Dark Horse

By now, the man-child is an extremely familiar cinematic trope.  You know the drill: sweet but immature guy has to learn to grow up, usually for the sake of a woman who's much more attractive than him.  Typically the man-child is a fundamentally good person.  He may be lazy or afraid to take responsibility, but we don't usually see the dark side of adolescence in these cuddly heroes.

Actually, that's not quite right.  We have seen the downside of immaturity from a comedic perspective: witness the antics of Danny McBride or Will Ferrell.  But these comic actors tend to focus on the boorishness of the adolescent male.

Todd Solondz's "Dark Horse," in contrast, looks at the characteristics of the man-child that aren't so box office friendly: blame shifting, jealousy, and self-absorbed negativity.

Abe fits the usual man-child profile: in his 30s, lives with his parents.  Unsurprisingly, he needs to mature to win over a woman far too good for him.  But where Solondz goes from there is not so typical.  Abe ruminates over his fear of dying alone, a failure.  His insecurities lead him to lash out at his put-upon father and accomplished brother.  He collects toys, a fact which Solondz uses to spin a metaphor much more powerful than that of Judd Apatow's 40-year-old virgin who won't take his toys out of the box.  (Abe also drives a Hummer, which Solondz cleverly uses to point out that these monstrosities are basically giant toys.)

Without giving anything away, I can safely say the film goes to unexpected places.  Much of the movie takes place in Abe's head, as he converses with other characters fantastically in the style of a Woody Allen film.  And the film's ending would surely not please Apatow, who once said he loved Allen's movies but wished he would lighten up.

Solondz gets great work from his cast.  Jordan Gelber has rightfully gotten credit for his work as Abe, but Selma Blair is just as good, joining the long line of beautifully sad Solondz heroines.  Christopher Walken gets a rare serious role as Abe's father, and ably exploits it: he conveys more with a blank look than he does in most films where he's bursting with batshit energy.  Mia Farrow is also excellent as the hopelessly doting mother.

Recently Solondz's work has seemed a bit tired.  His previous film, "Life During Wartime," was a sequel to his masterpiece "Happiness" that functioned more as a weak echo.  Hopefully, Solondz has reinvigorated himself by examining a new stock character of Hollywood.

The Cabin in the Woods

Note: This review contains a spoiler for the film.  However, the spoiler has been fairly widely discussed by now, and is referenced in ads for the DVD and on the DVD menu.  The film also contains another twist which will not be revealed.

"The Cabin in the Woods" is very reminiscent of "Shaun of the Dead" and "Hot Fuzz."  It's a send-up of a genre that also functions as an example of the genre.  In this case, the film pokes fun at dumb horror movies while also functioning as its own dumb horror movie.

Early previews of the film made it seem like a very generic scary movie.  Five college students stay in the woods for a weekend, zombies appear, and nasty things happen.

As it turns out, though, their fate is being manipulated from a control room.  A team of engineers is working to ensure that these students die.

Writers Joss Whedon and Drew Pearson use this set-up to aptly parody the usual horror movie tropes, showing how gullible and dumb most of the victims are as well as how rote the scares tend to be.  But when they reveal the reason the young co-eds are being led to the slaughter, the film turns into its own ridiculous scare machine.

Whedon and Pearson are very clever.  And clearly, they've got a deep affection for scary movies, which is why they turn their film into one while displaying their awareness of how tacky they can be.  If you're a horror fanboy, this movie is right up your alley.

But movies should try to resonate with everyone, not just a subset of people who are in on the joke.  When I think about the most effective horror films I've seen--movies like "Psycho," "Rosemary's Baby," and "Jaws"--they tend to play on deep-seated fears that almost everyone can relate to: subjects like mental illness, miscarriage, or even something as simple as what's lurking in the water.  So many horror movies are predicated on pretty young things dumbly prancing to their doom.  The viewer can't take them seriously because she doesn't relate to them.  (Nor would she relate to "The Cabin in the Woods," once the twist is revealed.)

(On a more technical level, I think horror movies are much better off relying on suspense.  When they start throwing out dumb scares early on, you're reminded that you're watching a movie and lose your suspense of disbelief.)

After seeing "The Cabin in the Woods," I have to wonder what the future holds for horror.  The audience appears to know all the tricks of the genre, and the directors appear to know that they know those tricks.  Filmmakers would be much better served by ditching the ghouls and focusing on things we fear in real life.

Take This Waltz

Early in "Take This Waltz," the main character is chatting with the man with whom she is considering having an affair.  She says that when she's sad, she can usually figure out why.  But "sometimes, when I'm walking down the street, and a shaft of sunlight falls in a certain way on the pavement, I just want to cry."

Hold up.  Morrissey called and he wants his lyrics back.  What a suffocating line.

But wait a tick--there's something interesting going on here.  Our heroine is saying that sometimes she's sad for no reason.  And her paramour responds that maybe she just hasn't found the reason yet.

That intriguing question is what "Take This Waltz" explores.  And it provides a very thoughtful answer.  Unfortunately, as the above line indicates, sometimes it struggles with the delivery.

The aforementioned heroine meets her possible beau briefly on a trip to Nova Scotia.  Coincidentally, they sit next to each other on their plane ride back to Toronto.  Coincidentally, they happen to live on the same street.  Coincidentally, the three main characters all have lots of free time: the charming stranger pulls a rickshaw (which apparently earns him enough to rent a townhouse), while the wife has a very vaguely defined job in travel writing and the husband is writing a cookbook.

