January 2013

2012 OSCAR NOMINATIONS

     It’s getting harder and harder to criticize the Academy Award nominations as the number of worthy films shrinks yearly. As I struggle to find 10 good films to fill my end-of-the-year list, how can I expect anything but the usual suspects from the Oscar voters?

    While I’m not much of a fan of “Beasts of the Southern Wild” or “Life of Pi,” what was really out there to replace them in the best picture category? My only suggestion would be “Moonrise Kingdom,” Wes Anderson’s sarcastic look at young love, which scored an original screenplay nod. In my Top 10, you’ll find such pictures as “Bernie” and “Robot & Frank,” but did either ever stand a snowball’s chance at a best picture nod?

     To me, I’m giving the voters a pass this year if only for their selection of “Amour,” a brilliant, devastatingly sad look at aging from challenging director Michael Haneke. It’s a French art film maybe more depressing than any best picture nominee in history; the idea that it’s competing with “Django Unchained” and “Zero Dark Thirty” seems crazy even for Hollywood.

      Among performers, I was most disappointed that Richard Gere’s perfectly calibrated work in “Arbitrage” failed to garner a best actor nomination. Also, Frank Langella’s memorable aging house burglar in “Robot & Frank” deserved consideration. (In all the endless Oscar prediction stories, I never even saw his name mentioned.)

       Much has been written about Ben Affleck being left out of the best director nominees and I would second that: “Argo” was the best directed film of the year, even though I selected “Silver Linings Playbook” as the best film.

       I’m betting, though not much, that “Argo” will be named best picture and Steven Spielberg will take home his third best director Oscar for “Lincoln.” The winners in the acting categories seem to be set in stone: Daniel Day-Lewis, obviously; Jennifer Lawrence and Robert De Niro for “Silver Linings Playbook;” and Anne Hathaway for her stirring, but brief “Les Misérables” performance. If this plays out, it will be the third Oscar win for both De Niro and Day-Lewis.

        Here’s my (very tentative) Top 10. (Remember, I don’t mix foreign and English-language films; otherwise, “Amour” would certainly be near the top)

         1.  Silver Linings Playbook   (David O. Russell)
         2.  Argo   (Ben Affleck)
         3.  Moonrise Kingdom   (Wes Anderson)
         4.  Lincoln  (Steven Spielberg) 
         5.  Bernie  (Richard Linklater)
         6.  Arbitrage  (Nicholas Jarecki)
         7.  Robot & Frank  (Jake Schreier)
         8.  Zero Dark Thirty  (Kathryn Bigelow)
         9.  Ted  (Seth MacFarlane)
       10.  Skyfall  (Sam Mendes)

TED  (2012)

    The idea of a teddy bear that turns into a vulgar, dope-smoking slacker sounded like a one-joke, SNL skit. Instead, the film is a sharp satire about a generation that resists growing up, clinging to youthful indulgences and frat boy behavior to avoid adult responsibility. And, on top of that, “Ted” is one of the funniest movies of 2012.

     Dripping with caustic satire, a narrator (the smooth baritone of Patrick Stewart) tells the pre-title story of John Bennett and his special Christmas present, an oversized teddy bear. When he wishes for the toy to have the ability to talk, it does, scaring the crap out of his parents and, in time, becoming a media sensation (there’s a clever “Forrest Gump”-like clip of the bear on the “Tonight Show with Johnny Carson.”)

      When we meet John (Mark Wahlberg) and Ted (the plush toy voiced by director Seth MacFarlane) again, it’s 25 years later and they’re still together; except now they’re getting high and drunk and trading cheap jokes even as John is sharing his bed with the very tolerant Lori (Mila Kunis). Clearly, it is time for John, stuck in a dead-end job at a car rental firm, to decide between a life with Lori or nightly debauchery alongside his furry, Joe Pesci Jr. buddy.

    That it is so easy to accept Ted as a reality is a tribute to writer-director MacFarlane, the creator of the animated TV hit “Family Guy” and this year’s Oscar show host, making his feature film directing debut. The script, by MacFarlane, Alec Sulkin and Wellesley Wild, is not without its misfires and over-the-line inappropriateness (it strangely combines very adult material with 5^th-grade level humor) but Ted and John form such a likeable combo that it’s easy to forgive the cringe-worthy moments.

     Central to the film’s living-in-our-youth theme is the campy 1980 sci-fi cult film “Flash Gordon” and its beefy star Sam Jones, both much admired by Ted and John. When the now middle-aged Jones shows up at a party given by Ted (no one parties like this teddy), binge drinking reaches new heights, culminating in a fight between the teddy bear and a soon-to-be boiled duck. 

