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Its been a mere decade since Sam Raimi helmed Tobey Maguire (as twenty-something Peter Parker) and company together to set the modern standard for the webslinging hero. As the first two films experienced both commerical and critical success, it's understandable as to why the latest project, The Amazing Spider-Man may strike some fans as being "too soon." But, such popular wisdom didn't halt the 500 Days of Summer director Marc Webb from attempting to prove the nay seyers wrong. Challenged with the prospect of following 2002's Spiderman, this Spidey-film, in production, suffered from the sole disadvantage of being a subsequent act: avoiding semblance. Being a remake, however, involves at least some similarity. In any regard, the film succeeds in distinguishing itself largely due to the new Peter Parker, Andrew Garfield. Known for his spotlighted performance in The Social Network, Garfield assumes a modernized persona in 'Spider-Man.' He, though playing a bit older of a teenager than did Maguire in his debut, is instantly accepted in his role, having a fresh-faced innocence framed with anxious tics, angst, wry humor, and an unpretentiously down-played charisma that realistically reflects towards today's youth. Moreover, unlike the hackneyed "nerdy" image Maguire attained, Garfield is a punkish, skateboarding, internet-surfing, texting teen who just feels right; factor in the tall, lengthy stature that fills the red and blue arachnid suit which draws a far closer semblance to the comics than does Maguire's diminutive clumsiness. Peter Parker, then, is an abounding improvement; we even get to see him as a child in the Prologue. His love interest, the newly monikered Gwen Stacy--no more scarlet-headed Mary Jane--played by the ultra-talented Emma Stone is a beachy, yet intelligent blonde, all emo-short skirts, high boots and blimpingly gazing eyes underscored with thick-painted eyeliner; she is terrific and delightfully lighter and more expressive in character than the cold, equivocally taciturn Mary Jane of previous films. The two together, though, don't always stick like one would want them to, as the pathos and jokes don't land consistently, but individually they work wonders. When a mid-plot twist reveals Gwen's father (Denis Leary) is head honcho of the police force, (Leary miserably nods along) the divided love affair between the two crossed teenagers assumes more of the same division as between Peter and Mary Jane, and ups the ante in cohesive sentiment. As for Martin Sheen and Sally Field as Uncle Ben and Aunt May, they are near perfect castings but neither is used nearly enough. And, the one-armed scientist-reptile-symbiote, Curt Connors (Rhys Ifans) the screenplay's poor excuse of a villain, is a character no more an antagonist than Peter Parker for a chunk of the film. He is brought to his monstrous transgressions by one Dr. Ratha, who demands that Connors create an antidote for an ailing company superior. While The Amazing Spider-Man does devote some attention to character revamping, namely Peter Parker and the fledgling Gwen Stacy, as well as capturing some subtle nuances from the comics, it also fails to web its components together, often revisiting the same plot points of its predecessor. Though forgiving the latter is sensible, the former is impeachable. What we're talking about: plot contrivances, continuity errors, gaping lapses in logic, and embarrassing coincidences. For one, not nearly enough is said about Peter's parents, particularly his father. Early on, Peter is searching the web (why is a teenage prodigy using Bing?) and it is there he whimsically finds an article of his father with Connors. Others include: what happened to Uncle Ben's murderer? What happened to Dr. Ratha after he was seen in his vehicle on the Williamsburg bridge? Why are no photos taken of the 8-foot tall reptile rampaging through cars like magots? Why are a swarm of lizards walking on a web of Spiderman's in the sewer? Who writes "Property of" on anything? Why do crane operators work during evacuations? If Dr. Connors' reptile-transforming serum was ephemeral, and thereby needed to be injected every four hours or so, why would he expose the entire New York population to it?; the effects would be short-lived. And, the last I will mention, why is Denis Leary the only police officer on the roof of the building in the finale, when hundreds of other SWAT personnel are meandering on the street, watching the hero and villain fight? It's these contrivances and more that mar all that 'Spider-man' offers; director Marc Webb can only feint the mishaps with unfulfilled emotive closeups that merely break up the pervasive silliness for a short time, but such aren't ever forgotten. By the looks of it, the making of 'Spider-man' was lost right from the boardroom; oh, there it is, WHOP! It's an icky mess to clean up.

In his reversion to graphic, unrelenting brutality and incendiary sensationalism--elements found in his frenetically charged "Natural Born Killers"--Oliver Stone celebrates a trio of non-heroes against the backdrop of the pot industry; everything is well, even an unconventional menage a trois, until the consequences of their homegrown operation take a pernicious turn. Mixing an overtly expressed "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" love triangle with a ruthless ring of drug lords, Stone creates a flashy- meets-filthy-mess of a spectacle sure to satisfy fans of the summer caper, while too, alotting time on the soap box, pushing a political agenda--though not excessively--all while capturing the idiocy of current legislation. As for the characters themselves, it's the trio not mentioned that are the most effective; Del Toro, as Lado, is delightfully dark and chilling as the deranged assassin, a middle-aged, fatted, amorally disciplined Travolta is also worthy of mention, as he renders his best performance in years, delineating the greatly desperate family man, and arguably most entertaining of all is Hayek, the svelte Cleopatra-esque boss who avoids falling into camp thanks to her dexterous handle on the moral complexities that come from maintaining the facade of power on the outside with the melancholy ruefulness she holds privately behind closed doors. She nails the balance, and does so passionately. Though many will find "Savages" to be far too violent, and unwarrantably so, others voicing opposition in relation to its conclusion, all should be joyed to see Stone in his regular form: dauntless and headstrong. This, however, is not without noting the undeniable mess he creates and craftily "cleans up;" let's not deny, love him or hate him, Stone is one of the best in the business in that regard. At times taking the audience away from the film, (I'm sure I'm not the only one who was frustrated by Lively's intermittent narrative) "Savages" doesn't always immerse, as by the end of it all, one might question why they should care about the three uninterestingly woeful friends (Klitsch, Johnson, Lively). Further, "Savages," is energetic and entertaining, no question, but the closer the eye examines Stone's cunning skill for deception, and what lies beneath the elaborately stylish skirt he loftily casts, the more familiar this summer caper looks--the only difference being--this one has an eye for fashion.

Sadly, it seems any filmmaker billing De Niro in their movie, now, isn't the least concerned with what the erstwhile acting legend does; casting him is supposed to be enough. Though such lionizing of a cinematic icon should be respected, and the actor himself should relish it, the billboard on which De Niro's face is plastered in "Red Lights," of his character Simon Silver, once again avers with undoubtable certainty, that he is merely dress-up for any trash that happens to call his name by phone; even sadder, is the realization that the trash and the man are slowly becoming synonymous with each other. This is true, but De Niro's not all to blame. From the director of the claustrophobic thriller "Buried," Rodrigo Cortes helms, this time, a psychological grabber starring Sigourney Weaver and Cillian Murphy as a pair of full-time scholars and part-time paranormal debunkers. Their belief, the ESP, the ghosts, apparitions, telekinesis, psychic surgical treatment, are only superficially eerie acts, filled with sleighted gags. And, that sums up the film too: loud sounds, seemingly spooky ambiance with its share of door-slam-shocks, levitation, crackling power outages and the all too familiar candle blowouts with people gathered around the dining room table, and many others you've seen before, its ultimately mostly all, a campy mess; a film laden with busting bulbs and magic tricks but little semblance to cohering characters and dialogue. Moreover, a movie about extrasensory perception, you'd think, would have some form of self-image and perception, but the only thing this psy-thriller "grabs" is a mirror, at which point it insists on **** before it can take a look. Sure, not all is lost amidst the fragments--Toby Young as the parapsychologist and genre-connoisseur Weaver (she knows where the "light switch" is, per se)--but the characters all feel so stranded in the darkness with no exit anywhere in sight. Others, namely Young's on-screen girlfriend, Olson, appears only fitting in the picture insofar as to confirm Young's otherwise implied affinity for women, and incidentally to show the audience some respite in occassionally revealing a pretty face instead of a dark, cacophonous room. Also, Weaver, notwithstanding her valiant attempts to fulfill the script, can't circumvent her expositorily informative lines that don't do justice to the already dullness of some of her counterparts. Initially, the film does start intriguingly, at least cinematographically, with dramatic shifts in camera movement and delightful set-locations. But, one can't expect the scenery alone to help this shock-limper through the long-haul. Enter the aforementioned De Niro, who hides behind those big, black glasses, and further, those cosmetic cataracts (playing a blind, spoon-bending thaumaturge) and wears his fading reputation proudly; needless to say, De Niro should have taken a tip from his character and performed his own vanishing act--far, far away from taking this role. His Simon Silver-paranormal-superstar persona doesn't come across as mysteriously creepy, but rather desperate and frankly, not all that interesting. Additionally, in what has been called a "mind-blowing conclusion," "Red Lights," endows an ending that is sure to mix things up, but rather than having a twist that adds to what one already knows, it ironically pulls the rug out from under itself, and takes it a step further in nullifying that which its sleight-of-hand narrative had set out to explain in the first place; it makes the pervasive foibles of the film all the more intolerable and undeniably unforgiveable to the time ill-spent. This one missed all-too-many signs urging it to "Stop." Arguably the biggest turn-for-the-worse and misfire of 2012.