If you want the quirky ideosyncracies and contrivances that can plague indie films, look no further.  The wife has airport staff push her around in a wheelchair because she's afraid of missing her connecting flights--as if waiting on someone to help you would make that less likely.  (Also, symbolism: she doesn't like MISSED CONNECTIONS.)  Her husband's cookbook contains only recipes for chicken.  (More symbolism: HE'S BORING.)

While I can't overlook these missteps, I can forgive them because I admire the movie's larger purpose.  Ultimately, it doesn't really matter what happens in this film: whether the wife cheats, whether she leaves her husband, whether she's forgiven.  The story is just a vehicle for examining how we deal with sadness.  Is it a matter of changing our surroundings?  Or is there just no cure at all?

Lincoln

One of the turning points in "Lincoln" comes in a speech by Thaddeus Stevens on the floor of the House of Representatives.  Stevens is asked if he believes in equality for blacks in all things, or merely under the law.  He wants to insist that all races are equal.  But most Americans don't believe that, and would oppose the abolition of slavery if it meant blacks would be treated as truly equal to whites.  So he restrains himself.  He says he believes merely in equality under the law.  It may not be what he wants to say, but it advances the cause of abolition.

Director Steven Spielberg also faces a test in "Lincoln."  He loves uplift and spectacle, and he's a master at delivering them.  This is all well and good for, say, an Indiana Jones flick.  But for "Lincoln," a historical drama which aspires to seriousness, it's the path to cliche and banality.  "Amistad," his dull paean to the quest for freedom, is a perfect example of the possible pitfalls.

Thankfully, Spielberg is largely able to keep his showmanship in check here.  Focusing on the passage of the Thirteenth Amendment, "Lincoln" gives us the political meat-and-potatoes: the backroom deals, legal vagaries, and compromises in which Lincoln had to engage for the sake of the bill.  The film also dabbles in the mental instability of the Lincoln family through Lincoln's son's insistence on joining the army.  Spielberg realizes that it's not the why of the Thirteenth Amendment that matters--we all know that.  It's the how that is his value-added.

Of course, Spielberg can't always help himself from indulging in a little flag-waving nonsense.  The opening scene, in which Lincoln is bathed in an angelic glow as Union troops recite the Gettysburg address to him, is sheer ridiculousness.  There are some painfully cloying lines, as when the Speaker of the House declares "This is history" before casting his vote.  Finally, the ending of the movie lapses into generic biopic territory: we see the settlement at Appomattox and Lincoln on his deathbed.  It's a reenactment of history rather than an investigation, one any high schooler could give us.

Janusz Kaminski, the cinematographer on "Lincoln," said that because Abe was such an iconic figure, he had to be shot carefully: "You can't really show the man taking a dump, you know?"  This is exactly the wrong attitude to take towards a historical figure.  Lincoln shat, and it stank, just like it did for everybody else.  Part of the man's greatness was that he would admit this himself.  "Lincoln" mostly gets that key point right.

Alien

Note: This review basically spoils the film.

I confess I only recently saw "Alien" for the first time.  This is because I am a complete wimp when it comes to horror movies.

The good news about "Alien" was that it wasn't very scary.  The bad news about "Alien" was that it wasn't very scary.

First off, credit where it's due: director Ridley Scott does a nice job of setting the mood.  At the movie's outset, the camera slowly pans through our heroes' ship, the Nostromo, while they sleep.  We also get plenty of shots of the Nostromo drifting along, emphasizing the cold silence of space.  This is a film that shows uncommon patience.

But patience only works if there's a payoff, and that's rather lacking here.  Much to my surprise, for a movie that features a killing machine with razor sharp teeth and a terrifyingly huge head, most of the scares in the film are more gross-out shots than actual shocks.  Some of the blame probably goes to the clearly limited effects budget for the film.  But that's no excuse: as the "Paranormal Activity" films have shown, you can get plenty of scares just by playing on the audience's imagination.

Plot-wise, the movie lost me when it was revealed that Ash, the officer who orders that the alien be brought back to Earth regardless of the loss of the crew's lives, is actually an android created by the company that employs the heroes.  The reveal happens after we see him sweating a white goo.  The crew are able to take him apart, but before he shuts off he tells them that they "have [his] sympathies."

Where to start?  If the company wants to bring back an alien and can create an android that does everything a human can, why not just send four or five of those out into space?  Why would they build a robot that sweats white goo?  Seems like a major design flaw.  And since when do machines have "sympathies"?

Admittedly, part of the problem with "Alien" is context.  The tricks of horror movies have become so familiar in the past thirty years that this one's seem tame.  In addition, the film's most famous scene--in which the alien bursts out of John Hurt's stomach--was parodied so effectively in "Spaceballs" that it's lost most of its power.  Finally, the fact that Sigourney Weaver starred in three sequels to this film makes her final scene with the alien (which she partly does in her undies, for a little gratuitous T&A) pretty anticlimactic.

But a great movie should hold up regardless of when you see it.  "Jaws," "Rosemary's Baby," "The Shining"; all still have the power to shock more than three decades later.  "Alien" is just disgusting.

Lance Armstrong's Temptation

"Live each day as if it were your last."  This is dumb advice.  It is highly likely that today will not be your last day.  If you were to follow this mindset every day, you'd soon be left penniless and destitute.  But however misguided this philosophy may be, it's a little easier to understand when you've had a close brush with death.