       Be prepared to be offended—“Ted” is about as political correct as Howard Stern—and to laugh out loud at more gags than most writers come up with in a career. How can you not love a movie in which singer Norah Jones recalls a sexual encounter she had with Ted, commenting on his lack of an important, shall we say, tool of manhood. “Yeah,” croaks Ted, “you know, I’ve written so many angry letters to Hasbro about that.”

 

LIFE OF PI  (2012)
      If there was any doubt about how far out of touch I am with popular movie opinion, my thoughts on Ang Lee’s Oscar nominated picture should serve as clarification.

      Reviews, from the smartest critics in the country, have used such phrases as “miraculous achievement,” “spellbinding,” “profound” and “magical” to describe this metaphysical tale of an Indian teenager shipwrecked in the Pacific Ocean with an unfriendly Bengal tiger. Pi, who was aboard a freighter with his family and a zoo full of animals headed for Canada, manages to survive on a lifeboat for months (it seems) while he avoids becoming dinner for his animal companion.

      Suraj Sharma, making his film debut, is very convincing as Pi, overcoming fear and hopelessness to live to tell his unbelievable story to a curious writer (in the film’s poorly staged and written framing device).

      For me it was all as believable as an episode of “Sponge Bob Square Pants.” Needless to say, movie trickery has been going on since moving pictures were invented, but those that are more computer simulation than cinema (not unlike “Avatar” and all the comic book hero movies) leave me empty. I couldn’t get emotionally involved in Pi because I never believed he was really in the ocean, encountering a tiger or flying fish or an ape or was surviving harsh weather on a tiny boat. It was like watching the pages turn on a picture book for children—glorious images but the preachy story soon grows tiring.

     Not helping in the believability department is the clumsy contemporary scenes with the adult Pi and this bland writer. Even worse is the convoluted, almost apologetic ending that undermines the “magical” aspects of the film.

     Nothing appeals to me less than a film or story that tries with all its might to uplift the audience. Just tell me a good story and everyone’s spirits will be raised.

      In spite of all the honors for Lee, this isn’t even close to his best work, which includes “The Wedding Banquet,” “Sense and Sensibility,” “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” and his Oscar-winning “Brokeback Mountain.” In fact, I sometimes question the importance of the director on these tech-heavy projects; whoever was in charge of the CGI work was the real creative force.

FLIGHT  (2012)

     For a society that seems aghast every time a hero is found wanting—just in the past few weeks we’ve been treated to confessions from Lance Armstrong and Manti Te’o, a Notre Dame football star—this portrait of a less-than-perfect airline pilot is the ultimate sign-of-the-times movie. Not unlike “Arbitrage,” this fast-paced and superbly acted film offers a behind-the-curtain look at the PR and legal machinery that cranks into action to protect the well placed and connected.

      Denzel Washington gives his best performance in a decade (“Training Day” was 2001) as Whip Whitaker, a supremely confident commercial pilot whose personal life is a nonstop orgy of drugs, booze and sex. The film opens with Whip, after a night of debauchery, maneuvering a plane to a miraculously safe landing (six are killed) after mechanical failure sends the aircraft into a freefall.

     He’s a humble, reluctant hero to the public at the same time that the FCC starts uncovering his questionable lifestyle. The union brings in a lawyer who is an expert in handle such problems (the always first-rate Don Cheadle), who counters the problem with smoke screens and legal trickery to cover for Whip.

      Washington, who has wasted his talent in recent years in second-rate action thrillers (even when he’s creating a complex character, as in “The Taking of Pelham 123,” it is lost in the melodrama), brings out the mood-shifting, constant denial and sudden violence of this unrepentant alcoholic. Even when his future is on the line, Whip can’t stop drinking. This complex, introspective performance earned Washington his sixth Oscar nomination. The Academy voters also recognized the smart and unpredictable script by John Gatins.

       Cheadle, who came to prominence opposite Washington in the 1995 detective yarn “Devil in a Blue Dress,” delivers another spot-on performance as the lawyer defending an indefensible man. Also quite good is Bruce Greenwood as Whip’s friend and union rep, who stays in his corner under the worst circumstances.

      John Goodman, who also had key 2012 roles in “Argo” and “Trouble with the Curve,” plays Whip’s supplier (of anything—legal or not), bringing a crazed, hyper-reality to the rather serious picture.

     The film also marks a return to form for veteran director Robert Zemeckis, who, since “Cast Away” in 2000, has committed to those computer/live actor hybrid constructs that, at best, are just weird. For my money, this is Zemeckis’ best film since “Who Framed Roger Rabbit” (1988) and the best acted since “Forrest Gump” (1994).

BEING FLYNN (2012)

    I had high hopes for this film, even thought it was originally released in the movie graveyard of March, if only for the intriguing possibilities of Robert De Niro portraying an eccentric, unpublished novelist.

