny and starts getting dull.

"Drive Angry" reflects a troubling trend in movies: films that are terrible, but get a pass because their creators know they are terrible. This is how "Drive Angry" gets a 45% rating on Rotten Tomatoes despite being one of the most poorly conceived and executed movies of the year.

Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez have spearheaded this trend with movies like "Grindhouse". Tarantino is so talented that he can take a bad movie premise and elevate it to something greater. But Rodriguez and most of his peers just use the "so bad it's good" excuse to churn out crap. The trend has even extended into music, with awful self-aware acts like LMFAO and Ke$ha.

Sigh. I shouldn't have to make this argument, but here goes. If I draw a stick figure, it's a bad drawing. It doesn't matter if I know the drawing is bad. It's quite possible that the director of "Drive Angry," Patrick Lussier, knew exactly how stupid his movie was when he made it. But that doesn't make his film any better. You can't have your cake and eat it too. And you can't make a bad movie and be celebrated for it.

About Schmidt

If you looked at his filmography from the last nine years, you'd never know that Jack Nicholson was one of the greatest American actors. He's increasingly indulged in outsized roles like the villain in "The Departed" and an unrepentant misogynist in "Something's Gotta Give".

These roles require more outward emotions and bravado, which may seem paradoxical; wouldn't an actor slow down as he aged? But in fact, it requires a lot less energy to deliver this type of performance than the sort of subtle, nuanced work he did in the 1970s.

All of this makes Nicholson's 2003 performance in "About Schmidt" so significant--it represents the last time he really gave a crap. It was the last time he actually tried hard, as opposed to looking like he was trying hard. And the results are fantastic. Playing a recently retired executive, Nicholson gives us a man going through the motions while showing his contempt and frustration beneath the surface. He nails subtle details, like the character's slow, lumbering gait. He also flexes his comedic chops, giving some wonderfully underplayed deadpan reactions.

As good as Nicholson is, though, it shouldn't obscure the rest of Alexander Payne's typically wonderful dramedy. Payne moves effortlessly from the mundane to the moving to the hilarious. Schmidt deals with his nagging wife, goes on an educational road trip ("I met a Native American today, and boy did he open my eyes. Those people got a raw deal."), and meets his daughter's wacky new in-laws. (Four words: Kathy Bates' nude scene. Let me assure you, though, that a few seconds of pain are well worth it for a film this good.)

Things happen, but nothing really changes. And that's what makes the movie so heartbreakingly honest. A more standard indie film would have seen Schmidt turning over a new leaf and becoming a better person. But Schmidt is too old to hit the reset button on his life. He's not going to magically change his relationship with his wife of 42 years or his thirtysomething daughter. Payne and Nicholson give us plenty of laughs, but they insist on making us face the awful truth.

Celebrity

Like many later Woody Allen movies, "Celebrity" has a good premise and poor execution.

First, the good: the film's theme is our celebrity-obsessed culture, a topic that hasn't been explored with seriousness in many films. Allen asks how people who essentially do nothing, such as someone taken hostage, can become famous. He lampoons Jerry Springer-like talk shows where skinheads and blacks fight to entertain audiences. He posits a world in which everyone is a celebrity. All of these points seem even more relevant 13 years after the film was made.

Now, the bad: just about everything else. The plot is based on the romantic exploits of a divorced couple. Frequently, this sort of storyline provides the anchor for Allen's films. But here it's utterly arbitrary and tossed off. The man, played by Kenneth Branagh, gets a blowjob from an actress, nearly beds a gorgeous model, dumps a loving girlfriend, and gets dumped by a footloose actress. Sure, whatever. Meanwhile, the woman, played by Judy Davis, is initially far more traumatized by the divorce. Yet she ends up married to a wonderful man. The lesson? In love, it all comes down to luck. Allen has made this point more interestingly in probably ten other films.