While Ted, the self-titled protagonist, may look like the adorably soft and cuddly, ursine-childhood-friend, such conventions are bound to be tested by "Family Guy" creator and first time director Seth MacFarlane, whose multifaceted voice work merely drives his twisted, at times abominably offensive material. Don't ask how the controversially animated show has run for some 13 years, but it might have to do with saying what others dare not; rest assured, audiences can expect the same bold-faced audacity in his directorial debut, an intriguing blend of live action and CG technology, "Ted." This "romance versus bromance" amalgam, is centrally premised around the wish one lonely boy makes one Christmas evening in hopes of transmuting his furry teddy bear into real-life companion; sound familiar? Pinocchio, perhaps? So, as anticipated, the following morning sees once-friendless John Bennett, granted with the wish of his dreams, and the start of what will become a life of Peter-Pan syndrome; only we're talking about something more potent than pixie dust. Hence, the first scene of real-time, where now-35-year-old John (Wahlberg) is shown taking a bong hit with his peer-pressurer teddy bear, now wearing a hirsute coat laden with subtle stains and tears, and complaining to John about how he needs to talk to his "weed-guy" about the activeness of his current supply of grass. It's all so funny at first, seeing a stoner in the guise of what has long been considered the staple of puerile comfort and security. But, MacFarlane lives to obliterate long-standing conceptions, especially mores. Aside from some one-liners that don't quite stick, seemingly procrastinate editing (some scenes feel as if they were indecisively cut), and a slightly unbalanced script, the high-concept comedy is fitting, serving its purpose--riotous Friday night laugh-out-louds--and satisfying audiences. Only, after a while, and some brain-dead lapses in logic (how can a soft, fuzzy teddy bear, stuffed with weightless filler, subdue a grown man, Wahlberg, punching, bashing, and spanking him, while being unable later, to defend himself against an obese pre-adolescent boy?) Ted,no longer possesses the same shocking affectation he laid onto audiences in the film's first hour. It is as if Ted is no longer a teddy bear, thanks to MacFarlane's resonant voice work, and the plot's direction follows too much the formula paved from movies like "Knocked Up," that star a man wanting to remain a nonconstructive element in society, resorting back, time and time again to smoking pot, besotting oneself, and acting like a buffoon amidst life-changing circumstances. Moreover, until the audience sees Ted do something they haven't seen before--the opening bong-couch-scene had already set the bar so high--it might as well be Seth Rogen himself on that couch; the same mystical feeling of watching a fluffy childhood toy become high and talking with a potty-mouth only lasts so long. So, when John's commitment-seeking girlfriend, Lori, (Mila Kunis) is irritated by Ted's incessant urging of his "Thunder-Buddy" John to join him in his life of profanity, she confronts John, presenting him, indirectly, with the ultimatum of "bear or girl." This too, see "I Love You, Man," feels borrowed, and sets up John's "just give me one last chance, Lori" where he, following the design, will find a way to break his promise, and where Lori's egotistically sleazy, and forward boss (Joel McHale) chimes in. And, after the relationship with Lori is halted, Ted is surely going to wind up in trouble, too, right? You guessed it, enter Giovanni Ribisi. But, in a macro sense, "Ted," is undoubtedly hilarious in parts, and with the combination of MacFarlane's expressiveness of voice and the CG-animated, Ted is a character one can only root for, regardless of how ribald he really is. The soundtrack is charmingly, as well as deliberately cliché, but it successfully bolsters MacFarlane's self-mockery and recurring hilarity with the far-from-kiddy-Ted. Moreover, Wahlberg (feeling comfortable in his Boston hood) and Kunis (underused as usual) do a fair job at delineating the on-the-edge couple (albeit the real feat is in acting with a voided-CG-animated Ted). And, Patrick Warburton's (Guy) impassive, basso-profundo-gruff-sounding-self is aptly humorous. As for the peculiar love triangle between Ted, John, and their hero Sam Jones, the vaguely remembered 'Gordon' star won't pacify most of its intended audience, and feels patched together. Likewise, the film's third act, which clumsily throws in some peril to regain some faltering sympathies, looks and feels forced. Ultimately, "Ted" is unduly and deliberately offensive, stuffed with taboo and sacrilege, a tinge of sentimental relish, clumps of aimless fluff, loose strings, and an irrelevance sewn with a real, bearing heart.

This left-for-dead, decade-lasting-hiatus, three-quel goes close to matching the original, and soars highly above its predecessor, offering extraterrestrial blockbuster fun for MIB franchise aficionados and foes alike. It's at times funny, visually aesthetic, and captures Josh Brolin as Young Agent K at the top of his game--or as far as impersonations go--he's jutting out Tommy Lee Jones from every pore of his craggy-mannered self. Such praise, sadly can't be given for anyone else who look the exhaustion experienced from this publicly low-demanded third installment that tries to make up for a subpar script with a loud bark, a frenetic orientation, and disjointed wag; it assumes its blockbuster countenance with discordant effects, shabby gags and dialogue, but given the off-course path of its continuation and demise ten years earlier, 'MIB III' should be considered a triumph and rebound for the series. However, it doesn't necessary present any real justification for another installment either--while this one does offer some comedic value, you won't be needing a Neutralyzer--one's mind will find things far more integral to hold in its occupany.

Shredding box office records in Europe, and shedding histrionics to tell a tale of dependence explored by an improbable friendship, 'Intouchables' confirms the enduring appetite filmgoers of all sorts can have for the simplest of stories; ones that aren't fake with bank-breaking void, but full with real shades of humanity. Directed by Eric Toledano and Olivier Nakache, the film revolves around two very different men, each looking for someone or something to mitigate their current situations; circumstances that are far from favorable. The first is a Senegalese immigrant named Driss (Omar Sy) who lives anyway he can. He resides in the crime-ridden projects outside Paris, France, where he commutes by foot, and is in the process of recovering from his stint in prison that's lasted six months. Looking to find a solid line of employment, one that will limit his time off the streets, Driss lands a job as a caregiver to an affluent quadriplegic Phillipe (Francois Cluzet). This premise provides the framework for the evolving relationship of two very different people, joined together by means of business. While the film does make certain of its "based on a true story" visage, it, in reality, is far more fictionalized than true (the real-life Driss, for example, was an Arab named Abdel). When asked why the filmmakers opted to make the casting change to include a black aide, they made the case they wanted Omar Sy. That's fine, he is more than qualified; he did beat out Jean Dujardin's role in "The Artist" for last years French Cesar Award. However, some of the scenes he's in, feel overly cliche, corny, and forced; think "Earth, Wind, and Fire." Moreover, as a whole, 'Intouchables' also contains a great many plot twists and character developments that seem to come from nowhere at unspecified times. Even more, and vexing of all, is the amount of exaggeration and lingering sense of insincerity that is never quite lifted from the film's intended "feel-good" aura; the film tries to offer something so absurdly inconceivable while not explaining how it all could be considered plausible. Instead, one is left to contemplate what might have been if the holey script would have placed more focus on developing the characters, and the situations that surround them. Notwithstanding its continuation of subterfuge, 'Intouchables' is held together by an earnest devotion to humanity, with its writers paying careful attention to delineating stability from adversity, and the persevering will by each man to accept the other, turning what would otherwise be constant cliche into an affecting camaraderie that is brought to form by Sy and Cluzet who possess a surprising chemistry to the screen. Further, while the copious subplots flirt with vapidity, often detailing personal despair, the film remains apt with the frequent gauging and testing of the men's representative comfort levels that the audience can see and feel teetertotter before their very eyes. Ultimately, 'Intouchables' liege disposition to value interpersonal affection over flattering dishonesty solidifies its connection with audience, and almost compensates for its few-too-many moments of self-inflicted abashment. It's the leads who salvage this lightly-intense European-pop-culture-phenomenon. Don't like **** can blame the French.

Contrarily to this adapted rom-com's verbose title, one shouldn't 'expect' much; that is, unless literary desecration is in your hand of cards--if that is the game you're looking to play, then consider this mess a winner. Inspired by Heidi Murkoff's multimillion-selling-self-help-book for expectant mothers--holding the same name--'What to Expect', the film, will be much less prolific. Obviously alotting more work, and money, towards getting an ensemble cast--as opposed to garnering producers with emphasis on purpose and ingenuity--the filmmakers, here, create a product that is not the least bit unique; it's a generic label laden with followed genre-specific cliches, bawdy humor, and disjointed direction. So unevenly collected, that audiences feel as if they are watching several different sit-coms, mangled together into one episode; it's an amalgamation that becomes more tedious--keeping its storylines and characters straight--and less enjoyable to watch, as the characters are simply not all that interesting. By following five Atlanta-based couples, the film wants fervently to incorporate all its character's diverse fluff into one sitting, but such hopes are subverted to an emptily-flat experiment that pairs audiences with familiar faces acting out a weak script, while the experimenters stand back and pray that the audience doesn't notice just in fact how hollow it all really is. Nonetheless, the same experimenters (filmmakers) know that the subject matter can relate to everyone--we all have either been a kid, a parent, etc.--and manipulatively milk the subject matter for all it's worth. As far as the audience's concerned, director, Kirk Jones ("Nanny McPhee," and "Everybody's Fine") was never anticipating a success here, rather, with emphasis placed on superficially manufactured platitudes and close-ups of innocently adorable babies, he purported to cash-in on a huge demographic. Following the conventional screenplay formula for movies of the rom-com variety, there are endless storylines co-existing. There's the TV-fitness-guru instructor (Cameron Diaz), who's having a baby with her partner from a reality "Dancing with the Stars"-copy program (Matthew Morrison). In an exchange between the two, director Kirk Jones takes a few lines from Murkoff's book, where the couple discusses circumcision; germane to the book's content--maybe--but interpolated well into the film--not in the least. Next, is a struggling photographer (Jennifer Lopez) who desires to adopt a child from Ethiopia, due to a failure to conceive, with her husband (Rodrigo Santoro). Much of their involvement in the film stems from their doubts that the adoption agency will accept their bohemian lifestyle as apt, as well as Lopez's attempts to sell her pain from her child-rearing limitation; this, however, is made hard to buy as she lacks any real emotional connection with audiences, endowing only a trimmed figure, a petulant behavior, and a little girl's voice. Dennis Quaid also appears into the mix as the back-slapping, ultra-competitive, former NASCAR champ, now-dotage-dwelling sugar-daddy of much younger trophy-wife, Brooklyn Decker, who's character also happens to be expecting. But, perhaps the best to watch of the couples is Elizabeth Banks, an author and boutique owner, and her subservient husband (Ben Falcone) who is immediately assigned as the target of fun-poking and humiliation. His father happens to be Quaid's character, but his dislike of his father's personal life is made apparently known. Being a former weight-loss-show-contestant, his once obese-self still wears heavy on him, and is the source of some ridicule. Anna Kendrick and Chace Crawford make up the last couple, rival foodtruck chefs, albeit they are the least like the other four, and at times, appear to be starring in their own movie--something that could possibly work much better than this film here. They are twenty-something lovers, who occasionally exchange a few flirtatious right-hands in the process. Notwithstanding the women's role in the film--Bank's awkward, yet resonantly true rant about her third-trimester "hell" towards the end is the best part--this film is about the "Dudes." The husbands join up with Chris Rock to form a support group for fledglingly-expecting fathers, as they banter in the park about parenting bloopers and blessings. They offer some laughs, but mostly they appear pretentiously unfunny--pushing strollers in slow-motion and strutting like secret agents; not to mention the severity of some of the preceived jokes' content--leaving a child at daycare, for example, not considered humorous by all. Despite its few laughs, ensemble cast, and affecting hints towards pregnancy, 'What to Expect' is an over-packed piece of luggage that becomes too frustrating to haul around; an immersion too tediously futile and not nearly enough funny. Expect worse.