     Paul Dano, the quirky young actor who has co-starred with a litany of great actors in recent years, including Alan Arkin, Daniel Day-Lewis and Brian Cox, plays De Niro’s estranged son who lacks the charisma and abrasive self-confidence that his father exudes in spades. But both are clearly men lacking in a focus for their lives.

     Unfortunately, for the movie experience, these characters never grow into real people, instead saying and doing the same things over and over in search of something to create flesh and blood men.

      The script is based on poet-playwright Nick Flynn’s memoirs (delightfully titled “Another Bullshit Night in Suck City”), thus much of the dramatic weakness of the film can be traced to the fact that real life is rarely as entertaining as fiction (more on that later). Director Paul Weitz, who worked with De Niro on “Little Fockers,” I think saw this as a great vehicle for the 69-year-old legend. Turned out it was in another 2012 film, “Silver Linings Playbook,” that De Niro was given the chance to show what a great actor he remains.

       It almost seems as if the writer is so intent on making himself look bad that he turns Dano’s Nick into a tired, unappealing character. It’s a given that De Niro’s Jonathan Flynn, an irresponsible racist  whose belief that he’s a brilliant writer is more irritating than endearing, is the character we are meant to blame for the son’s problems. But Flynn (with help from Dano) has made his cinematic reflection so indecisive and weak that it’s hard to sympathize. Much more interesting, I have no doubt, is Flynn’s just released “The Reenactments,” which chronicles his experiences during the making of the film.

       There are a few nice moments between De Niro and Dano, but not enough to make the film worth renting or to overcome the predictable, cliché-riddled final act.

THE IMPOSSIBLE  (2012)

  The problem with true stories, at least the ones that are made into motion pictures, is that they tend to be less believable than almost any piece of fiction. To successfully transfer the unexplainable coincidences and irrational inconsistencies of the real world to the screen takes a very skilled writer and director. This incredible chronicle of a couple and their three children caught in the chaotic hell of the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami while on vacation in Thailand has its moments but never convinced me that this family’s fate was in jeopardy.

  Naomi Watts and Ewan McGregor play married couple Marie and Henry Bennett, who are lounging at the resort’s poolside when the wall of water hits, eventually killing 230,000 across South Asia. Marie and oldest son Lucas (Tom Holland) nearly drown and she is badly hurt, but they survive together. The father and the two youngest boys seemed to have survived unscathed, but are separated from the other half of the family. 

  Spanish director Juan Antonio Bayona (much acclaimed for his 2007 feature debut “The Orphanage”) and his production crew have done an astonishing job of recreating the horrors of the aftermath, making the devastation look very real. At points, the film has a documentary-like intensity. But the story has all the easily resolved dramatics of a TV movie, elevated only by the fine performances.

  Watts, one of the finest and most underappreciated Hollywood actresses, gives an intensely physical and heartbreakingly emotion performance as Marie, who bonds with her son as they fight to stay alive. It deservedly earned her an Oscar nomination, the culmination of a string of excellent work over the past decade, including “King Kong,” “The Painted Veil,” “Eastern Promises” and “Fair Game.”

  Holland, known in England for his stage role in the musical “Billy Elliott,” gives an equally impressive performance as Lucas, who must grown up quickly, taking care of his mother and helping others in need. For his and Watts’ performances, the film is worth seeking out, even as it fails the true-story litmus test.

TROUBLE WITH THE CURVE  (2012)

     On paper, this Clint Eastwood vehicle looked like a guaranteed home run (sorry, couldn’t resist). But the script offers nothing but an unremarkable fastball right down the middle.

     This is baseball-movie comfort food, in which every character might as well wear a label saying “bad guy” or “good guy” and the plot turns are all advertised with explanation points in the early innings. Twenty minutes into the film, the entire plot becomes predictable and then plays out without a hitch.

      Eastwood plays Gus, a scout for the Atlanta Braves, whose failing eyesight seems to spell the end of the road for this legendary, but thoroughly disagreeable figure. Like an old gunslinger or infamous bank robber, he heads out on that one last big adventure, in this case, scouting a high school slugger whose stats have made him a sure fire top draft choice.

      Amy Adams plays Gus’ frustrated daughter he keeps at arm’s length (the film is bursting with sophomoric psychology), who risks a chance for a partnership at her law firm to be his eyes during this important scouting trip. Turns out, Mickey—named after baseball legend Mickey Mantle--knows baseball as well as Gus.

     The baseball aspects of the film are sadly dated. The debate over statistical-based approach vs. traditional scouting method of judging amateur players started at least 15 years ago and was the focus of “Moneyball,” written in 2003.

