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.

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.