As a director and co-screenwriter, Joss Whedon is no stranger to mixing and matching genres, and 'Avengers' is no different; while it has one of the most engaging, well-written, and slickly paced screenplays ever known to Marvel-based films, met with spectacular action sequences, shot at scrolling multi-dimensional angles--the non-stop action foregrounded from the mesmerizing setpieces and cinematography--too, is the suprisingly clean wit that brings relief at the most opportune times; both when the action subsides and drowsiness kicks in, and when the overstimulation of explosions, sound effects, and "Hulk-fists" flood the senses. However, notwithstanding its keen eye for diversity, and its frequent reminder to the audience that its characters are, real people with real lows and highs, and even larger hearts, albeit shown tacitly, 'Avengers' is, proudly so, a mind-vacationing summer caper; one that just happens to be much more tolerable, thanks to its ensemble cast's performances and the aforementioned flair. Assuming the form, though, of the genre, the film is host to, well...problems. Further, it tries arduously to make the viewer unaware of its issues, usually of continuity, masking them up, both literally and figuratively, but fanboys and casual moviegoers alike, will be far too engaged. Nonetheless, if one doesn't think too hard, 'Avengers' is an elite, alpha-male, man-amongst-boys spectacle that can't be missed. Put differently, it more than marginally exceeds its hyped expectations. More specifically, though, the pairing of the script with each of the "heroes" is a delight in itself; each brings something a bit different to the table, and each delivers in their role. First and foremost, is Robert Downey Jr.'s Tony Stark. Downey benefits, arguably the most from the quick-punching dialogue, as he wears his arrogant, billionaire-playboy-braggart aura so balanced that, when on-screen, he is all the audience can look at; his performance plays out like he was born to play the character, "Shakespearan-bearded," and all. One can't leave the theaters without Scarlett Johansson's Black Widow on their mind. As the tantalizingly tempestuous scarlet-beauty, she moves the screen with her walk, her talk, and her kick-ass, which apparently all can be done in one scene; think interrogation becomes interrogator. Next, is the unexpectantlyn refreshing Mark Ruffalo who plays the night-and-day role of anxiously cool Bruce Banner and the robustly stalwart and indomitable Hulk. Aside from his own contribution as Banner--which he does wonderfully--is the remarkable semblance his CGI'd-Hulk draws to the original, Lou Ferrigno (the "hulking" **** erectus with a thick, bushy, black-and-gray brow as well as the same touch of humanoid sense of self). Chris Evans' 'Captain' is also commendable, although, Evans himself, looks a good 15 pounds slimmer. He steps up to the role, but his same massive physique displayed in his own self-titled journey, is greatly reduced, which in turn, subtracts from his physical prowess. In addition, Hemsworth's Thor looks and acts just as formulated--his Aryan, golden-locks and azure eyes, bulbous shoulders and arms and the same misplaced naivete and ignorance--fits Whedon's mold. Samuel L. Jackson's Nick Fury, is no exception. While not as charismatic as the others, his "Shaft"-like spin, stern, in-your-face, and collectedly in control, is also apt the ensemble. And, although Renner's Hawkeye/Barton adds some action-filler, he doesn't quite offer anything much other than a few bicep flashes and stray arrows; such arrows that never seem to run-out. But, that is only one, very minor, continuity issue found among the many others. At the same time, however, special mention goes to Tom Hiddleson's Loki. Now, here is a villain who is so unpredictably nefarious, that almost an entire film is centered around him, but it works. I thoroughly enjoyed Hiddleson as Loki in "Thor," probably even more so than Thor himself, and again, he delivers with such darkly crafted charisma and snakily twisted facial expressions that is almost as fun to root for him as it is against him. So, yes, each character contributes. But, I have to ask, what's up with Clark Gregg's Agent Coulson. Not quite sure if Whedon is pointing to a, let's say, "fruity" demographic or what; his role is not really necessary, and only kills extra time and strong moments. As a whole, though, 'Avengers' packs an astounding beginning, a slow, estrogenic drama-anticlimax, followed by a resonantly solid close that does an incredible job at finishing on a high note; a ringing conclusion that acts as the world's best eraser--it wipes the distractingly uninvolved middle right from the minds of its audience--and re-draws a picture worth looking at: a superior, Marvel-action-flick-masterpiece. Sadly for Whedon, not all are as easily manipulated.

Let me make this quick, out of respect for the late Poe, "The Raven" is a camp, leanly scripted, horribly acted calumny that unqualifyingly slaps its literary predecessor in the face and defecates on the very writing style that made him unique, supplanting the same pervasive and consuming eeriness with a cheesily rote, slice-and-dice murder mystery that tries to look mean with dark-hued tints and wailing screams but instead appears pathetically misguided and unintentionally funny. Director, James McTeigue just doesn't have a skill for wit here, ruining what could have been a fair pastiche and tribute to Poe, and instead channeling attempts to do so through a hard-to-see, black screen with Conan Doyle in the foreground becoming lost in his own self-searching investigation. 'Raven' is an uninvolving potpourri that creates such such a mess for itself, that it doesn't even know what it's trying to do. Just silly. Do yourself a favor: save some time and just read Poe instead; it's sure to be more engaging. This, however, is nothing to rave about.

There's no doubting that this 'Engagement' is well-over-due, standing in at about 124 minutes, it tries arduously to remain funny, smart, and slickly-written, but not even its cohesively-paired leads can keep it afloat of the persistent rawness that just won't let it go. Drowning and ultimately running out of gas from its incessant unevenness, and pacing, 'Engagment' is a few edits away from being several notches above the average rom-com, however, as is, neither the supporting characters' development, nor the much-needed tightening of its improvised sequences are made apparent. Although Blunt (Violet Barnes) and Seigel's (Tom Solomon) performances will be more than enough to pacify casual followers of the genre--even despite the impressive degree of realism derived from two and the central premise--it's simply not funny enough to rationalize its overlong trip of meandering. And, while Blunt and Seigel, together, make a great team, they very quickly, lose empathy from audiences, who after, say, 80 minutes, are no longer interested in watching them anymore, or even concerned with what happens next; this too, especially for the casual moviegoer--the intended audience--becomes more of an exercise in patience than an outing of pleasure. In short, 'Engagement' isn't short enough.

Director/writer Richard Linklater ("Slacker," and "Dazed and Confused") just has a knack for making "funny" out of sheer quirkiness; "Bernie" is no exception. However, such an amalgam, in this instance, wears a conspicuous switchblade on the sleeve of its seemingly unimpeachable, happy-go-lucky, awe-shucks suit--comely yet fey--which makes the audience's support of its protagonist, notwithstanding the solemnly predetermined circumstances and resolution, all the more substantial; one can't help but feel his internal struggle to restrain himself from the impending provocation, and revert to a suit unsheathed from trepidation and worry. Hence, "Bernie" is as much a "based-on-a-true-crime-story" as it is an emotional exercise in one coming to grips with the life they "needed" to have, but weren't "ready" to try. As for the movie itself, a plot too unconventional to be anything other than...well...true, it is about real-life character and mortician, Bernie Tiede, (Jack Black) who moves to the small cornpone town of Cathage in East Texas, where he immediately becomes the figure of social graces, exuding an ironic level of comfort from residents dealing with the loss of a loved one; the town knows Bernie will be there to commiserate with, and more notoriously, a solid deal on their deceased one' s terrestrial humble abode. Needless to say, Bernie is a town favorite--respected, idolized, and considered valuable to the communal whole. Though, Bernie is something of a bachelor as well. With his high social status, and flintlike sense of self-worth from being of consequential usefulness by endless scores of people, Bernie decides it's time to enter into a relationship that is more quid pro quo--but is he ever wrong. He begins meeting/dating Marjorie Nugent (Shirley MacLaine), a sour-mouthed widow of cold embraces, who also happens to be the town's most affluent member. After runs of extravagance vacationing, and copious amounts of arguing, the film follows with Bernie on trial. It is from this point, that the offbeat, dark dramedy really picks up, as Linklater's atypical movie becomes even more peculiar, albeit rewarding, assuming the form of a semi-mockumentary that includes interviews from actual local witnesses with a loose script who know the couple, as well as professional actors who "claimed" they knew the couple. Either way, it is know one else but the mere townspeople that are the most fascinating,--outright, vivid, profane, hilarious, and insightful--connecting audiences with a sense of realism that is as effective and contributing to the film's plot, as astonishing it is just to take in. So, is Jack Black not good as Bernie Tiede? Absolutely, he is. Black modulates the most careful restraint he has ever produced in a film thus far. Everything from his 1990's visage--comb-over and stache and his expandable gold watch--to his persnickety stride and fluttery hands, is greatly enjoyable to observe. However, after a while, though not readily, Black's adroitness shifts to self-enchantment, though he does look as if he is having a great time on-screen. Similarly, McConaughey, playing the town's district attorney, Danny Buck, flirts with his character's limits a bit too far, which looks like a constant tomfoolery of self-parody; while charmful and expectedly charismatic, his portrayal of Danny Buck can't be taken seriously. As for MacLaine's Marjorie, she does a commendable job, as she plays the nefariously querulous widow primly, although her character is considerably less enjoyable to side with; merciless and unfunny. But, one can't discredit her work because of who she plays; her various nuances make for an oxymoronic quality that is delightful to watch (her acting job) and equally vexatious to endure. Ultimately, "Bernie" hits its highest marks when its inner-story is digressed to ephemerally comedic, straight-to-the-camera remarks made by the townsfolk, that help give the audience an internal "say" in who was actually right and who was wrong. Further, while the townsfolk, particularly the real ones, do show bias in their "opinions' regarding the matter, their comments help steer audiences in the right direction to deduce the situation's happenings. Although everyone seems to have an opinion, one of the film's underlying issues is that its director/writer, Linklater, too, doesn't know, and Black's Bernie is just as clueless. That is, the townsfolk are the only sources of **** all; this then, adds to the degree and weight of their words. What emanates in "Bernie," is an almost elegiac meditation, with some atypical laughs, of an underrated hero who just happened to meet the wrong person and the wrong place, without him every knowing such could ever happen. Black's Bernie, is a slowly-winding arrow that surges ahead much farther than aimed.

Notwithstanding the brilliant cinematography--gracefully capturing the Ivory Coast's Tai Forest--as well as the real-time footage of the simians, themselves, "Chimpanzee" is a ultra-light-for-kids eco-doc that, although is believed to be real, and is real, doesn't quite feel real; it's dramatic scenery is accompanied with an even lower suspension of belief voice narration--by Tim Allen--which although corny, is nothing compared to the Disney script that attempts to loosely link the plot of "The Lion King" to a lecture on primatology. In other words, it feels overly contrived, thus managing to demean the marvelous footage in sight; some Bose headphones to block the sound, just might do the trick. But, if the jarringly tenuous and at times, mawkish narration or even the desperate recycling of Disney-movie-orphan-themes won't bother one from heading to the theater with the kids, the pathetic anthropomorphisms--with names of the likes of "Oscar," and even "Scar"--might be enough to discourage viewers. Now, in premise, the humanized chimps seem like a reasonable means to entertain and tell a story to, the kids. But, where it goes wrong is when Disney, again, creates the dichotomy of "good" chimps versus "bad" chimps. To illustrate the distinction even further, everytime "Scar" is shown intervening, the music intensifies, leaving the viewer with a dark, ominous throbbing. This is simply misleading for the youngers, as they are fed the same sermon of ethnocentricism--us versus them--suspending their cognizance that "Scar," too, has his "own" "Oscar" at home, yet it is such an omission of reality in which children are not informed. "Chimpanzee," regardless of its tainted superficiality and resorts to threadbare Disney-themes, is still a wonderful visual spectacle that, in its visualization, contains a magical aura that emphasizes just how close our animal cousins are, and how short the cross-species bridge really is; from the familial bonds of our distant relatives, we are reminded of what life really should entail. Ultimately, though, the same underlying authenticity that was filmed during its production--sans Tim Allen, music, staging, names, etc.--is mainly lost through the over-exertion of string-pulling that makes everyone of "Oscar"'s astonishing triumphs all the less astonishing; it's an eye-opening primer, only beneficial for the eyes, that is too much Saturday-morning-cartoonish and not nearly enough "Nat-Geo." To the unknowing chagrin of its viewers, the latter is far more constructive and worthwhile.