     But the problems with this film, the directing debut of Eastwood’s longtime assistant Robert Lorenz, have little to do with the baseball aspects. It’s the too obvious relationship problems and resolutions (Justin Timberlake plays a scout with eyes for Mickey) and a reliance on easy coincidence and simplistic character development. Randy Brown, with no other credits to his name, is the screenwriter.

      Over the last 15 years, we’ve come to expect greatness from any film Eastwood attached himself to—as actor or director, preferably both—but nothing lasts forever; “Trouble with the Curve” is little more than a routine grounder to second base.

 

 

 

 

November/December 2012

ZERO DARK THIRTY  (2012)

     It seemed unlikely that the filmmaking team of director Kathryn Bigelow and writer Mark Boal could top their Oscar-winning snapshot of fearless soldiers defusing bombs in Iraq, but taking on the search for Osama bin Laden was a good start. And while the slow, agonizing detective work that led to his death—as seen through one very determined CIA operative—is fascinating, it never reaches the minute-by-minute intensity of “The Hurt Locker” or offers enough dramatics to turn the investigation into compelling cinema.

      As satisfying as it is to see the behind-the-scenes maneuverings and, finally, the assault on his Pakistani compound at ground level, I had a hard time sharing the characters’ frustrations when I knew the end results from the opening frame. This is a superbly made and acted chronicle of one of the landmark events of recent history and shouldn’t be missed, but it requires patience; like so many films released at this time of the year, it easily could have been trimmed by 30 minutes. 

     Attempting to hold it all together is Jessica Chastain’s Maya, a young, inexperienced agent who goes from being shocked by water boarding at a Black Op site to a hard-hearted zealot who throws herself completely into the pursuit of OBL (as they refer to the elusive terrorist). Chastain, who emerged as a top actress last year with “The Tree of Life” and “The Help,” is handcuffed in her portrayal of Maya because the screenplay offers barely a hint at her personal life. Even with all her screen time, the lack of depth makes her seem like a supporting player much of the film.

      The extensive length of the movie is, in part, necessary to show the interminable 10 years it took to piece the intel all together, but the filmmakers trade away energy and intensity with the leisurely pace. The film also takes a long time to find a compelling counterweight to steely Maya. The always superb Mark Strong has some nice moments as her direct supervisor who is slowly convinced of her evidence, but it takes the arrival of James Gandolfini as the CIA director to bring out the feistiness in Maya. He nearly steals the picture with just two or three scenes.

      The brilliant recreation of the raid, shot as if seen through night goggles, will probably and understandably earn the picture a boatload of Oscar nominations. It reminded me of the nail-biting scenes that filled “The Hurt Locker,” except here we know how it ends and that, even in the face of danger, the Navy SEALs will leave unscathed.

      The closest comparison to “Zero Dark Thirty” is “United 93,” Paul Greengrass’ re-creation of what went on behind the scenes on Sept. 11, 2001. The details of that day are vastly more familiar than this new film’s decade-long saga, yet the filmmaker made you feel the almost unbearable reality of the moment and created a great film about a terrible event. Under similar circumstances, Bigelow and Boal fail to draw the audience (at least this one) into the minutia of the story, greatly reducing the impact of the picture. I’m not sure what kind of film they would have had if bin Laden had not been found and killed—they started the project before the May 2011 raid—but without the mesmerizing final 30 minutes all you’d have is Maya flying around the globe to verify another sliver of intel that might move the investigation one step closer to him; interesting history, but not exactly cinematic.

SILVER LININGS PLAYBOOK  (2012)

     The last time David O. Russell dipped into the quirky dynamics of fragile family life, he came up with “Flirting with Disaster,” one of the funniest and most insightful comedies of the 1990s, a screwball worthy of the classics that chronicles contemporary America’s obsession with finding roots.

     Sixteen years later, “Silver Linings Playbook” is just as smart and hilarious, jam packed with memorable characters and featuring, at its center, a pair of unstable souls looking for a chance to start anew.

      Like his 2010 film, “The Fighter,” this is the year’s best acted movie, with no less than six superb performances. But, acting wise, the big surprise of the picture is Bradley Cooper, best known from the “Hangover” films, playing a former substitute teacher with anger management issues. After flipping out when he catches his wife in the shower with another man, he ends up in a mental facility.

     When the bipolar Pat comes back to his parent’s Philadelphia home it quickly becomes clear why he has so many issues. Pat Sr., (Robert De Niro, in a return to glory) who has recently taken up book making in hopes of earning a down payment on a restaurant, is an obsessive, superstitious fan of the Eagles football team and clearly hasn’t tried very hard to understand his son. Pat’s sympathetic mother (Jacki Weaver) does her best to keep a calm lid on the household, but his father inevitably sets him off and, luckily, he finds someone to turn to. His refuge turns out to be an equally troubled, recently widowed young woman named Tiffany (Jennifer Lawrence, brilliantly portraying the stoic sarcasm that defines so many in her generation), who enlists him as a dance partner.