Branagh has the "Woody Allen surrogate" role here: he plays the nervous, insecure character that Allen would have played in younger days. The strange thing about Woody Allen surrogates is that they all play their roles exactly as he would have, gesticulating and stammering. Allen apparently gives very little instruction to his actors, so they may simply be taking their cues from his old films. Or they may have seen how successful the first Woody Allen surrogate, John Cusack, was in emulating him for "Bullets Over Broadway." Trouble is, Branagh is no John Cusack. Cusack managed to appear sufficiently nebbish for "Bullets," but Branagh is too ruggedly handsome to convincingly appear insecure and indecisive.

Many critics commented that Allen's films became more caustic and serious in the wake of his messy divorce. The reality is sadder: Allen was still trying to go for silly laughs, but he was starting to lose his comic touch. One scene in "Celebrity" is especially telling: Davis goes to a prostitute to get a lesson on blowjobs. The hooker then nearly chokes on a banana. This is the type of throwaway scene Allen has always used for comedy, but it's so unfunny that viewers were probably just puzzled.

Like almost all Woody Allen films of the last 30 years, this one looks great. And like most of his films, it's filled with talented actors. But while Allen has the artistic freedom to get the crew and cast he wants, he's been increasingly unable to utilize them in recent years.

Analyzing the Boomers for the 5 Millionth Time

Everything seems to be going to hell lately. To pick just a few examples: Our economy figures to sputter along for many decades to come, as the middle class shrinks and the nation becomes hampered by medical expenses. Our politicians and press are growing ever more rancorous and partisan. Music and movies seem to be growing ever more homogenized.

But maybe this is all normal. Maybe what we grew accustomed to in recent decades was an aberration. After all, the economic growth America witnessed from 1950-2000 was basically unprecedented. And for most of our history, newspapers were essentially partisan rags and politicians played pretty dirty, using political machines and voter fraud to climb to power. As for the arts, our nation has never been known as an artistic hotbed. The number of historically great American artists is downright embarrassing when one considers the size of our nation.

Let's take the last problem. It seems that the 1960s and 1970s in particular are revered as a golden age for American entertainment. I always resist such nostalgia--usually those who indulge in it are just unwilling to seek out the many great artists working today. But the fact that they have to be sought out does say something. It seems clear that talented artists, particularly musicians and filmmakers, got a lot more exposure in these decades. They also got a lot more money for their projects, which often allowed them to make much grander works.

But why was this? Was the Baby Boomer generation really this much more gifted than the rest of us? Were they really so much better at appreciating talent than other generations?

There were two opposing forces at work for the Boomer generation. First, they grew up in relative comfort. Having endured the Depression and World War II, their parents were not messing around. They took advantage of the opportunities offered by the GI Bill to create safe, stable homes for their kids. And their diligence paid off: the war left America as the economic growth engine for the world. Born with all these advantages, the Boomers were better off than any other generation of youth in history.

But while the Boomers had all they wanted, they could not do all they wanted. They were expected to follow in the footsteps of their parents. (Consider: in 1920, women received 20 percent of all Ph.Ds. By 1963, that number had dropped to 9 percent.) But because they didn't have to suffer through the Depression, they didn't understand why they had to get the same old boring jobs and follow the same old boring rules. They took material comfort for granted--America was now prosperous enough that they could--and started pursuing happiness with abandon. Why couldn't women and minorities have equal rights? Why couldn't people have sex with whoever they wanted? Why couldn't they take drugs whenever they wanted? (Some of their causes were more just than others.) The fact that the government started forcing young men to fight in a pointless war only added to their questioning of authority.

All of this unrest spilled over into pop culture. Why did a pop song have to be three minutes long? Why did a movie have to have a wholesome and good protagonist? Why couldn't music be more intelligent and indulgent than the Dave Clark Five? Why couldn't movies be just as experimental as any other art form? Listening to Hendrix and watching "Bonnie and Clyde" became another form of protest for the Boomers. And record labels and movie studios had no choice but to respond, since young adults have no kids, no mortgages, and therefore plenty of disposable income.