While the journey of getting "Marley" to theaters was complex, (copious disputes over director/producers) it's documentation of the titular figure, to the audiences' dismay, is not nearly as intricate; his life, as delineated on-screen, although captured musically through some hit-nostalgic riffs, feels unfulfilled compared to his off-screen life that saw moments of controversy--one most notably leading to the untimely end of his young life. Although such musical symbolism is effective in attemping to resurrect his name and rememberance, the film simply doesn't find a way to make him "feel" real. Instead, "Marley" is laden with incessant interviews, often back-to-back-to-back, a handful conflicting with each other, without director Kevin Macdonald making the least amount of effort to clear up the equivocation. Also seldom, are archival interviews with Bob Marley, himself. One would think the filmmakers would make it a priority to document the "man" and keep "others" documenting him to a limit. There are plenty of pictures snapped of him, and a couple clips, too, but the film primarily contains anecdotes told through the eyes of those who knew him best, most notably his children. However, the lasting image that is painted by the filmmakers in "Marley" is one that bears the scars of elongated delays in production, combating takes on creativity, and the overlying blatency of the indecent indignity that is held over it all, the film being hand-me-downed to the second highest bidder. Even more insulting, is the "4/20"--unoffically National Marijuana Day--release date that reverts back to the long-held self-concept of Marley as a ganja-smoking, marijuana mascot for all to lampoon at; it's a proscribing shame of a legacy. Not only is it a cheap gimmick from producers to get the stoner's to theaters, but more importantly, it unworthily labels a man who stood for much more than toking up and listening to reggae music; the film will be shown to millions who know little of Marley, and it is them, that need to know the "true him" most of all. Sadly to say, the film does him little justice, excluding much more than is satisfactory. Ultimately, it's still highly entertaining--leaving you with "what might have ****...--even despite its 144 minute duration, which by its end, will supply one with a warm feeling to "jam."

While it took a great deal to finally get it on the big screen, "The Cabin in the Woods" is well-worth the enduring wait. Although, it's probably better if I don't say too much; it's deliciously practial joke, with a lasting punch of twist and turns, and a capricious finale that is as shocking as it is unexpected. It's a booby trap that has its claws ready for prey, you make think you may know where it lies, having made a few passes by its grasps in the tall, unknown grass, but before you know it, you have already been brought to the ground, on your knees without knowing how. It's to-the-brim with horror, not just scary in a conventional sense, but frightening from knowing how little you actually do "know." Director/writers Drew Goddard and Joss Whedon take the self-awareness/inside-joke concept that has been tried--and has failed time and time again--and reinvigorate it into a meta-feat of filmmaking that is ghastly, hilarious, and even mysterious--at moments all-at-once--maintaining a solidly slick script throughout. The film is also host to a question mark that remains indelible on the bearings of the plot until the very end; it's stress-inducing. As for such a "resolution"; let's just say it isn't your typical "The End" finale. And, If you're thinking it's the creative-but-unfulfilling "I gotcha' ending, you're equally wrong. No, the filmmakers do get the last laugh, but in a way that involves a fledgling character and an overarching story-revealing; audiences are, indeed, eventually guided outside the unascertained 'Woods.' Notwithstanding its subtle satirical tone, feeling a little hinge of "Scream," which breifly reverts to genre cliches and one-liners, 'Cabin' is a genre-recalibrator, whose most impressive quality is perhaps, its transmuting of the very expectations audiences are taught to have from...watching fright flicks. The more one watches it marvel onscreen, the more one learns about the filmmakers--Goodard and Whedon--they are more annoyed by horror movies than they love them; for every flesh-flopping sinew and blood-spraying limb, another token is slotted in the laugh meter. The amalgamative dimension between opposing dichotomies makes for fun-frights.

Playing out more like a tribute than an originally-drawn twist on a classic, 'Stooges' is an imitation piece that fails to offer anything new and germane to modern times; its material, embarrassingly camp and derivative, feels too overly forced and enervating to connect audiences with humor outdated some 80-odd years. Though the "Big-3" (Hayes, Sasso, and Diamantopoulos) turn in first rate impersonations, carrying out the same aching eye-pokes, excruciating hair pulls, bone-crushing skull slaps, and nasty knuckle sandwiches, not to mention the familiar dissonant squabbling and airy mindlessness, they don't even bother to deviate from just that: impersonations; the characters have no intention to extend themselves beyond a 'Mad-TV'-esque imitation-comedy-skit--offering little else than ephemerally visible-but-not-felt- smiles, followed by long-lasting regret and discontent. And, adding to the feeling are cheap laughs, underdeveloped cameo appearances from modern "characters" ('Jersey Shore' cast members among them), cheap and flatly-shot scenes, desultorily unapt classic-rock scores, as well as reproachably classless, and dismal attempts to appeal to contemporary audiences--breast and bathroom jokes with references to drug use--all of which disceptively slide past the approbated PG-rating. Did the fillmmakers fail to realize their forbear was clean? Ultimately, the Farrelly brothers, regardless of their own inspirations, don't create anything inspiring--they create a travesty--and participate in an exercise of fully-fledged defaming. It's "Soitenly" despicable.

"American Reunion" is sure to appease previous followers of the series; it's still laden with the expecting awkward sexual situations, crude prankishness from Stifler, unsettling talks between Jim and his dad, and plenty of booze. It follows the same formula. And, as anticipated, being a "reunion" movie means one is bound to have a failed marriage, another is likely to question their career path, and one couple of old flames will get back together. It's all very routine, and brings reason and justification to its long-over-due end. 'Reunion' simply doesn't feel like anything new was ever thought of upon its creation; instead, it feels as if filmmakers studied the previous installments, added marriage and children into the mix, casted some new fill-ins, and changed little else. The film begins on a couple unsensibly tactless and unfunny notes, all while conspicuously focusing on Stifler to create laughs, and finally refines its crassness, albeit slightly, later. As I found myself watching 'Reunion', I couldn't help but notice the change in the degree of humor since its first installment; the gags are repeated, but aren't nearly as affecting as they once were. Also, the film's attempts to wring out as much sex from its "reunion" themes comes across as forced and desperate. One instance, in particular, shows Jim playing off the "I remember you from somewhere..." motif. He runs into a newly "legal" teenage girl who he used to baby-sit. Naturally, the film sees that she is topless, and ready for Jim to defile. Why a married man with a child, contemplating the seduction of an eighteen year old girl, who in fact he used to watch under his **** a child, is material that is purported to bring about laughs is sickening to even consider. But, nevertheless, the audiences behind me cry out in riotous cacchination over its "humor." The same idea is repeated all throughout the film, as Stifler is shown attempting to titillate the fancies **** of stereotypical, obtuse-minded beach babes, making references to current-day pop culture. By this time, the deplorable pursuits at comedy are more than soaked up; no, its been dead for thirteen years. Ultimately, "American Reunion" is exactly what fans and newcomers, alike, expect from the latest installment; the former couldn't love it more, while newbies couldn't like it less. Without knowing the characters beforehand, the film is seen as another dumbed-down, sex-comedy featuring the disturbingly familiar motif of married men flirting with the concept of cheating on their spouses with teenage girls, and from that, expecting to generate laughs. Having seen the previous films, 'Reunion' doesn't even come close to matching the effect of its original or seconder, but does just what one expects in concluding a still classic title series; not laugh-out-loud, but still offering some comedic relief. As a late-night-filler-theater-trip-with-friends, the film fulfills its role--and likely its budget--with familiar faces and old, but nostalgic gags.

Though "The Hunter" has an aptly casted protagonist, Willem Dafoe, as fitting for the film as any actor, it fails to consummate any real solution; audiences are left waiting for the hunt through inquisitive lens, are briefly interrupted with forays into detractingly impertinent melodramma (the remote farmhouse with a grieving drug-addled mother and her two vexatious children), and then are met with poetic, philosophical, and transcendental overtones, which although are redeeming, feel forced and ultimately come too late. What television director, Daniel Nettheim, gets wrong is that he leans too heavily on the flinty, chisel-featured Dafoe, who single-handedly dominates the film's action, with no support from anyone else but Sam Neil, who is confoundingly given too inconsequential a role--he deserves better. As mentioned, Dafoe is great, again solidifying his prowess as a physical actor; he is so engrossing to watch, one can't help but wonder if his maniliness--gathering wood for fire, preparing traps, and taking aim at targets--can be made into his own television show; he's more rugged, raw, and untamed than other reality-TV survivalists. But, perhaps the most captivating element of 'Hunter' is its astounding cinematography from Robert Humphrey, who wonderfully captures the Tasmanian frondescence; the lush Tasmanian buttongrass and enchanting mountain peaks serve as effective backdrops to the increasing unease and dread. Overall, "The Hunter" is an ecological think piece that is aided by a strong lead and wonderous landscape, but suffers to actualize itself into anything but, "what if..." One is likely to leave the theater changed, thinking about it long after the credits have rolled, but such contemplation can't be had without a heaping sense of displeasure over the film's concluding irresolution. Put briefly: "The Hunter" is lean.

Hard hitting, thought provoking, heart-rending and timely, "Bully" is a documentary that approaches an all too familiarly overlooked subject in a way that hasn't yet been explored; its graceful, and sure to pull on the heartstrings. However, unlike its unimpeachable intent and central message, "Bully," the film, undermines the totality of the subject by avoiding to satisfy it on an intellectual level; not a single interview with the titular contributors (bullies) or even a mere statistic solidifying the real-life gravity of the issue. For everytime a tear is shed, another opportunity is flubbed away from making it truly great and equally, memorable. As it is, "Bully," is a "cause for change" docupic that does offer moments of arising deep-seated pathos and stirring those around those emotions, but the erratic editing and the degree of simplicity derived from the omission of key tangibles, keeps back what could have been a game-changing medium for ages to come. Still among the best documentaries of 2012.

Notwithstanding its much improved 3-D effects over its predecessor, "Wrath of the Titans" does what people do everyday: looking at a computer screen. What audiences see, even in 3-D, are multi-limbed and headed CGI creatures, "unanimated" and lifeless, being rigidly juxtaposed to real-life people who take swing after swing to their unhuman counterparts, and miss time after time; apparently, as long as a computer image has the appearance of falling and dying onto the ground, the need for the same animated creature looking as if he had "been hit" is not important. Much like a Rocky-Creed bout (only without the use of computers), the punches here don't connect. Essentially, what the audience sees in 'Wrath' is an exhausted use of expensive, yet poor quality, effects that fills the entire length of the film; in the past such effects were used on occassions to "add to" scenes, not to "fill" runtimes. But, don't feel bad because your inexorable sense of exhaustion was surely shared by the actors of the film; you think watching this is bad, what about the actors who had to wave swords against air? With that in mind, it almost makes you feel better doesn't it? Oh, you're right, there's no recovering that wretched theater ticket, popcorn, and drink. Honestly, though, you had to have seen this coming...