   There’s no good way to explain how exhilarating this movie is as it explores Pat’s mental state, his misguided mission to reunite with his wife, the swirling chaos of his family, and the growing attachment to the blunt but vulnerable Tiffany.

     The film culminates in one of the funniest set pieces I’ve seen in years; in the family living room after a bruising Eagle loss, Tiffany faces off with Pat Sr. on football jinxes, a bet for all the marbles and the right course for Pat. Brilliant writing (Russell from a novel by Matthew Quick) and perfect comic timing (young Lawrence matching the great De Niro line for line) make the scene unforgettable.

       Other performances worth noting include John Ortiz as Pat’s best friend, who is having his own marital struggles, Anupam Kher as Pat’s offbeat therapist and the wild-eyed Chris Tucker, who I hadn’t seen in years, playing a fellow mental patient who keeps popping up just to further demonstrate that there’s a very thin line between crazy and just being human.

     “Silver Linings Playbook” may be the year’s best film, a biting, fresh and daring comedy worthy of the best of Billy Wilder, Preston Sturges or Woody Allen. 

LINCOLN (2012)

      There is plenty in this remarkable re-creation of the final days of the Civil War to admire, but towering above it all is Daniel Day-Lewis’ flawless, commanding, hypnotic portrayal of the country’s most important president.

       This 55-year-old, two-time Oscar winning British actor creates the definitive Lincoln, not an icon or a revered martyred, but a flawed, occasionally unsure leader carrying the burden of a bloody war and the fate of 4 million slaves, along with difficult family issues. That he maintains his calm exterior and ability to tell a witty story in the midst of this turmoil seems nearly inhuman, but Day-Lewis helps us understand, turning this legend into flesh-and-blood while confirming his greatness.

     The smartest decision Steven Spielberg and screenwriter Tony Kushner made in “Lincoln” was to narrow the time period covered to when the president maneuvered the 13^th Amendment through Congress while winding down the Civil War. It allows the actor to present a Lincoln at his most serious, avoiding the usual bio-pick clichés of romance, day-to-day life and artificially jumping from one state of life to another.

    I wouldn’t call “Lincoln” a great film; it’s burdened with too many obvious stereotypes, corny sentimentalism (the opening scene in which Lincoln talks to black and white soldiers may be the worst of the picture) and overall conventional filmmaking. Yet it’s a remarkable record of the country’s rebirth and a film everyone needs to see. 

      Even in the shadow of the magnificent Day-Lewis, other performers shine. Tommy Lee Jones is an unsmiling standard bearer of full equality for blacks, Thaddeus Stevens, the most influential member of the House who endures a decisive tongue lashing from the First Lady Mary Todd Lincoln (Sally Field giving one of her most powerful performances of her long career). Both give Oscar-worthy performances as does James Spader as a roguish, foul-mouthed early version of a hard-nosed lobbyist who does the president’s dirty work. A dozen others have memorable moments, including Joseph Gordon-Levitt as the president’s son who wants to enlist, the always reliable David Strathairn as Secretary of State Seward, and Jared Harris as an insightful Gen. Grant.

         “Lincoln” is a motion picture that seems to arrive—not unlike the director’s “War Horse”—from another era, yet could only have been constructed by this master storyteller. But equally important are the contributions of Kushner, whose script doesn’t shy away from complex political discussions and legislative maneuvering that are not always easy to follow but infinitely compelling, and director of photography Janusz Kaminski, Spielberg’s secret weapon for nearly 20 years, who recreates the gas light look of the 19^th Century, burnishing the god-like profile of Lincoln and visually expressing with every frame the undeniable truth that no man has ever been so essential to this nation.

WHAT’S THE MATTER WITH HELEN? (1971) and

WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO AUNT ALICE? (1969)
     Tell me this isn’t the perfect drive-in double feature, circa 1971? These insanely titled clunkers—attempting to cash in on the popularity of “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?”—feature battling star actresses and a title question that’s not worth answering.

     In “Helen,” Debbie Reynolds and Shelley Winters play a pair of small-town mothers thrown together when their sons are convicted of murder. Reynolds’s Adelle, a dance teacher with big dreams, decides they’ll start a new life in Hollywood. Winter’s Helen, a dreamy, unstable woman, goes along reluctantly.

      Adelle’s dance studio, exploiting tots and their parents longing to become Shirley Temple clones (the film is set in the 1930s), seems to be a success and she hooks up with a rich Texan (Dennis Weaver) who is the father of one of her students.