It was all fun while it lasted. But by the late 1970s, the party was over. The Boomers began to fall in line. They realized that making a buck wasn't so bad. They also clung to the art of their youth, as every generation does. (In fact, the late 1970s are a perfect example of our predicament today. This era was filled with great bands, from the Talking Heads to the Clash to Joy Division, that most Americans don't know anything about.)

Meanwhile, with the economy sleepwalking (thanks to some overzealous government policies and a couple of oil crises), corporations were becoming more cutthroat. Merging and union busting became the trendy management techniques--they still are to this day. Mergers were particularly harmful to artists. Radio station playlists were programmed to within an inch of their life, preventing any breakthroughs by bands without corporate sponsorship. Movie studios were taken over by men who knew nothing about filmmaking, resulting in crap like "Top Gun."

And now here we are. We still have tons of great artists. But bands like Spoon and the Arcade Fire, which should be hailed across the nation as Great American Bands, are unknown to most of the country. Talented directors struggle to drum up money for the expensive filmmaking process. (It took Derek Cianfrance seven years to secure financing for "Blue Valentine." The movie eventually earned back its budget ninefold.) And so most people consume variations on the same themes: Auto-Tuned divas, mindless rom-coms, "CSI: Albuquerque." This shouldn't be surprising. But it's still more than a little sad.

Blue Valentine

The man-child. He's become a comedic cliche. His goals in life are to consume Doritos and play Xbox while high-functioning women ensure that his life doesn't fall apart. Like any comedy archetype, it has a ring of truth to it: guys usually don't want to grow up.

That can be hilarious in the right context. But it also has very serious consequences, as Ryan Gosling demonstrates with his wonderful performance as Dean in "Blue Valentine," a terrifically rendered portrait of a marriage in crisis. Dean is awfully charming, but he can't quite seem to behave like an adult. He drinks too much, he handles his emotions poorly, he twists his wife's words instead of taking her arguments seriously.

From all that, you would think that Dean was the reason his marriage is failing. But it's to the film's great credit that there is no one culprit. In fact, for most of the movie, Dean is the one struggling to keep things together. His wife Cindy (Michelle Williams) married him in large part because she had been impregnated by a jerk she couldn't stand. Dean's affections sparked the relationship and helped keep it going. But one person's love can only do so much.

All of this is largely implied. Dean and Cindy's emotional issues are revealed patiently, naturally. The film also hints at how they've come to be this way. Both are the product of unhappy marriages. Dean's father is a janitor, indicating that he doesn't come from the genes of go-getters. Cindy's father is emotionally abusive, which may be why she started having sex at 13 and seems to fall for the wrong men.

This is storytelling done right. Director Derek Cianfrance is clearly a major talent. But it would all fall apart without the two leads. Gosling and Williams lived together for a month to develop the tension and conflict which comes out on screen. Both helped to develop characters whose actions are frequently deplorable yet completely understandable. Gosling, in particular, is witty and clever and irresponsible all at once. He can be funny, but his immaturity is also more than a little sad.

The King's Speech

"The King's Speech" is a well-made, well-acted historical drama. Its plot is innocuous and inspirational. In other words, it's a prototypical Best Picture winner.

What makes "The King's Speech" work is the chemistry between Colin Firth, who plays Bertie (later King George VI) and Geoffrey Rush, who plays his Australian speech therapist. These are two fine actors at the top of their games. Watching Rush push Firth to overcome his stammer and become a skilled public speaker is genuinely fun.

Unfortunately, they are ill-served by the simplistic storyline. Bertie is like a dog who was abused as a puppy: emotionally vulnerable, but pure and good. His elder brother David, who ascends the throne before he does, is more interested in banging his ex-hooker girlfriend than in confronting Germany. (In real life, Bertie favored appeasement just as much as David did until shortly before the war. Yet the story makes it appear as though Bertie knew all along the threat Hitler posed. But the filmmakers can't be bothered with silly little details when they're trying to be uplifting, now can they?)