The recent allegations against Lance Armstrong are damning.  The U.S. Anti-Doping Agency's findings--which Armstrong has not contested--depict Armstrong as one of the most blatant cheaters in sports history.  Plenty of athletes have used steroids, but who else has made using them a requirement for membership on his team?  His gall is simply amazing.

But then, his background is pretty amazing too.  At the age of just 25, Armstrong was diagnosed with stage three testicular cancer.  The cancer spread to his abdomen, his lungs, his brain.

Of course he recovered, and in just 18 months, he was back on the Tour de France.  But it's easy to imagine  how a scare like that would get you thinking about the meaninglessness of your life.  At the time, Armstrong wouldn't even have merited a footnote in history.  If he was lucky, he might get a three-minute segment on the evening news: a pretty good cyclist beats cancer and rides again.  A nice story and nothing more.  But if he won the Tour, he would make his mark.  And not only would he be known as a great athlete; he could use his success to promote his new cancer foundation.  His name would live on.

None of this absolves Armstrong from blame.  The man is a cheat and a liar.  There are plenty of ways to support cancer research without servicing his ego by promoting Livestrong.

But Lance Armstrong is a cautionary tale in the dangers of refusing to accept one's mortality.

Bernie

An ongoing conundrum: when a good movie is based on a true story, who deserves the credit?  The real-life individuals responsible for the events depicted?  Or the filmmakers?  Is it the tale, or the telling?

In the case of "Bernie," the answer has to be a bit of both.  Bernie Tiede is the rare individual interesting enough to hang a movie on, an incredibly generous man who committed one heinous act.  Danny Buck, the shameless, condescending prosecutor in Bernie's case, is an excellent antagonist. (His real last name is Davidson, but he goes by Buck.  The showy moniker is almost too perfect.)

Still, much credit goes to those who brought the story to life.  Jack Black shows excellent restraint as Bernie, showing off just enough of his talents for histrionics and singing without going over-the-top.  Matthew McConaughey has a lot of fun uglying himself up to play Buck.  Director Richard Linklater deserves high marks for including numerous interviews with people from the real-life Texas town where the movie is set.  The commentary gives the movie a down-home feel that prevents it from becoming another rote indie.

To the average viewer this may all be a futile accounting exercise.  Art can't be quantified; you can't assign statistics to determine who did what in a movie.  I confess that I can't give a reason why it should matter to you.  But I can say that no matter who gets the credit for it, you'll be charmed and entertained by "Bernie."

The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Adolescence in suburbia isn't typically characterized by big events.  There aren't many epic romances, shocking betrayals, or dark secrets.  It's the smaller moments that usually mark growing up in this setting: being ignored by a popular kid, getting an answer wrong in class, seeing a crush holding hands with someone else.  These may seem like minor slights, but when you're a self-absorbed teenager, they feel momentous.

Unfortunately, it's not easy to portray this on film.  (Though 2011's "Terri" does a pretty good job of it.)  So high school movies tend to amp up the drama.  They may capture the insecurities and angst of coming of age.  But they also make it seem a lot more justified by pairing the outsized emotions with outsized events.

"The Perks of Being a Wallflower" is a case in point.  There's enough melodrama here for both a John Hughes movie and a Zach Braff film.  One character is in a relationship with a closeted captain of the football team.  Another always loses her crushes to a prettier friend.  The two main characters harbor deep, dark secrets which, naturally, they will help one another work though.

It's a shame, because the film is quite well-directed by Stephen Chbosky, author of the novel upon which the film is based.  He nails the details of 1990s suburbia.  He sports an impeccable soundtrack and doesn't just use it as a lazy method of characterization; he comments on teens' relationship with pop culture knowingly.  He pulls off several visually arresting sequences, no small feat for a first-time director.  And he gives his characters quirks and contradictions that make them feel like people you know.

Unfortunately, while the characters here feel true to life; the things that happen to them don't.

Friends with Kids

I tend not to like movies where I know what's going to happen.  It usually feels like a chore to get to the inevitable conclusion.  I prefer movies that keep me on my toes.  That's why I like indie films; their directors don't feel obligated to have the characters live happily ever after; they may not even live at all.

"Friends with Kids" is not a surprising film.  The premise: two best friends see marriages breaking down around them once kids enter the equation.  They have a kid together so that they can pursue their romantic dreams without parenting getting in the way.  Zero points for guessing who these two end up with.

But despite its predictability, writer-director Jennifer Westfeldt makes "Friends with Kids" work thanks to her spot-on observations about marriage: how some relationships can run too hot and cold to be healthy, how even solid marriages hit bumps after childbirth, how the desire for comfort clashes with the wish for something new and exciting.  Westfeldt also displays a deft touch in showing how people really interact; a dinner party scene that ends in tears is especially well-orchestrated.  She executes poorly in the predictable final scene, but it's still a worthwhile film.

I'm not a big fan of the "journey, not the destination" mindset, but with a film that's smart and poignant, I can see the appeal.

God Bless America

Comedian Bobcat Goldthwait has made a name for himself writing and directing comedies with outrageous premises and unexpected depth.  Sleeping Dogs Lie was about a woman who had once blown a dog, but it was really about how we deal with the past with our significant others.  World's Greatest Dad was about a father who writes an eloquent suicide note after his son kills himself, but used this set-up to explore how we remember the dead.