     But Helen is constantly worried that someone from their past is stalking them and soon there’s a dead body in the parlor. The manner in which it leaps from a seemingly conventional drama into weirdly benign slasher flick, as directed by Curtis Harrington, is both clumsy and startlingly clumsy.  (The next year, the director conned Winters into a follow-up question movie, “Whoever Slew Auntie Roo?”)

    Reynolds and Winters can’t match neither the star power nor the venom that filled those earlier gothic exercises, “Baby Jane” and “Hush…Hush, Sweet Charlotte.” And even though the pair seemed long past their primes they were only 41 (Reynolds) and 51 (Winters). The leap from 1950s Hollywood to the late ‘60s and early ‘70s turned most 40-plus stars into relics. (Though Winters scored a huge hit the next year with “The Poseidon Adventure.”)

    There an amusingly dark ending to the film but by then it had become such a parody of itself that it’s hard to care. 

       More serious, but much less fun, is “Aunt Alice,” in which Geraldine Page chews up the scenery as a widow left with nothing who moves to New Mexico and starts killing off housekeepers. The film, produced by Robert Aldrich, who directed “Baby Jane” and “Sweet Charlotte,” has huge gaps in the plot; my guess is that it was chopped down from a longer running time. The scheme has Page’s Mrs. Marrable tricking the domestics into investing their life savings with her money manager, killing them and then burying them in the garden.

      Ruth Gordon plays Alice, a friend of one of the “missing” housekeepers who gets herself hired to investigate. The script would have been more compelling if the actresses had just made it up as they went along. But Page does manage to give a compelling performance, even as her motivations and machinations seem ridiculous.

     The real question about both of these films is: Why did I waste my time watching them? I don’t have an answer for that one either.

DJANGO UNCHAINED  (2012)

     After providing Jews a taste of better-late-than-never revenge in “Inglorious Basterds,” master blood-letter Quentin Tarantino offers African-Americans a fictional shot to exact a price for 250 years of slavery.

     Utilizing the laconic pacing and threat of sudden violence of spaghetti Westerns with the spit-in-their-face attitude of blaxploitation, Tarantino holds nothing back (as if he ever does) in this tall tale of a well-spoken, German-born bounty hunter (Christoph Waltz, Oscar winner for his Nazi in “Basterds”) who frees a slave (Jamie Foxx) to make him his partner in the killing business.

     The writer-director, boldly practicing his pitch black humor and willingness to show the most gruesome of deaths, doesn’t succeed as well as he did in “Basterds,” in large part because he stretches out scenes to such length (Waltz’s Schultz is the most verbose horse-riding man in history) that they are too often drained of their inherent dramatic energy. At two hours, “Django” might have been a great film—the extra 45 minutes just deflates it. And maybe, just maybe, the death toll could have been reduced by 20 or 30 percent, making those surviving killings more meaningful.

       The story is pretty simple: After the pair team up to kill the Brittle brothers, handily dispatched at a vast plantation run by Big Daddy (Don Johnson), Schultz promises to help Django find and free his wife after they spend the winter collecting bounties.

      They locate Broomhilda (Kerry Washington) at Candyland, the property of Calvin Candie (Leonardo DiCaprio), who specializes in “Mandingo fighting,” a especially despicable sideline of slavery in which the fittest slaves viciously fight one another, usually to the death.

     What makes “Django” valuable—though I will resist suggesting it for a double feature with “Lincoln”—is its focus on what slavery really meant for blacks. Forgot about the lack of freedom or back-breaking work; what Tarantino hammers home is the constant  threat of torture or death and the hateful degradation by the white population; the daily crushing of the human spirit by being treating like livestock. I can’t think of another director who would be willing to take on this delicate subject (not even Spike Lee)—showing the hideous beatings, the oppressive use of the n-word—and actually get the film made. Yes, the script could have been sharper and the editing tighter, but you have to give Tarantino credit for throwing it out there, for better or worse.

ARBITRAGE  (2012)

     Robert Miller, like most Wall Street players, wants it all. And, for a moment, he achieves that goal—the indulgent, supportive wife; loving, successful children; the exotic, Euro-artiste mistress; cooperative friends and accountants propping up his cash-poor investment firm; and a rich, willing, if coy, investor prepared to pay him millions for the company.

     It all seems to be, if not under control, within his grasp. Then, on a romantic whim (the best and worst kind), he heads off with the mistress for a weekend getaway. His 60^th birthday ends badly as he dozes off while at the wheel, crashing the car and leaving the girl dead.