Nonetheless, "The King's Speech" is a fine film. I don't begrudge it the Best Picture win. The real travesty was Tom Hooper's victory for Best Director. Hooper created a well-made British historical drama. If he was the best director of 2010, then Lone Scherfig should have won for "An Education" in 2009 and Cary Fukunaga should win in 2011 for "Jane Eyre."

It's not just that Hooper won over a more deserving candidate. It's that all of the nominees were more deserving than him. The Coen brothers' style is now so familiar that we can easily take it for granted, but only they could have made the funny, grim, charming "True Grit." David Fincher saved "The Social Network" from being a boring talkfest with skillful editing, inspired casting, and a terrific score by Trent Reznor. David O. Russell spiced up the fun, conventional "The Fighter" with plenty of personal touches. Darren Aronofsky made the rather silly "Black Swan," but he showed off some bravura filmmaking flourishes that will be emulated for years to come.

All of these movies are more creative and inventive than "The King's Speech," and they all relied far more on their respective directors for their success. As Manhola Dargis once said, "Let's acknowledge that the Oscars are bullshit and we hate them." So why do we still care so much about them?

Point Blank

"Point Blank" is like a Spoon song: it takes the most enjoyable elements of its medium, reduces them to their bear essence, and chops them up to create something fresh. Like many Spoon songs, "Point Blank" is a fun ride that leaves you with a vague, uneasy feeling.

Professional badass Lee Marvin stars as Walker (it's a testament to the simplicity of the film that most characters have only one name). Walker is betrayed by his wife and his friend Mal in a heist. Left for dead, he goes after Mal and his organization to get the money owed him. Walker proceeds with enough ingenuity, poise and toughness to make James Bond fiddle with his gadgets in envy.

With a traditional ending, "Point Blank" would be a terrific little film. But instead, it takes things to another level in the third act, introducing paranoia and confusion. Why is Walker risking so much for this money? (With his skills, he could easily get more elsewhere.) Just who runs the organization he's attacking? (Each time he kills a "boss," a new superior pops up.) Will he ever be able to get his money? (He can never be sure that a delivery isn't a set-up to kill him.)

Released in 1967, "Point Blank" presages the Nixon era, when nothing made sense and no one could be trusted. In short, "Point Blank" is a noir tinged with Kafka--a brilliant evolution of an old genre.

The Other Guys

Let's face it. As recently as a year ago, Will Ferrell's movie career was in trouble. He seemingly ran his man-child persona into the ground with "Semi-Pro" and "Step Brothers," then followed that up with an embarrassing cash-in, "Land of the Lost."

But then he got his mojo back with "The Other Guys," a film that's just different enough from Ferrell's previous efforts to feel fresh and hilarious. (Interestingly, Ferrell doesn't get a writing credit here, although frequent partner Adam McKay does.) Instead of playing another ignorant, spoiled brat, Ferrell plays Allen Gamble, a mild-mannered accountant for the NYPD. Gamble is so bland that he has six Little River Band CDs in his car and so naive that he unwittingly accepts a bribe to see "Jersey Boys." For extra zaniness, he used to be a pimp named Gator.

"The Other Guys" also doesn't pair Ferrell with a fellow man-child. Instead he gets a genuine foil in Mark Wahlberg. Wahlberg plays Terry Hoitz, a live-wire cop who makes up for his stupidity with energy. (Throughout the film, he's convinced that the accounting scandal they're investigating involves Columbian drug lords.) Wahlberg has a narrow range, but he can do this type of role extremely well: lots of yelling and confused looks. (That's a compliment, I swear.)

There's even a semi-relevant plot! In the wake of the financial crisis, "The Other Guys" focuses on accounting fraud, highlighting the fact that white-collar crime is often far more consequential than the robberies and drug busts we typically associate with police work. (The contrast is drawn with some hilariously over-the-top action sequences featuring Samuel L. Jackson and Dwayne Johnson.)