Though its made with a discernible amount of passion for the sport, a subject treated highly from the filmmakers, "Goon," is a sports dramedy that is less about hockey and all about one finding longing achievement through uninhibited bestiality; an exchange of fists--given and received--with a pack of feeling behind each knuckle-turned, brain-bashing, tooth-flying, slo-mo blood smearing punch. From director Michael Dowse ("Take Me Home Tonight" and "Fubar: Balls to the Wall") and the writer of "Superbad," "Pineapple Express," and "The Green Hornet," Evan Goldberg, "Goon" begins as an interesting spin and deviation from other hockey flicks (namely "Slap Shot"), being gruffly raucous and zany, much in part to hyper, foul-mouthed friend Pat (Jay Baruchel / also credited as a screenwriter), though once he is exited whimsically from the story, the same comic pep is lost. What then transpires is an unrelenting, overextended brawl-fest that is bookended unresistingly by intermitting shots of despair, anger, familial dysfunction and self-induced masochism. Moreover, after the film wrings dry every drop of angst that is felt outside the rink, it has no other stopgap but to resort to the already overdone violence. Only the realistic-looking, greasy mullet and 70's stache Ross Rhea (Liev Schreiber) is even partially enjoyable to follow, outside of ribald Pat; Schreiber fits the part impeccably. As for the protagonist, given this intolerable dullness as Doug, (Seann William Scott) a stammering, ignoramus character, the hockey scenes are, by default, increasingly more palatable. Doug does have his moments of establishing empathy from audiences, but it is ultimately short-lived and is supplanted with more blood from punches. If you are grasping the common theme here, "Goon" is all brawn; it never has, purports to have, or even contemplates for a second about having any brain or intellectual bearings. Overall, it is a language-polluting, mind-vacationing, blood-thirsty, feral baccahanal which harbors its fair share of ephemeral fun and carnality, but doesn't last as long as you might have hoped--or not quick enough--depending on on how you like your time wasted.

Though the concept is hardly an original one, "The Hunger Games," directed by Gary Ross ("Pleasantville," "Seabiscuit," and the upcoming "Catching Fire"), visually details the first installment of the widely acclaimed dystopian trilogy written by Suzanne Collins. Taking a page or two from earlier films of a similar variety, as in a much tamer account of **** "Battle Royale" (2001) and delivering the same satirical overtones and vision of runaway celebrity culture and reality-tv obsession like Weir's "The Truman Show" (1998), the film shines in its tense tone and from a couple of its leads (Lawrence and Hutcherson), though is lessened by its invariably unstable, twitchy camerawork (using three angles at times) and over-editing swiftness --despite its intentions to make for intensified pathos and a neurotic dystopia--which fails to match the book's same sense of loss from death and the competition's ubiquitous ambiance of uncompromising gravity and carnage. Notwithstanding the camerawork, editing errors, and violence-saving restraint (let's not forget its rated PG-13), 'Games' is very much engrossing; the one-hundred and forty-four minute runtime never seems too tedious or soporific. Moreover, the film retains its grip on the viewer's attention much in part to its nimbly brisk pace and stunning cinematography. Lawrence is really what puts 'Games' on the same map as "Harry Potter" and further away from "Twilight;" she has a calming innocence that is both steady and assuring to the viewer, and blue eyes that are equally riveting. If viewers are familiar with her in "Winter's Bone," the same barefaced committment is brought to her character Katniss Everdeen, the bow-and-arrow-slinging heroine, who volunteers for her eleven-year old sister in the annual "Hunger Games." It is through Katniss that audiences become genuinely concerned with the competition's outcome; rooting for the heroine over even her District 12-adversarily-forced friend Peeta (Hutcherson). His character attires a strong, affecting visage that tears the viewer momentarily for whom to continue to cheer for; Katniss still wins over the crowd. But even more effective, is the film's transition from the book, which is told in first-person (Katniss as the focal point), to an omni-prescent scope. With this clever, and much safer, modification, the audience gets to see both the Hunger Games control room (the studio show stage) as well as the artifical, environmentally-staged battlefield. Furthermore, the continual change of pace from hunting (the action) and the scripted show (presentation) mimicks a "real-life" reality premise where audiences see both the physical confrontation and the manipulated, interviews, pre-game ceremonies and beauty-style pagentry, laden with flamboyant fashion and persistent directing coordinators. The control room, as in all of the film's setting, draws a strong, at times too close, semblance to "Fifth Element;" apparently Hollywood's only visual representative take on what the future world will be. Amalgamated from this "reality-show" are hosts and staff, some memorable, and some one would like to repress. Among the former, is madcap, blue-bouffant, male-Oprah-like Stanley Tucci, the horrificly bearded high-tech coordinator, Wes Bentley, and the long, wooly white, lion mane coiffure of Donald Sutherland as the usually distinguished and mellifluous, President Snow of the 'Games'; he is demonically brutal in his antagonistic role. As a whole, 'Hunger' is a film that is steered money first into a consuming demographic (13-19), and restrains itself knowingly from achieving brilliance by ensuring it stays the course. Though it starts as if it will last an eternity, and stand amongst cinematic grandeur, the film inexorably loses it steam and transmutes into the melodrammatic plodding in the woods that follows the "Twilight" series far too subserviently. In addition to the increasingly eggregious display of treacle adolescent-romance and fluff, the initial brilliant cinematography by Tom Stern is supplanted with noticeably cooler, more mundane tones. And, once the fighting itself begins, the teens on the battlefield are just not given the same degree of complexity and richness as the adults; they are seen as sheer psychopaths with no souls. Moreover, the need to add the laboriously dull and done-before love triangle only frames what will hopefully "tie-in" in the next installment, but the incipient longing for relationships does not put an effective cap on this origin account. Not endowing the same cultural study of class critique, as the superior "Battle Royale," 'Games' is obviously too Hollywood for its own good, eliminating some of the greater meanings the film desires to fulfill. The crux of the point: breaking box-office records is more important than making breaking one's highest expectations; settling for green is the greater compromise.

By all costs a Net-Flix, night-filler as opposed to a $10 theater let-down, "Seeking Justice," is not the worst played by Cage (sporting a fledgingly trim goatee) in recent films, though it is not far behind. Still packing unnecessary convolution and plot holes, ample action, and a low suspension of disbelief, this thriller is only saved from camp delight due to Pearce's sufficient-enough foil. Though, once the plot takes off, as with almost every Cage movie, mostly of late, things become familiarly complicated, nonsensical, and, oh yes, embarrassing and intermittently funny. Cage fans not to be disappointed; he may even exceed your expectations (not that the bar has been set very high).

As one can expect, the offensively condensed and rudimentary Spanish-lingo, ethnic digs, spaghetti-Western gags, and inflated run-time all run stale...very quickly. Being a slightly more original "MacGruber," yet equally moronic, not to mention subtitled, "Casa de mi Padre" is a full-length (84 minute) feature, diced into 5-minute 'SNL' skits, that when split accordingly, will make for great Youtube popularity. Ultimately, Ferrell's inundated, comedic dexterity, even his hailingly hilarious, puerile ignoramus self can bail out this feebly built spoof. This is the kind of flick where the foreground action becomes so untolerable, so uninterestingly involving, that the incidental details become the focus. So much, watching the various cigarettes being rolled up activated more cerebral cognition. As for Ferrell taking the time to "learn" Spanish for the film, at least he can now communicate with the native Mexican youth; that's about it.

The ultra-talented, Indie darlings, the Duplass brothers ("Badhead," "The Puffy Chair," and "Cyrus") have here what might finally catapult them unto the mainstream scene. In their largest scale film yet, casting big names as Siegel, Helms, Sarandon, and Greer, the brothers create an easy-going, low-key, mumblecore that maintains a naturalistic tone and genuine palatability that doesn't set the viewer's expectations too high or too low; it beats a drum that is methodically modulated and internally contemplative, while possessing a poignant resonance that is more subtle than one might expect. What holds it back, is a beginning that meanders a bit too long, at times irksome, low-fi sound quality, and a message that promotes helplessness in adulthood; the film could benefit from more ardor and drive, both literally and figuratively. However, with the omni-present sense of delight that hangs over this little joy, combined with Seigel's lost, yet optimistic eyes contrasted with his blunderous, man-child mannerisms, Greer's adroit tears, and Sarandon's maternal elegance, "Jeff Who Lives at Home" captures the dysfunctionalities of everyday life and family, and presents it in a way that is neither brazen nor tawdry; its clean, purely funny, unadultered cinema.

Perhaps too sketchy, and even more satirical, "21 Jump Street" is a bro-comedy that, despite its leads' efforts, loiters in its own mocking pool; it soaks up some pop-culture residual, expells it with self-mimickry, and simpers back at the audience for having taken a swim in it. Though Hill and Tatum offer moments of begetting 80's nostalgia, as well as a vaguely remembered muck of a TV-show--laden with car chases, well-worn high school scenarios (awkward proms, dopey faculty and staff, etc.) and predictable, slipshod dialogue and one-liners--the film resorts to much of the same, though out of parody, and its blatant, self-fulfilling, mocking cynicism becomes increasingly intolerant as it progresses. Moreover, the subject inevitably ends with recycled debris left over from, where else, the the "80's." Directed by Phil Lord and Chris Miller (the animated "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs"), "21 Jump Street," is not all foolheaded bufoonery. A slimmer Hill (playing Schmidt) is funny as ever, reprising his usual rambling, neurotically-charged, verbose self, sticking to his "Superbad" character. Though, even more entertaining, not to mention surprising, is Tatum, who, unlike his usual unsupply, numb and ligneous expression and acting ability ("Step-Up," "Fighting," "****: Rise of the Cobra," "Dear John," "The Vow," etc.) he feels loose and unrestrained, and even comfortable as his character, Jenko. Towards the end, though, the film ultimately looses any effect it initially had to reel viewers in with, especially during the police training sequences, and, with the interpolation of all too-familiar, genre-specific penile and homosexual references, as well as a 8-10 minute preview of "Project X," featuring a chaotic teen party, thanks to screenwriter Michael Baccall (who also worked on 'X'), and a hackneyed prom night-meets-gun-fight close, "21 Jump Street" is the raunchy, filth-filled refuse that many, if not all of the Youtube-generation and reality-TV aficionados alike, will be applauding and praising for months to come. Then, one day once the dust has settled, and the diapers have been changed, will be relived again, only this time on 'F-X' reruns and 'TBS' "Dinner-and-a-Movies." It's funny, just not, "that" funny. Call me when grown men flirting with under-age high school adolescents is hilarious...wait....this world is getting there.