God Bless America, by contrast, is pretty much exactly what it seems: a middle-aged man and a teenage girl going on a killing spree to express their outrage at America's moral degradation.  Frank loses his job on a bogus sexual harassment charge and soon learns he has terminal cancer.  With the help of a truly twisted teen named Roxy, he decides to use his newfound freedom to take down some of the best exemplars of America's celebrity-driven culture, sex-obsessed mores, and fear-mongering political culture.  Along the way he rants about Twitter and young people's insistence on taking pictures everywhere, the greatness of Alice Cooper and the horror that is Diablo Cody.  (As if the movie didn't have enough of a "Get off my lawn" vibe already.)

I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop in this film, for some sort of nuance or second layer to emerge.  But it never really happens.  The best Goldthwait can do is show some minor areas of disagreement between Frank and Roxy, like whether high-fives are an abomination (yes, really).  In this way he suggests that not everyone might agree on who deserves to be killed.  What an incisive point!

The inevitable closing monologue in God Bless America is just a restatement of a rant Frank gives early in the film.  There really is no deeper meaning or evolution to this film.  It's a stand up comedy rant masquerading as a movie, Taxi Driver for 10-year-olds.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Watching "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" is a bit like seeing an obsessive-compulsive fourth-grader working on a diorama for school.  The attention to detail is incredible.  But what's the point?

Director David Fincher has painstakingly crafted every frame of the film, as he always does.  There are lots of terrific touches, like the sound of a whirring janitor's vacuum adding a sense of dread to one scene.  Or the terrifying black make-up that shrouds the heroine's eyes in key scenes.  Or a shot from the point of view of a hostage, with a plastic bag over the camera.

Unfortunately, this is all in the service of a silly potboiler.  "Tattoo" is one of those mysteries which throws out tons of details, most of which mean nothing.  It features a comical number of montages of our heroes doing detective work: riveting stuff like computer hacking, looking at files, and questioning the elderly.  The thing is over two-and-a-half hours long, yet it still feels rushed.

What's worse, "Tattoo" shamelessly throws in some disgusting material that wouldn't be out of place in an exploitation film.  There are three scenes featuring sexual assault and, of course, Nazis.  (Though not together.  Really a missed opportunity.)

Now, I don't mind depravity in some contexts.  Tarantino uses lots of crude violence, but it's all so cartoonish and stylized that it's mostly entertaining, rather than sickening.  Fincher's "Se7en" included numerous disgusting killings, but used them to explore the moral degradation of society and how we should respond to it.  "Tattoo," by contrast, is just using some "CSI" style gross-outs as a cheap way to hold the audience's attention.

(Another craven ploy: showing off Rooney Mara's naked body.  The filmmakers really ought to be ashamed.  It's 2012 and Mara is asked to bare flesh at every turn, with nary a male booty in sight.)

The bigger problem here, as is usually the case in Hollywood, is money.  The strings attached to studio financing are now so great that it's incredibly difficult to make a good movie for eight figures or more.  So a talent like Fincher has to work on a pointless commercial exercise like this if he wants to get the budget to which he's accustomed.

I've long felt that directors need to scale down their films so that they can avoid the inane ideas of Hollywood producers.  Take Martin Scorcese.  For years, he's wanted to make "Silence," a film about two Jesuit priests in Japan in the 17th century.  But studios are (understandably in this case) reluctant to back it.  So instead he wasted his time on "Shutter Island," a piece of schlock that did well at the box office.  (Scorcese is said to be working on "Silence" now, so hopefully he's learned to keep the budget in check.)

Fincher is so meticulous that making a film on the cheap may be impossible for him.  For "Tattoo" he spent an entire afternoon shooting close-ups of drawings of flowers, which are shown for only a few seconds in the film.  You simply can't spend that kind of time on a smaller production.

I wish he'd learn to cut a few corners, though.  The prospect of seeing Fincher slog through the two sequels to "Tattoo" is enough to make a Swedish winter seem appealing.

Dirty Harry

There are plenty of ways to explore the tension between constitutional protections and justice.  You can take the hyper-realistic approach of "The Wire," which shows police officers' limitations--and their creative solutions--in painstaking detail.  You can take the more abstract approach of 1969's "Point Blank," which casts doubt on the whole notion of authority and bureaucracy.  You can also create a metaphor for the war on terrorism, as "The Dark Knight" does.

Or you blast all those constitutional protections ratified by our Founding Fathers away with a .44 Magnum, as "Dirty Harry" does.

"Dirty Harry" stacks the deck as heavily as possible.  A psychopathic killer has taken a young girl hostage and threatened to kill her.  The only way to save the girl is to violate his constitutional rights against search and seizure.  Naturally, the killer also pays someone to beat him up so he can claim police brutality.  I'm sure these kinds of scenarios occur all the time.

When it's not peeing on the Constitution, "Dirty Harry" has plenty of time for hypocrisy and stereotyping.  Our titular hero shakes his head at the strip clubs that blight San Francisco, but the film has no problem taking us inside a club and showing a few shots of the girls--you know, just to demonstrate how depraved they are.  The camera also lingers over the naked body of an ostensibly 14-year-old girl.  And Harry engages in a little Peeping Tom action while on surveillance.