      This finely detailed character study of an extremely resourceful man trying to escape the irresponsible actions of the privileged class serves as a brilliant analogy for the broken, frankly gamed, system that the American economy has evolved into. Fueling this autopsy is a surprisingly blunt script by writer-director Nicholas Jarecki (making his feature directing debut) and a spot-on performance by Richard Geer, an actor who has rarely received his due as one of the finest of his generation. Not only has he given iconic performances in some of the most influential romantic/sexual movies “American Gigolo,” “An Officer and a Gentleman” and “Pretty Woman,” but he’s delivered under-the-radar exceptional work in less popular fare, including “Beyond the Limit,” “Internal Affairs,” “Primal Fear” and “The Hoax,” for decades.

      The role of the generically named Miller, an unruffled, quick thinking, still attractive money manager, plays to Gere’s strengths and it’d be a shame if Oscar voters didn’t reward him with a best actor nomination; it’s among his best performances.

     The film is an American tragedy turned on its head—a lesson in “deserve’s got nothing to do with it.” Not to get politically righteous, but, as “Arbitrage” pointedly demonstrates, Americans have accept the country we have; be it a massacre of innocents in a school room or million dollar winks in the boardroom. It’s all the same corruption that has no master except the bottom line.

     Great acting abounds in this film, including the ageless Susan Sarandon as Miller’s long-suffering wife; Tim Roth as the detective who is determined to nail him; Stuart Margolin, a veteran of 50 years of television, playing Miller’s clever, cautious lawyer; and Brit Marling as his loyal daughter, a partner in the business, who is shaken to her core when she discovers the financial reality of her father’s business. She plays “us,” the fools who have invested our futures, our retirement, everything we’ve spent a lifetime working for in the slim hope that we can get a little piece of the pie that others are feasting on.

LUCKY BREAK  (2001)

     Just as rewarding as seeing a great film for the first time is discovering a gem you’ve never heard of. The title of this thoroughly entertaining and thoughtful British comedy says it all.

    The only reason I recorded it was because the film’s lead actress is Olivia Williams, one of Britain’s most appealing actresses (she was priceless as the object of desire in “Rushmore”). In “Lucky Break,” she’s simply enchanting as Annabel, a prison therapist who, in spite of her better judgment, falls for one of the convicts. She reminds me of early Diane Keaton as she tries to remain professional, sensible, as she fights off her growing affection for this charismatic, self-assured bank robber Jimmy Hand (English TV veteran James Nesbit).

      But I’m getting ahead of myself. The film opens with long-time crime partners Jimmy and Rud (Lennie James) botching a bank robbery, which earns them 15-year prison terms. I had no idea where the movie was headed as it introduces various prisoners, mostly as they work out their anger in Annabel’s group counseling sessions. But director Peter Cattaneo, who I had completely lost track of since he was nominated for an Oscar for “The Full Monty,” brings a working-class sensibility to the prison culture that makes it easy to simply enjoy the film’s collection of characters. 

      It’s when Jimmy first encounters Warden Mortimer (another quirky, late-career turn by Christopher Plummer) and identifies the song he’s quietly singing from “South Pacific.” Soon, Jimmy is cast as the lead in the warden’s own musical based on the life of Admiral Nelson. And, of course, being the only female in the place, Annabel is forced to take on the role of Nelson’s love, Lady Hamilton.

     Yet, for Jimmy and Rud, the play is just a cover for a planned prison break.

      The off-handed realism that Nesbit brings to Jimmy, encouraged by the romantic neediness of Annabel, is the center of this engaging picture, while the supporting cast brings out the reality that not all convicts are scary thugs.

     James, in a nicely understated performance, makes Rud’s growing interest in his role in the musical as Nelson’s sidekick amusing and touching, while Timothy Spall’s Cliff, a gentle, brow-beaten prisoner, becomes the heart of the picture; he’s way too naïve for this world of bad guys. Bill Nighy’s Rog is another repressed character, constantly apologizes for no reason, who knows he’ll be fine if he can return to his beloved Amy (a feisty Celia Imrie). And then there’s Ron Cook’s snarling, vindictive guard who lords over these easily bullied prisoners.

      Attracting Nighy, Spall and Cook, among the Empire’s finest character actors, along with the legendary Plummer says more about the quality of Ronan Bennett’s script (based on a novel by actor Stephen Fry) than any adjective I can type.

    I’m not a big romantic comedy fan, at least not the ones that Hollywood makes these days, but “Lucky Break” restores my faith in the genre, and in the hope that love, even when it seems impossible, can make everything right.

SKYFALL  (2012)

    Though too often the franchise has felt weighted down by its long history and jerry-rigged plots, I remain a devoted fan of the granddaddy of spy thrillers, the Bond movie.

    Since I was a kid (my father took me to see “Thunderball,” maybe the first “adult” film I’d ever attended), I have made it an obligation to see them all, even the cartoonish crap fronted by Roger Moore and, as rigor mortis set in, the painful Timothy Dalton years.