But really, we're here for the laughs, not the story. Like all good comedies, "The Other Guys" understands this. And so the jokes keep coming, whether it's Wahlberg mistaking a dance studio for a strip club, Steve Coogan mocking the overuse of flashbacks in movies, or Michael Keaton dropping TLC references.

But at the center of it all is Ferrell. Comic actors tend to go downhill really fast. (Seen an Eddie Murphy movie lately? I hope not.) Maybe he won't find material this good again, or maybe he'll stick with big paydays from now on. Whatever happens, he and McKay have given us another gem.

Four Lions

American films tend to deal with politics in a few ways. There are the "up with the people" movies, paeans to the underdog like "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington" and Michael Moore-style documentaries that aim to stand up to special interests. (There are few truly even-handed documentaries.) Then there are Hollywood-style entertainments that try to dabble in serious issues. Oliver Stone and Ed Zwick are the major auteurs in this area; their movies tend to shoehorn heavy-handed monologues into conventional "good vs. evil" tales. Finally, there are movies that simply use politics as a vehicle for the plot: think cockamamie political thrillers and comedies with corrupt businessmen for villains.

These films all struggle to deal with politics in an honest way because their first priority is to entertain. (How else will they get funding?) Therefore, they tend to use policy to score political points or make plot points.

"Four Lions," a British film, puts virtually all of these efforts to shame. It's at once an incredibly entertaining movie and an honest examination of an extremely serious issue: Islamic terrorism.

How do you make terrorists entertaining? By turning them into bumbling nitwits. "Four Lions" focuses on five utterly incompetent jihadists. These characters are so ridiculous that the film could be about practically anything and it would still be hilarious. But the humor is taken to another level through the juxtaposition between their deadly aims and their hopeless stupidity. One character insists they must bomb a mosque (the logic is hilariously tortured). Another brings a Prayer Bear with him to Pakistan--pull the string and it gives you a prayer to say! (The al-Qaeda operatives are not amused.) Another invites a girl in to dance with him to Maroon 5 while their explosives are in plain sight.

However, as the film progresses, it slowly and skillfully begins to acknowledge the utmost seriousness of their intentions. It also tackles other issues, like the wide variety of views held by Muslims and the British government's practices of racial profiling and rendition.

The filmmakers can handle this material because they trust the intelligence of their audience. They show rather than tell--unlike, say, Oliver Stone, who probably would have included a scene with some paranoid government official ranting about the danger of Muslims. "Four Lions" is more subtle, and more effective as a result.

Chloe

There are two aspects to making art: the craft and the spark. The craft involves the technical aspects of art: brushwork, story structure, framing a shot. The craft can be learned through education and improved through perseverance. The spark, in contrast, represents those magical pieces of invention in art that captivate us. The spark cannot be taught; one can no more learn creativity than learn how to believe in God.

Different art forms require different proportions of craft and spark. Songwriting requires a great deal of creativity; while songs can be well-played and well-structured, ultimately a song tends to be carried by a tune or inspired lyrics, the kind of thing that seems to emerge from the ether. Narrative writing generally requires a fair amount of both craft and spark. Writing well-constructed sentences and believable characters can be learned, but an inventive plot or a fervent piece of prose comes from one's imagination. Directing a movie can often be almost all craft: a director is frequently akin to a construction foreman. If a foreman is working with a talented architect and contractors, he will be successful as long as he has an eye for what works and knows how everything works together. Likewise, a director working with a skilled cast, editor, cinematographer and screenwriter will probably be successful. Imagination can be immeasurably helpful, but it often isn't necessary.

The craft and the spark are key to understanding artists' evolution as they age. Craft can be maintained, even improved upon, with experience. The spark is a much more fickle element. This is why songwriters often seem to lose their touch. Why couldn't David Bowie write ten more albums as good "Ziggy Stardust"? How did Jimmy Paige pull off possibly the best songwriting run over ten years or so in pop history, then quickly lose his touch? How could U2, the same band that wrote so many inspired songs in the '80s, become a hollow shell of themselves in this century?