And, hey, since we're in San Francisco, why not throw in a few homophobic caricatures?  Oh, and of course, all the black characters are thugs, but that's par for the course for this time period.

Get past all the bigotry and you'll find the film is almost charmingly lo-fi.  There are plenty of poorly shot night scenes and dubbed dialogue.  In one set piece, Harry has to run from pay phone to pay phone to prevent the killer from executing the girl.  The scene is meant to be gripping, but it amounts to 10 minutes of watching Clint Eastwood run.

But all the amusing mediocrity in the world couldn't redeem a film this pig-headed.

Edward Scissorhands

The recent release of "Dark Shadows" has led to yet more hand wringing over the State of Tim Burton and Johnny Depp.  The A.V. Club: "what's gone missing in recent years...is the spiky wit and purposefulness that used to accompany that unmistakable visual style."  The New Yorker: "a long, expensive joke in search of a purpose."  The Wall Street Journal: "familiar and fatigued."

Depp, who starred in the film--his eighth collaboration with Burton--wasn't spared either.  The New Republic: "Depp is a puppet made of blood, starch, and the actor's vanity."  The Globe and Mail: "He's a persona now, no longer an actor."

The general consensus seems to be that Burton and Depp have hit a creative rut.  Their movies are now largely an excuse for Burton to have fun with the production designers and Depp to have fun with costumes.

But it's worth returning to the duo's first collaboration, "Edward Scissorhands."  Did these two really lose their creative mojo?  Or has the novelty just worn off?

The film tells the story of the titular character, a man created by an inventor who died before being able to give him real hands.  Ed gets taken to a satirically bland version of suburbia.

Once you get past the high concept, not much happens in the film.  Burton gets as much comic mileage as he can out of those hands: Edward landscapes, grooms dogs, and give haircuts.  Meanwhile, Edward struggles to fit in, and there's a perfunctory love story.  You keep waiting for some sort of pointed message, and it never really comes.  The film serves as a mild request for tolerance and a gentle dig at the conformity of the suburbs, old and easy marks to land.

Depp occasionally does some nice acting with his eyes and a shuffling gait.  But mostly he just stands, inert, and lets his costume--basically Robert Smith in leather--do the work for him.

"Edward Scissorhands" is an enjoyable, lightweight fairy tale.  It's largely an excuse for Burton to have fun with the production designers and Depp to have fun with costumes.

Toss Offs

Some people like their music structured and formal.  Others prefer their tunes to be more loose and spontaneous.  Me, I prefer the latter.  I take the Stones over the Beatles.  I love The Who's 15-minute version of "My Generation" on "Live at Leeds."

I particularly like what I call "toss offs."  A toss off is when a singer spouts out a random line that isn't part of a versus, bridge, or chorus.  It might not always be spontaneous, but it feels that way, as though the singer was feeling the groove and just let out a yell.  Here are songs with some of my favorite toss offs:

The Rolling Stones, "Jumpin' Jack Flash" Right before the riff kicks in, Mick Jagger yells "Watch it!"  I don't know why this is so cool.  It just is.

Beck, "Loser" This song is a master class in toss offs, but I'm thinking specifically of the immortal "Get crazy with the Cheese Whiz!"  Beck started out playing cafes in LA.  He had to do something to get the audience's attention, so he started coming up with surrealist, attention-getting songs like "Nitemare Hippy Girl" and "Asshole."  He put that talent to great use on "Loser."


Ryan Adams, "Halloween Head" Right before the guitar solo, Adams yells "Guitar solo!"  Somehow it elevates this song and gives it just the right goofy vibe.


The Jimi Hendrix Experience, "Fire" "Move over, Rover.  And let Jimi take over."  Supposedly Jimi was staying at the home of the mother of his bass player, Noel Redding.  He wanted to warm himself by the fire, but  there was a Great Dane in the way.  No, really.

Isaac Hayes, "Theme from Shaft" I don't know if this really counts, since so many of the lyrics in "Shaft" feel tossed off.  But I absolutely love the "He's a bad motha..." routine.

C'mon, this has to count.  He's talkin' 'bout Shaft!


Queen, "Fat Bottomed Girls" Towards the end, Freddy Mercury yells, "Get on your bikes and ride!"  What a dumb, fun song.

Everything Must Go

"Everything Must Go" is based on a Raymond Carver short story, but it's really based on every hackneyed indie film about redemption.  Alcoholic Nick Halsey (Will Ferrell) loses his job and his wife on the same day.  His soon-to-be-ex leaves their house and locks him out, dumping all his stuff on the lawn.  With no place to go, Nick starts living on the lawn.  He's befriended by Kenny, a boy who is, naturally, chubby and sad looking, and Samantha, a neighbor who is, naturally, empathetic and pretty.

Will Nick turn to the bottle and eventually hit rock bottom?  Yes!  Will he slowly form a bond with Kenny and impart life-long lessons to him?  Yes!  Will Nick learn that all of the material possessions dumped on the lawn really aren't that important?  Spoiler alert: Yes!

Ferrell turns off his eccentricities for the part, but he doesn't turn anything else on.  He's the world's most boring tortured alcoholic.  It's hard to blame him, though, given the bland script that methodically hits its marks.  "Guess I'll be seein' you around," Kenny says to Nick near the end of the film.  I think I've heard that line somewhere before...

Carnage

People are complicated. This would seem to be self-evident. But that doesn't stop social scientists from using theories that try to explain human relations in very simple terms. All too often, very smart people take a basic human truth and try to use it to explain all of humanity's actions.