     For me, the underrated Pierce Brosnan, in the Bond saddle for four pictures, the best being “Tomorrow Never Dies” (1997) featuring Michelle Yeoh as his wing girl, revived the series’ dignity, restoring a semblance of relevance to the ageless, martini-swilling MI6 killer.

     Then the franchise got lucky: the market for complex action heroes sprinting across the globe exploded on the heels of the success of “Bourne.” With a more ferocious, less playful, leading man in Daniel Craig, the series moved into a higher gear. Resetting the character with “Casino Royal” (2006), Ian Fleming’s original novel, the film gave hope that Craig and company could improve upon what Brosnan had done. Then the producers took a step back with 2008’s “Quantum of Solace.” Happily, for us devotees, “Skyfall” is first-class Bond, maybe the most engaging film since the Sean Connery era and certainly the best acted in the 50 year history of the series.

    I’m not sure what kind of arm twisting went on to secure Sam Mendes, the first Oscar-winning filmmaker to direct a Bond (his debut, “American Beauty,” also won best picture), but the unlikely choice turns out well. He stages the always-spectacular opening set piece, aboard and on top of an Eastern Europe train, with the flawless skill of an action veteran, while putting greater emphasis on what’s going on inside these characters’ heads and their complex relationships.

     The plot, not worth lingering over, involves the stealing of a list of agents (why do agencies’ even make such a list?) and a vow by the twisted bad guy to expose them one by one. Predictable stuff if it wasn’t for Javier Bardem’s Silva, an ex-MI6 agent who feels betrayed by M (Judi Dench in one of her finest screen performances) and wants revenge. Silva also may be the first out-of-the-closet gay villain, his sexuality played not for laughs or shock, but as another aspect of this bad guy’s life.  

     “Skyfall” puts the focus on M like never before, exploring the bond between her and James and her metal as she’s threatened both by Silva and by her new bureaucratic boss (Ralph Fiennes). And if Dench, Fiennes and Bardem don’t offer enough acting history, near the end of the film, Albert Finney shows up in a choice role as caretaker of Bond’s family estate in Scotland—there’s 16 Oscar nominations among those four.

     The script by John Lange, Neal Purvis and Robert Wade keeps the action moving at a breakneck pace (or it wouldn’t be a Bond), yet finds space for real characters exploring the results of their actions, creating a spy thriller that isn’t just a live-action video game. Now we just need someone to convince Craig he’s needed for a fourth film.

THE MASTER  (2012)

     Paul Thomas Anderson crafts motion pictures like few ever have. Combining unfiltered reality, larger-than-life performances and surreal, unexplainable sequences, staged and filmed with the precious of a diamond cutter, the 42-year-old writer-director is utilizing the language of filmmaking with a cool perfection and sudden brazenness that makes his films simultaneously confounding and stunning.

      Yet, since his brilliantly audacious 1997 debut, “Boogie Nights,” he hasn’t made a satisfying film. I could show you clips from any of his last four films, “Magnolia,” “Punch-Drunk Love,” “There Will Be Love” and “The Master,” that would convince you that each was a masterwork. His command of the mise-en-scène (the French phrase for what a director brings to an individual sequence) is unmatched in contemporary cinema—he makes Martin Scorsese look messy. But I’ll take messy every day if it adds up to an intellectually and emotionally truthful story, a film with meaning and clarity.

      In “The Master,” we meet the damaged outsider who has been the centerpiece of all of Anderson’s films; this time it’s shell-shocked World War II soldier Freddie Quell (a effectively bizarre Joaquin Phoenix) who falls in with a group of philosophical cultists surrounding the man they call “The Master,” Lancaster Dodd (Philip Seymour Hoffman, in an unfocused performance). He’s a bit of Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard, a bit of Rush Limbaugh, but also not unlike the pseudo heroes that made Frank Capra films so appealing. But, from my point of view, he’s not as interesting as any of those characters and certainly not as defined. I never really understood much about his theories or what drew all these sycophants to him like moths to light.

       Quell is a lost soul looking for a reason to live and he finds it in Dodd. Why the all-powerful, but strangely nervous Dodd embraces Quell is never addressed, beyond the fact that the not-very-bright ex-soldier makes potent bootleg liquor.

      There are a half dozen scenes in “The Master” that left me totally confused—was it real or someone’s dream and what exactly does Anderson wants us to make of it. Dodd’s wife, played by Amy Adams, gives some hints that this cult is really about sexual freedom, but Anderson never tips his hand; in some ways, this film hides more than it reveals. Filmgoers are left with Quell’s view of Dodd’s world, a naïve, muddled understanding—not exactly why I watch a movie.