On the other end of the spectrum, directors like Scorcese and Spielberg can often be incredibly successful for decades. They're such masters of their craft that they don't need the creativity of their youth, when Scorcese wrote "Mean Streets" and Spielberg orchestrated the incredible ending of "Close Encounters of the Third Kind". Their choice of material may be a bit dodgier now: "Shutter Island" had a rather embarrassing plot, while Spielberg has had increasing difficulties with the third acts of his films. But while both have made bad movies, it's almost impossible to imagine them directing a poorly made film.

Things are a bit hairier for writer-directors who generate their own material. They may maintain their craft as directors but see their spark as writers start to fail them. Over the last fifteen years, Woody Allen's scripts have grown considerably weaker; in particular, his sense of comedy seems to have left him almost entirely. Yet his movies are always well-made; he works with talented people and knows filmmaking like the back of his hand. Or witness the Coen brothers: lately their results are a bit mixed when they work from their own material (witness "Burn After Reading" and "A Serious Man"). But when base their films off the work of others, the results--"No Country for Old Men" and "True Grit"--are spectacular, thanks to their complete command of the technical aspects of filmmaking.

Which brings us to Atom Egoyan. Egoyan wrote and directed "The Sweet Hereafter," arguably one of the best films of the '90s. It had a hypnotic, elliptical quality to it, pulling you in while leaving you unsure about just what was going on. Indeed, the actors were only given their parts of the script, so they were often just as confused the viewer, adding to the movie's cryptic feel. Only in the final frames of the film does the audience learn what really took place.

It's almost shocking that the auteur behind a movie as good as "Hereafter" could produce "Chloe," Egoyan's latest effort. A huge part of the problem is the source material: for the first time, he's directing a feature film he didn't write. Not only is it a lurid, predictable thriller; it explores some Egoyan's previous themes in an embarrassingly juvenile fashion. When two characters chat over Skype, one laments that he cannot see the other in person--see how alienating the Internet is! A high schooler could do a better job exploring the impact of technology on personal relationships.

But all of this could be attributed to the terrible script, which Egoyan didn't write. Perhaps he's lost the spark, run out of ideas. (Or perhaps he just needed money or wanted to make a film and couldn't come up with an idea.) What really makes "Chloe" shocking is the terrible production quality. It doesn't just feel like a late night movie on Showtime; it looks like one too. The cinematography is practically indifferent: paint by numbers master shots, over-the-shoulder shots, and so on. The score is utterly rote, hitting every note you expect at the most predictable moments. The production design is downright drab, with much of the action taking place in tacky-looking restaurants, a far cry from the vivid small-town sets of "Hereafter". And none of this can be explained by money: "Chloe" cost more than twice as much as "Hereafter" to make.

Egoyan doesn't just lose his spark here, he loses his craft. It's mystifying, and depressing given how few quality films are released in the U.S. already. But Egoyan is only 50. Here's hoping he still has something left in the tank.

Carnal Knowledge

Even Hollywood is capable of producing serious films (at least from November to January). Unfortunately, Hollywood also sometimes puts out Serious Films: movies that try so hard to address big issues that they end up having a rather small impact.

"Carnal Knowledge" is an especially disappointing example of the latter because its director, Mike Nicholls ("The Graduate"), is capable of exploring heavy themes with a much lighter, more thought-provoking touch.

Moreover, the first third of the film shows some promise. Jonathan (Jack Nicholson) and Sandy (Art Garfunkel) are best friends and college roommates both dating the same woman, Susan (Candice Bergen). Jonathan is bracingly honest: he only wants one thing. Sandy is much more apologetic about his desires. Susan dates Sandy out of pity and Jonathan out of lust. The premise is a little flimsy, but movies have been made with less. More importantly, there are nice comic moments in the opening scenes that are also very revealing. Sandy's awkward introduction to Susan could have come straight out of an episode of "The Office". Jonathan bellows "Read my thoughts, dammit!" as he bemoans his lack of emotional intimacy with Susan.