Take two theories on opposite ends of the political spectrum: Marxism and libertarianism. Marxism starts out with a truism: capitalism tends to exploit workers. But it then uses that fact to explain all of human history and prescribe a grand vision for a brighter future. Libertarianism also starts out with a truism: power tends to corrupt. But it then concludes that government is the source of many, if not most, of society's ills.

These ideas focus too heavily on one aspect of the human experience to explain it satisfactorily. Capitalism is exploitative, but it also happens to be the most efficient way to meet most of our basic material needs. Power does corrupt, but government is capable of doing great good, far more than individuals would on their own.

"Carnage" starts out with another truth: people are animals. Using that fact, it argues that we are all vicious and cruel, just waiting for an opportunity to attack one another. If this doesn't seem far-fetched to you, "Carnage" will spend 80 minutes unintentionally demonstrating why it is.

It's a shame, because the movie starts out promisingly. One 11-year-old boy bludgeons another with a stick on a playground. Their two sets of parents meet to figure out how they should reconcile.

At first, "Carnage" plays out like a black comedy in the mold of the British version of "The Office." These are people with little in common who have a dispute to settle. Naturally, things are very awkward, with plenty of stilted pleasantries and conciliatory gestures.

For most people, that would be as far as things would go. Partly because they are concerned for others: they don't want to be unjustly cruel. And partly because they are concerned for themselves: they don't want embarrassment. Besides, they've got better things to do.

But the characters in "Carnage" don't have anything better to do, as is made clear by the increasingly unbelievable reasons that these two couples remain in each other's company over the course of an afternoon.

And as that afternoon drags on, they become unbearable monsters. The father of the victim morphs from a genial compromiser to a racist who hates his family. The mother of the attacker becomes a vindictive bitch after a few sips of Scotch, in the great Hollywood tradition of characters who become stoned two minutes after imbibing one stiff drink. The mother of the victim is writing a book on Darfur, but naturally she's only doing it to satisfy her own ego. (She's also played by Jodie Foster, whose neck muscles practically pop off the screen by the end of her over-the-top performance.)

And then there's the father of the attacker, the only character who comes close to ringing true. That's partly because he's played by the terrific Christoph Waltz. But it's also because there really are people like this guy: smarmy corporate assholes who could care less about anyone else.

Still, even though people like him exist, and even though we've all got a very healthy selfish streak, that's no reason to assume we're all merely animals waiting to claw one another's eyes out. Things are a lot more, well, complicated.

Buried

Say this for "Buried": it's bold. The film is basically 90 minutes of star Ryan Reynolds trapped in a coffin.

It's a daring experiment. Unfortunately, I've seen the results, and they're disappointing.

Reynolds plays Paul Conroy, a truck driver working as a contractor in Iraq. He's been taken hostage and buried alive by his captors, who demand "5 million dollars money." At his disposal are a cell phone, a lighter, and a few other items--but naturally, nothing that can get him out of the box. Conroy frantically tries to make phone calls for help while fending off threats that include a snake and sand seeping into the box.

Director Rodrigo Cortes manages to make the movie visually exciting despite the claustrophobic setting. In fact, sometimes he cuts the camera so quickly that it can be hard to tell what's going on.

The bigger problem, though, is that it rarely feels like Paul's captors are the ones in charge. Instead, we're made acutely aware that he's at the mercy of the filmmakers. They throw in far too many convenient twists and turns to amp up the excitement. Just one example: Paul is unable to contact his wife until near the end of the film because, naturally, she left her cell phone at home.

"Buried" also addresses the political subtext of the plot, but in a completely uninteresting way. The main message seems to be, "Boy, we sure screwed up in Iraq, huh?"

It's a shame for Reynolds, who gives an impressive performance. Getting 90 minutes of nearly uninterrupted screen time would be a dream for most actors, but it requires immense energy. Reynolds has to swing quickly from anger to sadness to excitement, and he does it with aplomb.

He has to be even more nimble as the film hurtles towards its finale and the twists come even faster. "Buried" reaches a point where any conclusion would feel arbitrary. It ends just like this.

Young Adult

Most antiheroes indulge our taste for the illicit. Almost no one would actually rob banks like Clyde Barrow in "Bonnie and Clyde," or rule the mob with an iron fist like Michael Corleone in "The Godfather Part II," or booze at work like Don Draper in "Mad Men." But there's some part of us that wishes we could be like these irresponsible characters.

No one would want to be like Mavis Gary, the subject of "Young Adult." She's just a flat-out bitch.

Sure, she's beautiful and writes a hit young adult book series. But she's so insecure that she wears falsies. And she's merely a ghostwriter of a series long past its peak.

Moreover, she's a lazy, alcoholic slob. And did I mention she's a home wrecker?

Or at least, she'd like to be one. Trouble is, the object of her desire, Buddy Slade, is happily married with a newborn.

"Young Adult" is an experiment in seeing how unlikable it can make its main character. It ups the ante even further by setting the action in a pleasant small town where everyone is friendly, further playing up the contrast.

"Young Adult" represents a major step forward for screenwriter Diablo Cody. Sometimes Cody can overdo her concept a bit here: Does Buddy's wife really have to be a special education teacher? But Cody has put a new spin on her favorite concept, kids in high school, by writing about a character who effectively stopped maturing at graduation.