Much to the akin of a cross between vintage Woody Allen meets Manhattan-set tv sitcoms "Seinfield," and "Friends," with a hint of "Sex and the City," this 'romantic-comedy' doesn't short-change the genre itself; it's both romantic and is certainly funny. From the writer and director, who brought the lesbian-spun quest of finding love in one's 20's to life ("Kissing Jessica Stein"), comes the boundlessly talented Jennifer Westfeldt, who not only writes and directs, but also stars (with also real-life spouse Jon Hamm) in this ensemble comedy. Again putting a twist on relationships, Westfeldt, this time, delineates seeking love in one's 30's...with a baby. The story centers around the lives of two best friends Julie (Jennifer Westfeldt) and Jason (Adam Scott). Each live in the same apartment building, and each engage in frequent one-night stands. Among their social circle, are other couples,who all gradually resort to having kids in their relationships, including the domineering wife Leslie (Maya Rudolph) and her emasculated, subservient laggard husband Alex (Chris O'Dowd). They are the first couple to have a baby. Next, Ben and wife Missy (Hamm and Wiig) have a child. Once their innocent infatuation with child-rearing manifests itself into an actual child, though, the two naive lovebirds resort to heated bickering...like children themselves. When Julie and Jason realize that they get along better than the already married and now-parents, they begin to consider having a child of their own: without the "marriage." The characters' logic stems from the view that most marriages, statistically end in divorce, and that since on average they tend to fail more than they suceed, having a child without the "unnecessary" complexity, would somehow make the situation easier. It lost me too. Regardless, the two friends continue dating, Julie meets empathetically sensitive Kurt (Ed Burns), while Jason stumbles upon tantalizing Mary Jane (Megan Fox). So, the once strictly platonic friends begin to become 'friends' with, a bit more, than meaningless, innocuous 'benefits.' Among the benefits of 'Friends' is a vivaciously committed cast, that has a sense of resonance and on-screen cohesion that may be due to the majority of the cast having already worked together in "Bridesmaids." Nontheless, they congeal and show real, plausible emotion. Also ballasting the film is a slick script that supports the actions of its characters, and inevitably, makes it worth watching; it touches upon a real-life element in social interaction upon friends--the jealousies, judgments, artificialities, and genuine emphathy--that rings a tune of realism. As expected from an ensemble comedy, each of the characters turns in a serviceable performance, Rudolph and O'Dowd being the most distinguisable--too, having worked together in "Bridesmaids"--and being the largest beneficiaries from the strong script. Hamm maintains his charismatic coolness, as usual, though Wiig is arguably the least effective; her role is simply too restrained and irrelevantly peripheral; she's wasted. Furthermore, the two leads are strong, especially Scott, who finally is given a primary role to showcase his causticly acrid demeanor and rapacious output, that the viewer can see and feel him deliver; he shines. Though Westfeldt pulls off an amazing task of directing, writing, producing, and starring in the film, she creates her own character as coming off slightly too simpering and needy. By the latter half, "Friends with Kids" becomes all too predictable, and loses its originality, resorting to genre-specific cliches, and all too-familiar unfunny, ribald humor. In addition, the film is completely oblivious to its various audiences: it's too progressive for some, not enough for others, and perhaps a bit too aloof from the implications of its subject. Having said that, notwithstanding the right intangibles, the film treats its title characters (the kids themselves) as being mere innate objects, burdens laden with excrement and cacophonous sound, of which don't deserve solid, fully-committed, fully-faithful parents; the 'kids''s needs are shown as being offensively inconsequential. The underlying message: it's acceptable to have children if it makes "us" happy. Where is the mention of children's happiness? Casting the moral and ethical concerns aside, "Friends with Kids" is one of the better rom-coms made in quite a while.

In a real-life memoir called "Another Bulls_ _t Night in **** City," by also real-life Nick Flynn (played by Dano), a playwright and poet, he describes the reunion with his long-absent and eccentric writer and father Jonathon Flynn (played by DeNiro) at a homeless shelter, of which son Nick had voluntarily worked during the 1980's. Adapting such a premise into a film is filmmaker Paul Weitz, who for the last seven years has been working to capture the father and son relationship of the Flynn's, as portrayed in the film, "Being Flynn." Through the course of the film, the viewer is also introduced to Mrs. Flynn (played by Moore), who committed suicide when her son, Nick, was 22 years old. She is pictured throughout in extending flashbacks, primarily shown with her "then-child" son Nick. Also, shown, is Nick's semi-involved, vaguely determined girlfriend (played by Thirlby), who serves as the support for Nick during his down-ward spiral. These are the main characters. Father Jonathon, though, much ado to DeNiro, is the main emphasis of the film. Suffering from an extensive bout with alcoholism, and having served time in prison for writing bad checks, Jonathon's pent-up rage boils inside of him, and readily shown by the acting prowess of DeNiro who has finally messaged to audiences that "He's back." However, there is something about DeNiro's playing of down-and-out long-shots rising up from adversary that suits him in this bio-pic role. Notwithstanding his own "comeback" from histrionics, as shown in the past decade, one can't help but link DeNiro's delineation of Jonathon Flynn as perceptibly and eerily similar to his classic performance of "Taxi Driver," some thirty-plus years ago. This is so for a few, yet intentionally done, reasons. One, Jonathon works as a taxi-driver, and later his torn self is shown in front of a mirror; you'll know what I'm talking about. Although this isn't the first time DeNiro has denounced his infamous moving roles in the past (see "Little ****" and "The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle," to name a couple) I will admit, a special resonance of nostalgia and movie history is brought to life again, this time from an aging DeNiro. So, it is good to see him back onboard. As for Dano, he shows signs of letting loose, much like his to-to-toeing with Daniel Day Lewis in "There Will Be Blood," however, his sullen, nonplused brow and merose eyes are seen as indications of overacting, and become bemuddled, in terms of drawing a resemblance to the real-life Nick. Having read Nick Flynn's memoir, I can confirm that Dano does have moments with showing a similar sense of loss as felt through real-life Flynn's words, especially in his drug use, but he almost looks and feels distracted. Put differently, Dano can't quite match DeNiro's redemptive role in firepower; instead, he feels weary and too-defeated. As for Moore, she hands in a safe, unrestrained role as the non-present mother, but the flashbacks simply don't give her enough "life" to be considered commendable in her role. As for Thirlby, she, too, shows signs, like Dano, of breaking loose, but by no fault of her own, Weitz doesn't give her the aid to render a memorable performance; she's a mere fill-in to bolster Dano. The film, as a whole is not bad, though, is doesn't quite feel as if Weitz knows what he wants to do with his convincing leads. He shows DeNiro trickling into despair, but doesn't know how far to let him drop before he ascends back up to shape. And, more specifically, Weitz shows a DeNiro, sleeping on public benches and such, however, on a whim, shows him hearty and sane as ever. Then, just as easily, shows DeNiro imitating almost Greek oracle, versing words to the heavens, and displaying his loss with reality. The extremes are flunctuated too frequently. Moreover, I find Weitz's extensive research with the real-life figures of the film plaudable, as he obviously taps into DeNiro's adroitness, and will to act again, however his diluted narration and uneven balance leaves more to be desired. Overall, "Being Flynn," is a worthwhile drama that not all will enjoy, but many can find elements of which to relate.

Flagrantly inferior to its literary predecessor, 'The Lorax' sends a skewed message to its viewers, one that is less timely and memorable, and more puffed with crass one-liners and subtle condescension; an utter denigration to one of the greatest children's authors to ever live. However, more maddening of all is the lack of regard and reverence to Geisel's words, mellifluously melodic syllables accompanied by sticking alliteration and rhythmic patterns; they are defecated on. Much to the viewer's chagrin, the film does not include a narration: how does a 'Seuss' adaptation not have a narration? Only in one instance are words from the book uttered, albeit words offensively disparaged. Early on in the film, Audrey (voiced by Swift), a character nowhere to be found in the book, quotes Geisel in regard to the truffula trees: "The touch of their tufts was much softer than silk, and they had the sweet smell of fresh butterfly milk." This is relieving to hear and see. However, such memorable quote is replied by Ted (voiced by Efron) with "Wow, what does that even mean?" And, Audrey says, "I know, right?" So, what we have here is a character who was not even in the book, now in the film, belittling the very words which the film, itself, was shaped. This example, ultimately sums up the direction of the film; changing what wasn't already broken, and breaking it. Don't become too skeptical, 'Lorax' does contain rich, diaphanous colors that bring to life some of what Geisel's book intended to show through words, however, the film's attempts to put a new spin on things, especially by adding characters not found in the book, creates a blurred focus and disconnect, which results in a story that looks more like something you've seen before as opposed to the original, timeless literary version. Much of this is emanated by the title character, who voiced by DeVito, becomes too-well-overdone, and eventually becomes irksome and forced; he appears much more in the film than the book. I understand the film's casting of DeVito," again, to "spin things up," however, his 'Lorax' character doesn't match the same prominence as the book, rather, DeVito comes across as too imperiously assuming; an unpleasant, discordant "Jor-zey" inflection that becomes old, very quickly. I can't imagine the filmmakers wanting that. As a whole, 'Lorax' is a propaganda filled, "green-pushing" adult-first animation film that looks impressive, but inevitably sends a twisted message to kids that "it's great to help the environment, but only to further oneself in the process." Moreover, the film is, for the greater portion of an hour, 'Lorax' is partially fulfilling, mostly to do with the visuals, however, the most compelling sequence lies in the last 20-25 minutes, once the garrulous 'Lorax' and dainty animals are finally exited from view. Having said such, only ephemerally does the film endow the same sense of loss and somberness found in the book. Lastly, the underlying theme and parable of the film is not so hidden, as even the kids will, atleast minimally, capture what it's aiming to say. However, the guise with which it sticks with throughout (large smiles, balmy jokes, and fuzzy "fluff"), is more than enough to divert the kid's thought-provaction. In 3-D, though, the action doesn't quite match the subject material. For most adults, the slapstick won't fly very far; it's a "T-I-M-B-E-R" kind of spectacle; falling before your eyes.

There are far more useful ways to spend one's time; fire up the cable tv, sit back, and one is sure to find something atleast somewhat stimulating. Better yet, avoid it all together, I forgot, this is a tv movie. What foreign film director, Hector Dhalia, and writer Allison Burnett ( "My Date with Drew," "Feast of Love," "Underworld Awakening,") have here is an idea, so unoriginally effete, hence the title, and so flimsly executed, that the on-screen action is not the least bit engaging; audiences are drawn more keenly, instead, to a Portland setting that is as much a let-down in wasted horror potential as the film's beginning, middle, and end--all negligibly trite. Specifically, the film hands Seyfried a script that unrelentlessly smothers her; she is neither talented, convincing, or intersted enough to pull it off. As the viewer watches her become an instantaneous crime virtuoso, suddenly equipped with seemingly extensive investigative experience in a knee-jerk's time, they are left sitting, waiting, wondering, how, what is unfolding is even constructed into a film idea; it's mindless. And, the sight of her large, nefarious sea-greem eyes amidst her cutting brow line and biting lips is what the attention of the view is supplanted with; an expression that almost seems to cry "wolf," only this time...sincerely. As for the other characters, they are carelessly under-developed and delineated so dimly, that their dialogue sounds more read-like than memorized: drop the note-cards guys, this isn't high school speech class anymore. Ultimately, "Gone" is a poorly-written, even more poorly-acted, straight-to-tv movie that hands its protagonist, innately incapable of rendering the least adroitness, a script that is so disconnected with her abilities that she essentially rolls over and sits down; the effort is colorlessly drawn. Filled with one-liners all too familiar to the genre such as "Just go home and get some sleep," replied with "I'll sleep when he's dead," makes the film's subject matter more a liability than a component of entertainment. Instead, "Gone's" characters mewl, "Mom, do we have to?" No need to check the temperature of this failure; it's dead.