Next the film flashes forward ten years. We know we're in trouble right away: Jonathan and Sandy both deliver morose monologues directly into the camera. Technically they're each addressing the other off-screen. But it's a clumsy way to imitate the intimate close-ups of Ingmar Bergman. (Tellingly, Bergman only did these shots with women, whose faces he claimed were more expressive. His theory bears out here.)

From there, Nicholls shuffles us through a couple of totally unnecessary plotlines. Jonathan dates a two-bit actress whom he chiefly values for her knockers. Would you believe it doesn't work out? Meanwhile, Sandy marries Susan, grows bored, and cheats on her. Over the course of an hour, we get a lot of heavy-handed monologues that explore practically every major sexual hangup: jealously, inadequacy, boredom, commitment issues.

The only bright spot here is Nicholson. The actor recently said that he was never able to convince a woman to marry him. Roles like this probably didn't help. The character of Jonathan allows him to do everything in his wheelhouse: Suave Jack, Smarmy Jack and Angry Jack. Nicholson's ability to fly off into a rage while remaining in complete control was unparalleled. Nicholls, on the other hand, lacked the visual imagination and deft touch to carry heavy material. One was capable of being serious; the other could only be Serious.

What Just Happened

"What Just Happened" gets all the details right and the big picture wrong. It's well-written and well-filmed, but it's exactly the kind of movie that Ben, a producer played by Robert De Niro in the film, would not greenlight.

The film shows us two weeks in the life of Ben as he scrambles to deal with issues in his professional and personal lives. "What Just Happened" is very good at showing us the frenetic pace of a Hollywood producer, rushing to put out one fire after another. It manages to demonstrate the cold, hard logic of numbers that rules studio decisions without getting preachy, no small feat. And it gives us the seamier side of LA--using sex to get a film role, abusing pills and so on--in a matter-of-fact way, without rubbing our nose in how dirty things can get.

Trouble is, the three crises Ben is dealing with are slender reeds on which to hang a film. He's trying win back his ex-wife--one of two we meet--but she's sleeping with someone else. He's wrestling with a director, who appears to be based on a combination of Sid Vicious and Keith Richards, over taking out a controversial dog shooting in his new film. And he's fighting mightily with Bruce Willis, playing an outsized version of himself, to shave a ridiculous beard before a new movie begins filming.

"What Just Happened" never really delves past the surface in dealing with these issues. Ben's half-hearted attempts to win back his wife are clearly never going to work. The Willis subplot is particularly undercooked. Ben doesn't even try to negotiate--how about a goatee?--or find out why Willis wants to play the character with a beard. These sins might be more forgivable if "What Just Happened" played as a breezy comedy. But while there are clearly efforts at humor here, they fall very short. There's little effort made at witty dialogue or comedic setpieces. A running gag involving an agent with some sort of hacking cough gets very old.

It's very unfortunate, because "What Just Happened" is a well-made, well-intentioned film with a loaded cast. De Niro plays a variation on his character in the terrific "Wag the Dog," a cynical insider who's seen it all. He doesn't try very hard, but with his talent, he doesn't have to. Stanley Tucci, John Tuturro and Catherine Keener, all capable scene stealers, do solid work. Sean Penn and Willis both play versions of themselves. As one might expect, Penn plays a credible version of himself, while Willis has fun going way over the top as the bearded, overweight diva. Even Kristen Stewart gets to do her usual brooding thing as Ben's daughter.

These characters would all fare well in a grim drama or, better, a zany comedy. But "What Just Happened" is too serious to be funny and too funny to be serious.

True Grit

By now, we know what the Coen brothers do well: deadpan wit, white-knuckled suspense, and cruel twists of fate. But never have they blended their talents as seamlessly as in "True Grit".