She's also moved on from the quips that got so much attention in "Juno" and "Jennifer's Body." There's nothing necessarily wrong with writing clever phrases like "honest to blog," but it would have worn thin over time. In "Young Adult" Cody gets big laughs elsewhere, largely through revealing the sheer awfulness of Mavis.

"Young Adult" feels like a classic film from the 1970s. It doesn't care much about giving the audience a compelling plot or an emotional investment in the material. It just takes an interesting subject and puts her under a microscope. The resulting slides aren't pretty.

Take Shelter

Most romantic movies are fundamentally "how we met" stories. Two people fall for each other, some obstacle arises to keep them apart, then they overcome said obstacle. They kiss, the picture fades to black, and we're to assume that they lived happily ever after.

In reality, falling in love is the easy part. Staying in love is the challenge. Romantic comedies should have a disclaimer at the end: "We're not sure how things end up for these two, but half of marriages end in divorce, and many more are loveless, so it doesn't look great for them."

"Take Shelter" is a movie about a man named Curtis who begins having apocalyptic visions and responds by behaving in increasingly destructive ways. But it's really a movie about marriage. Curtis knows he might be going crazy--his mother is a paranoid schizophrenic--but can he trust his wife when she says things will be fine? Can he seek treatment to preserve their marriage? And can his wife trust that he is doing all he can to keep them together? This movie reaches emotional depths that few can approach. I can't remember the last time a film made me well up like this one.

The ending to "Take Shelter" is deliberately ambiguous. Some have complained about it. But I love the attitude of director Jeff Nichols, who said in an interview, "Some people get it, some people don't. But by God, we're the ones making independent films here. We're the only ones that get to do this." Go see the latest Jennifer Aniston or Reese Witherspoon rom-com if you want another fairy tale. If you want a movie that actually says something about love, see "Take Shelter."

Trainspotting

Conveying a vibe, an atmosphere, an experience in film is not an easy thing to do. Plenty of movies fail at it. But it's usually not enough to just place the viewer in a convincing world. You have to take them somewhere once they're in it.

"Trainspotting" does a great job of demonstrating what it's like to be a young junkie. The film gets at one of the main reasons people become an addicts. It doesn't have to be about poor role models, lousy economic prospects, or peer pressure. It can simply be because there's nothing better to do.

The film's antihero, Renton, sums it up nicely at one point when he's in withdrawal. "Once you get past the pain, that's when the battle really starts. Depression, boredom. It's enough to make you want to top yourself." Your twenties are when you realize that life is never going to be as good as you dreamed it when you were a kid. Drugs are a way to cope with this crushing disappointment.

Director Danny Boyle does a nice job of putting us in Renton's headspace. Boyle's energetic style meshes well with young characters. (Particularly here, where his approach has not yet evolved to the hyper-caffeinated state that made much of "127 Hours" feel like a music video.) He assists himself greatly with the soundtrack, which includes many '70s classics from the likes of Iggy Popp and Lou Reed. (Although it is disorienting to hear these songs in a film that takes place in the late '80s. It's a bit like when Cameron Crowe used lots of classic rock in "Singles," a movie about grunge-era Seattle.)

But Boyle is let down by his script. "Trainspotting" is based on a book of the same name with seven unconnected chapters. It's simply a bad candidate for an adaptation. Screenwriter John Hodge said that his goal was to "produce a screenplay which would seem to have a beginning , a middle and an end, would last 90 minutes and would convey at least some of the spirit and content of the book." When you're struggling to meet those bare-bones goals--as opposed to, say, crafting a compelling plot or overarching theme--it's a bad sign.

The result is a movie that feels very arbitrary. Renton goes on and off his habit. He's nice to his friends, he betrays his friends. British miserabilism mixes uncomfortably with attempts at broad humor.

Nonetheless, Boyle shows a lot of promise here. Any film that opens with a young punk running from the cops while "Lust for Life" blares can't be all bad.

Hugo

As the Oscars demonstrate every year, probably the worst way to get people interested in movies is to yammer on about how important and magical they are. Unfortunately, that's precisely the trap into which "Hugo" falls.

The first half of the film is an ambling, somewhat charming kids' movie. Hugo is a young orphan living in a train station in Paris. He struggles to make sense of his father's recent death and his place in the world. Helping him is Isabelle (Chloe Grace Moretz), a cute young bookworm. Meanwhile, the Station Inspector, Gustave (played with wonderful subtlety by Sacha Baron Cohen), seeks to catch Hugo and send him to an orphanage.

Then, in the middle of the movie, the children decide to go to the library to learn about the history of film. There's no real reason for this, other than the fact that Hugo keeps going on about how the movies are magical, the movies are where dreams come to life, the movies helped him bond with his father, yadda yadda.

They learn that Isabelle's godfather, Georges Melies, was a great filmmaker in the early days of the medium. They spend most of the rest of the movie trying to learn why Georges no longer makes films, or even acknowledges his past.

This shift in emphasis has a couple of major problems. One, we've grown attached to Hugo; now we have to watch him become second banana to a grumpy old man. Two, the film devolves into a rather dull history lesson.

It's great that Scorcese is educating children about cinematic history. He even shows some of Melies' old films. But good intentions don't make a good movie. (As Oliver Stone could attest, if he ever got his head out of his own ass.)