Although there are moments of strong hilarity, "Wanderlust," just doesn't have anything carrying its weight; it feels muddled together, unbalanced, disjointed, and inevitably wavers hesitantly. The film's only sense of support is from Rudd, who continues to posses a naturally occuring, acquiescent benevolence about him that is very much commendable. Contrarily, though, the film is pretentiously vulgar, laden with flopping, full-frontal nudity, and slovenly ribald humor. The result, presented satirically, is a 98 minute uncensored, extended-cut SNL skit that thinks its funnier than it actually is; what it "is," being complete hokum.

Perhaps too drowsy in pace for some, "Take Shelter" is not easy to enjoy; it's a ponderously, slow simmer that yearns for one's admiration, while never losing the viewer's interest. The film echoes a sense of dread and anxiety, channeling Shannon's dark, slightly unhinged, sullen aura, his trademark loomy stature and coarse features; he brings to life a "Curtis" character who is so malleable in his purpose, that no one can tell what's to happen next. Moreover, it feels as if what the audience is seeing has much more depth, as if another layer of subtext is just waiting to show itself. Nichols paints a portrait that is both astounding and riveting to hold on to, grimmacing and shuddering uneasily with anticipation and pent-up apprehension, driven by self-discovery, and down-right frightening in the most eerie of feelings. Although it is Shannon that reels in arguably the best performance of his career, more than worthy of an Oscar nomination, Chastain is incidentally moving, though mostly captured in her spot-lighted contemplation and worry. Notwithstanding near impeccable casting, editing, musical accompaniment, and cinematography, not all will appreciate "Take Shelter" due to its slothlike pace, frustratingly ambiguous, conflicting religious and metaphysical themes and interpretations, and its crazed, schizophrenic sequences. Pack plenty of whitey-tighties, because this one's a nightmare.

There simply is no excuse as to how a film involving a fiery skeleton perched atop a zooming motorcycle, infalliably flagellating its victims at will with a diabolic chain could possibly be stodgy: enter "Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance." It's easier than one would think. However, it does enlighten: at last affirming Cage's increasingly outright indifference to acting, as well as the audience's mental and emotion hygiene; he simply doesn't care. Instead, we the viewer, are constrained to a seat in our very own self-inflicted hell, with what might end up being the longest 95 minutes without a single firing of a cerebral neuron; just a catatonic blah of lifelessness. How, so? "I'll make it quick" (something that should have been said in compensation for witnessing the utter agony). What we have here is a poorly written, excessively-stylized and unevenly produced CGI action-flick that resorts to its overdone flash, in an attempt to mask what can't be hidden: plot-hole-ridden filth of production value. The camerawork longs for your attention, but all the more does its hammy display of predictable and lily-livered characters fit the bill for targets of camp delight and mockery in years to come. Moreover, "Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance" is a "depressingly" satisfying cult-classic-to-be that is far too fun to mock than to hate, and you won't be alone; Cage will be laughing with you all the way through, albeit inside. He knows he is starring in a C-movie, and he's damn proud of it too. Thumbs up to the money-raking, "joke's on you," Nic Cage; he's done it again...

Equipped with a deftly slick script, deluges of heart and tenderness in the most latent instances of banalities, ballasted by a winsomely charismatic Pitt, is 2011's "Moneyball;" the biopic sports drama that keeps the jargon and economic talk terse, and brings human nature to the forefront. What emerges, is a film about life, laden with its struggles, challenges, losses, and triumphants, with baseball, inconsequentially as its backdrop. For the ardent sports enthusiast, much of the "art" of the game is captured, however, it is presented in a manner that is near the fringes of condescension and whose suspension of disbelief and disregard can become offensive to witness. Moreover, the story (albeit "true") is deliberately told in fallacy in order to dramatize the truth (can't forget it's Hollywood). This is specifically true in the ball club's roster, of which wasn't as aggregated with misfits as the film suggests. Nevertheless, "Moneyball" is a tale that is told with passion, diligence, and finesse, (Zaillian and Sorkin) thanks largely in part to Pitt's amiable character and delivery. While the errors in the film will be hardly noticeable to most, it is certain that the film will leave many thoroughly entertained and ready to dust off the old mitt and get the shoulders warm for throwing. It's bound to earn one's admiration far past the seventh-inning stretch; no stops to concessions for this one.

Walking a tightrope of polar extremes between gravity and levity, perhaps "50/50's" most exemplary trait is its dexterity and finesse with which it juggles such diversity; an amalgamation that's subject matter is treated with both careful caution and insouciant jocose. The film is home to a vividly rich script, thanks to Will Reiser's real-world insight and vision, prim pacing and balance, as well as arguably the most realistic, heart-rending emotional sequences to ever grace a theater screen yet. Gordon-Levitt shines as the undemonstrative, reserved man of fledglingly unfortunate news, who, through his battle and journey, takes us the viewer with him; both painful symptoms and quiet triumphs are experienced through him unto "us." Further, Rogen's burbly demeanor is an effective bolster and change of pace to the uncompromisingly elegiac tone. Overall, the film is timely; funny when levity is called, and moving when sadness exists. "50/50" proves humour can be wrung from critical subjects, providing it's done with sufficient thoughtfulness, tact, and wit.

"The Way" is a staunch film; it knows what its identity is, and it doesn't try to elude from it. How many films can one recall that set out to do the same? In doing so, Estevez has created an experience for the viewer that is blithesome in spirit, modest in bearings, and introspective in tone. Moreover, it doesn't appeal through flash; the actors act within their limits, its displays of pathos avoid brazen treacle, and the plodding itself, although lighter than it should be, results in a soul-quest that touches upon the faculties of regret, despair, loss, and spirituality without affectedly being as so, assuming a semblance to a pretentious sermon. Notwithstanding the cloud of predictability that is suspended above the filmâ

Diligent pacing, taut action, and suprisingly potent performances by its leads, impels "Drive" past its predecessors; redolent of a high-strung, 80's-neon adrenaline shot, while bearing an equally raw and prim endowment that looks and feels like an archetype in itself. Although, some will find its blood too loosely shed, the film's art house design is a gilt-edged example of how to aim at a niche, subdue it, and watch it gush with abandon.

More of an artisitic magnum opus, laden with symphonic fugues and transcendental phenomena, "The Tree of Life" is light-years away from one's conventional cinematic experience. Instead, it exudes an ever- changing amalgamation of family life (the "movie") and the outlying visual sequences of the galactic cosmos via solar and asterismal alignments, as well as the terrestrial realm, shown in the form of volcanoes, fire, water, grasslands, and pasture. During the medial stretch of the film (about an hour), the latter journey (the visual sequences) will mimic one's experience at a planetarium, or perhaps a viewing of an environmental documentary, minus a top-rate actor's narration; if watching it on television, one might have the strong urge to check the channel. However, during this period, one of the greatest displays of cinematography is displayed, bolstered by powerful orchestral accompaniment, albeit not too aiding in one's attention. Despite such patience that is required from the audience during this time, once the "movie" returns, it is nearly infalliable. The film accurately delineates a 1950's midwestern family, and viscerally captures the everyday, unplanned, mundane life of the time: rough-housing, pre-adolescent boys playing in the grass with their dogs, wrestling in the tall grass pastures, mothers watching intently, arms-crossed to the discretion of their children outside a window, fathers kissing their children and wives on the cheek, brief-case in hand, before a long day's work at the plant, and the aestival sun browning the faces and arms of all under its path. Furthermore, Mallick instills the sense of respect and discipline set forth in the traditional household, "yes, sir," "no, sir." This is brought to life by Pitt, who rivals with his passive, ethereal wife (Chastain) for the respect of his children. The boys respect their father, and it isn't until he is gone (traveling abroad) that they see why. They (the O'Brien boys), especially Jack, prey on the mother's vulneribility: "I can do what I want." Although Jack proves timid amidst his father, out of fear of punishment, we learn he actually respects him, "I'm more like you...than her." Mallick's film is particulary accurate of the time, and easier to relate to, as it has no "carved in stone" plot. The events take place loosely, unrestrained by direction. Instead, the viewer sees an unraveling of normal, real-world events during one summer. Moreover, Mallick also instills the sense of paranoia of the time, as the viewer sporadically hears the sound of whispers, primarily from Jack, who speaks out to the various themes of the film: spirituality, compassion, regret, fear, anger, sadness, and wonder---all elements of everyday life. Also making an appearance is Sean Penn, who plays a middle-aged Jack. Here, we see he is a successful businessman in an unknown field, more-than likely in Chicago, and still reminiscing about his childhood experiences and the loss of his brother. Although his dialogue in the film is sparce, the viewer gains a greater sense of the appreciation he had for his father's efforts to "build" him into a man. Also, Penn's character manifests himself as much more contemplative than his younger self. Just as young Jack is more whimsical (as kids are), his older character breathes a more solemn aura as he now knows what he had lost and is fearful of what is to come. The reemergence of more terrestrial and galactic visual sequences now makes more sense in the film latter-half, particularly with Penn, as it points to the eschatological apprehensions people often possess with increasing age. It's not until the end, that we see older Jack finally at peace with his life and where it stands. Overall, "The Tree of Life," is fervently poetic in substance; gravitas that is never taken lightly. It is a thought-provoking evocation that few will truly appreciate, some will seek to understand, and all will never forget; its gloriously euphoric, but it makes you work for its beauty: hang in there, it's worth it.

Nothwithstanding its attempts to manifest itself atypically from others before it, "The Grey" simply relies too heavily on the shallow shoulders of its "spear-carriers," whose only raison d' etre is to dispense egregiously daft and ribald prattling upon barren expressions, while the camera spotlights Neeson and mewls for support. What one experiences is a cinematographic waste of astounding, achromatic transcendental visuals, hampered by the dragging sense of directorial indecisiveness and subpar writing. Aside from Neeson's valiant efforts to egress from his enslaved character, the film enthralls with its surprisingly fresh metaphysical overtones, and adhesive tie-ins toward the latter-half. As a result, "The Grey" is a brimmingly stern philosophical survival thriller, laden with sporadic moments of jocosity and adrenaline, yet suppressed with a taste of dissatisfied chagrin.

At times unduly ruthless, 'Irishman' is a film that goes heavy on the embroilment, hard on ethnic affronts, and light on the cerebrum; an unerring recipe that stays true to its high-concept title. Nothwithstanding dutiful efforts to engender a retro vibe, the 'Irishman' fails to match the charismatic scintillation of its predecessors' characters; but it **** razing combustion. Don't be fooled, the film is thought-provoking, howbeit in the form of carophobia driven paranoia; one can't help but check the wheel well first, the ventral side next, the key slit third, or the adjacent vehicle **** time allows. Unnerving, huh? Now you're catching on.