Working off a novel by Charles Portis, which supplies much of the dialogue, the Coens spin a wonderfully moving little yarn. Mattie Ross (Hailee Steinfeld) inherits her family's estate at 14 after her father is killed. Far from being in over her head, she quickly uses her business acumen to generate some capital and hire Rooster Cogburn (Jeff Bridges) to avenge the death. Alternately boozy and razor-sharp, Cogburn searches for the killer on Native American lands. He soon meets LaBouef (Matt Damon), a Texas ranger also on the killer's trail. LaBouef is a character rarely if ever encountered: he has a good heart and dogged determination, yet he's frequently incompetent and arrogant as only a Texan can be. The fate of these three motley travellers isn't hard to guess, but the story is so well told that we still get swept up in it.

The acting is uniformly terrific, the score appropriately sentimental. Other than that, there's not a lot of technical brauvara here. The Coens know it's not necessary: they've got a great story, lively dialogue and fantastic characters. They do just enough to make it all sing beautifully. "True Grit" is the best American picture of the year.

The Runaways

The Runaways helped introduce female sexuality to rock and roll. There, I just saved you an hour and 45 minutes.

What's that? You've got some time to kill? Well, I don't recommend wasting it on this film. Actually, it's more of a music video: endless montages of girls playing gigs, taking pills, snorting coke and having sex.

The plot is a "Behind the Music" episode without the interviews. Joan Jett (Kristen Stewart) and Cherie Currie (Dakota Fanning), motivated by a desire to rebel against their irresponsible parents and bland peers, form a band with help from producer Kim Fowley (Michael Shannon, whose terrific intensity is wasted in a role that requires him to constantly exhort the girls to be tough and sexy, then tougher and sexier). The girls break all the rules, refuse to be tamed--until it all comes crashing down. I'm bored just typing this.

There's one consolation: a terrific soundtrack feature the Stooges, the Sex Pistols and David Bowie. Really, the whole film is an attempt to capture the intensity of a song like "Now I Wanna Be Your Dog".

But there's a problem with that approach. "Now I Wanna Be Your Dog" is three minutes long. The hook gets in your head, the beat rattles your bones, and then it's done. A movie, on the other hand, is a world you inhabit for two hours. And it helps a lot to have something to draw people into that world: technical mastery, wit, compelling emotions, thought provoking ideas, something. An amateurishly filmed screenplay about teenagers dicking around that took about as long to write as a Ramones song isn't cutting it.

Elegy

Phillip Roth's obsession with his own libido has rarely led him to interesting places. "Elegy," which is based on a Roth novel, plays like a sexualized version of "Old Yeller".

Ben Kingsley is David Kepesh, a professor who falls for Consuela, a student of his played by Penelope Cruz. A habitual loner, Kapesh has always avoided serious romantic entanglements. But Consuela is different, because she is very, very hot. Also, she is 30 years his junior. "Elegy" continually reminds of these facts with seductive shots of Cruz and tiresome montages of Kingsley looking wistfully into the distance as he contemplates his mortality.

There is a bit more to "Elegy". Kepesh's friend George (Dennis Hopper) comes to terms with his marital infidelity, but pays no real price for it. Kepesh also has an ongoing relationship with Carolyn (Patricia Clarkson), who tells him she is "one in a million" because she asks for sex and nothing else. (And what more could a man possibly want?) Finally, Kepesh comes to a begrudging reconciliation with his son Kenny (Peter Sarsgaard), whom he abandoned as a child. (Kepesh hilariously defends himself by observing that Kenny went on to become a successful doctor.)

Mostly, though, "Elegy" is about Consuela and a tragedy that befalls her. This calamity is awful because she is very, very hot.

"Elegy" works hard to give the impression that it is a serious film. There is plenty of tasteful cinematography and music. The top-shelf cast delivers solid work. Consuela's tragedy makes the film appear somber and deep. Even the title has been changed from Roth's book, "The Dying Animal," to the more elegant "Elegy". But at its heart, this movie is about a pathetically lonely, horny old man--Hugh Hefner without the endless parade of 24-year-old blondes.