You can't understand the power of film by hearing someone talk about it. You have to experience it for yourself. In other words, skip "Hugo" and go watch "Raging Bull" again instead.

Senna

"Senna" is part of a new trend of documentaries which have the excitement of Hollywood thrillers. These movies, which include "Project Nim" and "The King of Kong," work like so many Hollywood films: by setting up a battle between hero and villain.

In "Senna" the protagonist is Ayrton Senna, a brilliant Brazilian Formula One driver. The antagonist is Alain Prost, Senna's main rival. Prost frequently beat Senna by using his political connections with the sport's governing body to obtain favorable rule interpretations and better technology.

"Senna" is composed entirely of archival footage. Much of it comes from races, which provide the film's main source of excitement: Will Senna triumph, lose, or meet a fiery end?

Critics hailed "Senna"--it has a 92 percent "fresh" rating on Rotten Tomatoes--and with good reason. But I wonder how it would have been received if it were a traditional biopic. Everything depends on execution, of course. But a "based on a true story" version probably would have been derided as corny by some, even if it advanced exactly the same argument: that Senna was a great driver and a great man frequently thwarted by the conniving Prost.

Documentaries are more "real," in other words. But a documentary, just like a biopic, can leave out important details to create a better narrative. At the end of "Senna," we don't really know the two main characters. We have only seen what the director has chosen to show us.

The Descendants

In Alexander Payne's "About Schmidt," aging Warren Schmidt lays his wife to rest. As he goes through her belongings, he discovers love letters. Turns out his wife had an affair with his good friend. It could be a sad moment, but Schmidt uses it as an opportunity. He attacks his friend with unrepentant glee, happy to find a release from his anger and sadness.

Payne's "The Descendants," presents a similar scenario. But there are a couple of important distinctions. Here the cuckolded husband's wife is not dead--she's dying. Moreover, the husband is not left alone--he has two daughters who are growing up way too fast.

And these differences mean that the husband, Matt King (George Clooney), can't simply fly off the handle. He has to learn how to forgive his wife, look inside himself, and figure out his mistakes as a husband and father.

This is sappy stuff. In the hands of many directors, it would turn into a Lifetime movie. (My mistake: in the Lifetime version, it would have to be the husband who cheated on the wife.) Luckily, we have Payne at the helm. He's able to elevate the material, but he can't entirely redeem it.

It's pretty obvious early on in the film that King hasn't spent enough time with his family. But Payne doesn't overemphasize the point, as so many teary family dramas do, because this is only one aspect of who King is as a person. In fact, all the characters are shown to be more complex than they initially appear.

Trouble is, this movie--and King in particular--are a bit too compassionate. Many critics have complained that Payne turned the debonair Clooney into a frumpy Everyman. But the real problem is that King is too much of a martyr, taking abuse from all sides with just a little too much grace and understanding.

"The Descendants" is honest--people really are multifaceted, as the film suggests--but not quite true to life--people aren't this forgiving. The acerbic wit, the mean edge, of Payne's previous work is largely gone here. We would all like to be as magnanimous as Matt King, but the truth is that most of us have quite a bit of Warren Schmidt in us too.

Moneyball

"Moneyball" is the story of how the Oakland A's went from losing the American League Division Series in 2001 to...losing the American League Division Series again in 2002.

This is not exactly a thrilling dramatic arc. Perhaps that's why director Steven Soderbergh, who was attached to the project at one time, wanted to use some unconventional techniques, such as using players for interviews and acting. Ultimately, director Bennett Miller, writer Aaron Sorkin, and producer Brad Pitt turned "Moneyball" into more of a standard sports movie.

The result: a weirdly disjointed film that's still somewhat compelling thanks to the talents of its creators.

"Moneyball" details how A's general manager Billy Beane (Pitt) rebuilt his team after losing stars to wealthier clubs. Relying on statistical analysts--portrayed here as a composite character played by Jonah Hill--Beane found bargain basement players who couldn't succeed according to the conventional wisdom.

Importantly, "Moneyball" also goes beyond the "statistics are king" message, acknowledging that there's room for romanticism in the game. In addition, it becomes a character study of Beane, who's constantly restless and dissatisfied.

Pitt has charisma for miles, and he employs it well here. Hill does a solid job of making his character both wonky and relatable. The film's best scene demonstrates their odd chemistry as they wheel and deal at the trade deadline for a relief pitcher.

As with "The Social Network," Sorkin uses his trademark style of dialogue to help spice up some potentially dry material. And Miller deserves credit for being willing to use some unorthodox storytelling methods. In particular, some real-life footage of the A's and their fans helps capture the feverous excitement of their 20-game win streak.

Nonetheless, there are plenty of problems here, particularly in the pacing. "Moneyball" spends an inordinate amount of time on the A's early season struggles. During their slide, we see Beane driving around aimlessly several times AND see him throw a TV against a wall AND see him topple his desk AND see him toss a bat in anger. Later, the film glosses over the unfortunate end to the A's season.

Miller and Sorkin took over this film from others, and they never wholly succeed in making it their own. For instance, they cut from footage of the real-life A's to shots of an actor playing for the A's and getting on base. "Moneyball" also has some awkward transitions and a few scenes where actors mangle dialogue; the filmmakers lacked either the time or money to smooth away the rough edges.

Still, for a story about a man who used his head instead of his heart--basically the opposite of a standard Hollywood hero--"Moneyball" is surprisingly endearing, if also a bit of a mess.