Let's play a game I'd like to call "Word Association:" "She's the Man," "The Game-Plan," "Race to Witch Mountain," and the made-for-tv 'Lifetime' special "Wright v. Wrong;" any reactions? Do the words brainless. emasculating, flat, pulseless, insipid, stale, dull, enervating, and cinematic decadent come to mind? If so, you might be familiar with Mr. Fickman's recent work. One of his latest being yet another Disney-rom-com-meets ABC Family-Oxygen flatliner that tries to sneak in some praise with the likes of a few veteran actresses (Weaver and Curtis-oh and who could forget Betty White). But don't get your hopes to high yet, every director has a motive, and Fickman isn't any different---these women are casted for a reason. As the film progresses (or dissipates further into fatuousness), these gals serve as the final impediment of what seems like a continuing ensemble of nails in the coffin. So, worst case scenario you see the movie to assuage your "Alien" - "True Lies" - "Golden Girls" nostalgia. As for some of the other castings---Kristen Bell in particular---acting appears almost foreign to her in this film. I don't know if she was just looking for a quick payday or what, but I haven't seen her more "out of" her character than she is in "You Again." Half-baked, unattentive, uninterested, ill-conceived delineation of a PR-promotee whose high school unfortunates come to meet her once again. The premise, although some-what intriguing at first, follows close behind the "way overdone" genres of Hollywood today, so much that one might mistaken pieces of the screenplay for another; plagarism in moviemaking is **** right...COPY + ****, now I have a fully-functioning 90 minute rom-com! Now, let me throw in some pathetically selected cameos, a rendition of "Glee" in a hospital, and causeless catfights and you have "You Again." Almost forgot...slapstick humor---made just for you. Verdict: bouyant, lightheartedness that fails to asservate any sort of palpable feeling or pathos; heavily reliant on drollery, slapstick, con-melodramma, and hackneyed substance.

**** action hero that emblematizes more than an unwanted web-dweller, an opulent ecolocator, or fancied scrap metal; 'America' is the real deal! This latest film of the Star-Spangled Avenger is one that embodies a perceptible outpouring of nationalistic spirit and ardor, that draws from you, a rallying cry worthy of a few U-S-A-'s. The result, is a fanboy's dream, a new, improved look, and a comic-franchise-to-be, that just might become Marvel's next biggest thing. Think about it...What other comic film, after viewing, could you say made you feel proud to be an American? Zilch. Hey, and who knows, maybe with this country's ever-falling history test scores, a movie--this movie--of all things might be the cure; with Cap on your side, WWII might again be discussed and remembered. But, let's move on. So, you may be wondering: "Besides the 'feel-good' affect of a potential franchise, and the revival of academic decadence, how was the actual movie?" And I would tell you..."Captain America: The First Avenger" is the first of the historic 2011 summer blockbusters that aims to deliver on a textual basis, in lieu, of on a visual level; granted the visuals are far from peripheral. Farther, the 40's setting is a real delight to rivet in, as well. As for the acting...Chris Evans does a serviceable job as Captain Rogers, although, the 90 pound version is even more refined, and spectacular than the advanced CGI seen on Benjamin Button (2008). Hayley Atwell (Peggy Carter) also does a fine job, albeit, her presence is most known in the form of tightly-fit dress, showcasing her impeccable figure---she fits very well into the 40's dame picturesque. To my own surprise, is the real treasure in 'The First Avenger:' Tommy Lee Jones as Colonel Chester Phillips. Jones' stern, dead-set demeanor was to be expected, but his character brandishes more wit and charisma than other roles. More than anything, and what propels this film past all of the other of its genre---slightly more than X-First Stand---is its element of aptness of tradition; the feeling is conditioned within us. Captain America 'Wants YOU' to come to the theater!

Not nearly as entertaining as delicate its treatment of the subject is handled, "The Company Men" hits home hard at a time when many are learning to walk the waters of business again. Strong performances (Jones, Cooper, and Affleck) are discreetly selected, spanning a variety of ages, hangups and incomes---taking more and more people closer to our troubling economic times. Its somber and elegiac tone may be too real for some to experience on screen, but a streak of optimism for the future hangs in the balances, or imbalances [of big business]. Verdict: "The Company Men" is a business-oriented film that is teemingly technical with jargon, weak in pulse, and palpably true.

How far can one man push the limits of filmmaking? What Christopher Nolan creates here is brillantly original and staggering; a masterpiece composed of complex ideas, logical arrangements, mind-blowing effects, 'Memento'-like sequences, stellar control, and a premise that can only be dreamt of. "Inception" is one of those seldom cinematic pieces that keeps you scratching your head and feeding on your brain throughout, after, and even after-after that. The only complaint, hence a 7 instead of a 10, is not of anything of this film, but those of Hollywood who are so dumbed-down that this blockbuster hit, comparably, has the viewer feeling like a character out of "Idiocracy; at times a bit TOO much to absorb. If grading substance alone over enjoyment, the film is in a class of itself. As metaphysical as it plays, however, the casual moviegoer will be lost within minutes of "Inception." The film demands your full attention, not even a look down to your popcorn can be had in this one. Get ready to think, and think, and think: am I even thinking right now? That's what you can expect---but honestly, shouldn't a film convey such cephal-activity?

A cross-breed of "Taken" meets 'Bourne' who later meets "Seven Pounds" are the array of sorts we see from this conspiracy theory/psychological thriller that keeps you on pace for so long, diverts, returns, then leaves you guessing again til the last 15 minutes. "Unknown" is packed with surprising depth that leaves the viewer in shambles, and back to the drawing board in making sense of it all. Even more fascinating, minutes after watching, lies a dark, sulleness that lingers in the film's ambiance; the reliance and fragility of our own identity. The film makes it seem all the more plausible.

Host to the ever-continuing trend of cinematic themes, the Farrelly brothers don't stray far from lasciviousness as they once again ("Shallow Hal") turn the tables, and put men in the spot light of the unsatisfied; here, we learn that hedonism is satisfactory...just as long as you have a pass. In this farcically lewd comedy, two men have the once in a lifetime opportunity to relive their pre-marital days, only to the expense and baggage of 20 years, a couple kids, and a rusty dating game that has been played in ages. With their newly-given priviledges, and desperate attempts via Applebee's, they finally reach what they sought after, albeit unlikely, sex with beautiful women. Only now, approached with such recognition, do they realize how lucky they really are to be married--- notwithstanding attractive women already at home. Aside from being offensively indecent and raunchy around the edges, "Hall Pass" is the projection of every man's fantasy, acted on or not, where being average is perceivably desirable, and insecurities are tossed aside. At the surface, you have a movie that will make you laugh to the limits of your waistline, mesmerize to every last 'mental image,' jump from every Jacuzzi, and have you another quote to share with your friends.

Bringing more smiles than disorderly cachinnation, "Cedar Rapids" is a film whose low-key, ordinariness makes for a comedy that is innately delightful; braced by solid performances that welcome you at the door, show you around, and 'Got You' when you need them. Selling insurance never sounded so good!

"X-Men: First Class" stays true to its name as Marvel delivers a first-rate comic film that feels fresh, and takes us somewhere not seen before in the genre; orderly enough to satisfy the most zealous of fanboys, while remaining pliable to welcome new fans in. What viewers will see is a product that embodies the shape of a bona fide origins film, one that gets to the crux of the mutant behind the powers, and occupies the gapping framework of derivation. The result is one that is heavier on ethos and lighter on au courant hoopla. The film owes kudos to a cast that couldn't have been picked with more discretion and vision. Each character knows their role, and each performs it as so. McAvoy and Fassbender really shine though, each man exhibiting a great deal of control and liberation; the execution feels like time well-spent. Lawrence, in support, also continues to establish herself as one of the up-and-coming actresses of our time--not to mention developing an image tantamount to her shape shifter self. Another clever slant I found delighting was a question of mine that I had always tangled with: do the mutants coexist with historical events? The fusion of biopic-fiction is done both adeptly, and for the casual, benighted, social-media American, almost feasibly. This is driven by time-specific (very interesting and effective use of the 60's era) video and audio that enhances the film's presentation. In closing, the fifth (first) installment of the 'X' series is by far the greatest of achievements, superceding anything ever attempted by Ratner, less grave and malicious (more warm and affectionate) than Singer, and much more enjoyable from start to end.

The roles of three of its actors (Swank, Rockwell, and Leo) turn this inspiring courtroom/crime drama into a spectacle that owns your attention, and in its moments, softens the most hard of hearts. What the viewer sees and feels is the avidity of deep-rooted dauntlessness versus the resistance of being told "no." Swank brings us there both with a vibrant smile that breathes optimism and a grimmace of heart rending dejection and despair. Rockwell also is impressive as he takes on a stock character--an arrogant, loud-mouthed yet charismatic drunkard, and a wrongly accused prisoner who is dark, mysterious, and increasingly more morose. Watching him deal with his battle against the clock, abated by his sister's similar scenario, is the familial compassion that spikes the film's pulse. Leo and Lewis are also very convincing in their respective roles as well. My only problem lies in certain points in the film (Swank and Driver "upping" their wardrobes to "look" like a lawyer) come across a bit too Disney and seem more fitting for Lifetime than the theater. The pathos brought about by the characters is excellent, only, when you start watching the continual tears run down Swank's face, you can feel the falsity, then you see the on-screen action take on the form of an acting audition--forced emotions and many eyedrops. The direction of the film is also "too good too be true" at times, again falling into the realm of "made-for-tv" entertainment. Overall, viewed topically, the film is a must-see, popcorn, Friday- night flick.

I don't know how much more the big screen can take from an increasingly timeworn, disheveled action star, whose movie roles are as hit-or-miss as his receding hairline; though not all to blame. "Drive Angry" is a bottom-rung action flick that comes up short--never seizing any sort of connection with its viewers; lacking any sort of directorial control, intactful character progression and substance, shoddy special effects, and overdone, often intolerant lewdness situated amongst the most unbelieving of circumstances. The film is host to a lasting effect of shortcoming; creating a smutty after taste of despondency and a near failure of a movie. The result, a plethora of plot holes and ambiguity camouflaged by shots of pneumatic rears, bouncing breasts, and overall insipidness.

What Howard has here is a film that follows the **** far, beats about the bush a bit further, digresses toward a flash of intrigue, then falls straight on its face---leaving a hefty rash of deep-rooted 'botanical' dissatisfaction. "The Dilemma" is nothing more than a rom-com filled with the usual paranoia, speculation, sex, lies, and melodrama---the only difference---the PG-13 rating decided to lose its diapers. What transpires is a miss-matched, unconvincing, uninteresting concoction of a recurringly flat and soporific Vince Vaughn-meets-Mall Cop-meets Deeds-soap opera that takes an earnestly darker and contemplative approach to heartbreak. The bottom line: the combination doesn't make for many laughs.