DEFIANCE

Review: Defiance
3 stars (out of 5)
By R. Kurt Osenlund

It's with guilty hesitation that I hail the true Holocaust survival story “Defiance” as truly entertaining. Based on Nechama Tec's book, “Defiance: The Bielski Partisans,” about a throng of Polish Jews who evaded the Germans and created a Sherwood Forest-like sanctuary, the movie version is action-packed, reasonably fast-paced, even laugh-laden. But, wait a minute, wasn't there supposed to be some profound historical commentary oiling this machine? Apparently not. “Defiance” is not a Holocaust movie enhanced by blockbuster adventure; it's a blockbuster adventure that just happens to be set during the Holocaust. Though directed (and co-written) by Edward Zwick (“Blood Diamond,” “The Last Samurai”), it feels like what “Schindler's List” might have become if Michael Bay had stepped in for Steven Spielberg. Zwick's insistence on molding his latest into little more than your basic popcorn crowd-pleaser forbids it from ever scratching beneath the surface of its sensitive subject matter. The only way it engages the heart is by getting the blood pumping.


The Bielskis of the book title are four brothers from Eastern Poland: Tuvia, Zus, Asael, and Aron, who are played by Daniel Craig, Liev Schreiber, Jamie Bell, and 16-year-old George MacKay, respectively. In the film's laughably exploitative opening sequence (which uses grainy footage to evoke realism but, realistically, only evokes B-movie gratuitousness), nearly all the inhabitants of the Bielski brothers' village, including their mother and father, are slaughtered by Nazis. Zus, Asael, and Aron escape, retreating into the surrounding forests of what is now Belarus, where they reunite with Tuvia who was off doing something rather immaterial to the plot. As their grief subsides, the brothers, who are soon joined by other refugees, struggle with what to do next. Some, like the hot-headed Zus, are hungry for vengeance, and head to the still-within-walking-distance ghettos to exact it not only on Nazis but on the traitorous Jews who helped them. Others, like Aron, fall mute, deadened by the shock of unfathomable circumstances. After having his own taste of revenge, Tuvia eventually decides that retaliation is not the answer and that simply staying alive is as bold an act of defiance as any. Like Robin of Poland or Tuvia of Locksley (take your pick), he assumes the role of forest-dwelling freedom fighter, and as word of his heroic leadership spreads through the Jewish underground, what began as a dozen fellow escapees turns into a hundred, then a thousand, and so on. Thus, the wooded shelter becomes the makeshift home to a struggling but self-sustaining community, complete with log huts, campfire meals, and “forest marriages.”

It's senseless to address the implausibilities of this story (such as where and how these penniless people got an arsenal of tools to build their bungalows) because it's all essentially born from truth. How those truths are handled, however, is another beast entirely. With the exception of the lush visuals by two-time Oscar-nominated cinematographer Eduardo Serra (it's certainly the greenest title in the Holocaust canon), “Defiance” exhibits hardly a single ounce of grace. Zwick's and Clayton Frohman's screenplay adaptation is a prosaic assemblage of all the trappings of every densely-populated disaster flick this side of “The Poseidon Adventure.” There's a huge cast of secondary characters, many of whom are present solely for comic relief and all of whom participate in inevitable, annoyingly unproductive arguments. There are love interests, of course (the “forest wives”), the prettiest of whom land in the arms of the Bielski brothers, of course. There's plenty of crude humor that will amuse simpletons but insult sophisticates. There's cheap and obvious sentimentality that's wrung out of scenes like dishwater from a rag. There's bag-over-the-head symbolism prancing around like those ringside, bikini-clad babes who hold up signs at boxing matches. You want examples? When news breaks of Tuvia's wife's death (which is no spoiler if you've ever seen a film about genocide), violins literally begin to play. After a pseudo-alliance is made with neighboring Soviet partisans, Tuvia returns to his arboreous abode literally riding a white horse. You get the picture.


The action, which arrives at once and rarely lets up, serves the movie well in that it draws the attention away from the pitfalls. The effects and stunts are exciting and explosive and filmed as well as – or, perhaps, better than – one would expect from a movie of this magnitude. But, despite my pounding pulse, I felt a huge wave of remorse crash over me while being entertained by all this, like I was a willful spectator in the sport of these people's misfortune. “Defiance” doesn't play like it's faithfully telling an amazing story and honoring its subjects. It's more the sort of thing that uses history as a springboard to fire off rounds and blow stuff up. However well intended and however well staged (and, at times, well acted – Schreiber is excellent), the finished product feels terribly contrived, leaving the impression that Zwick had more regard for the ticket holders than for the forest community's descendants (of which, we learn at the end, there are tens of thousands).

The one concept “Defiance” does manage to drive home effectively is that not all European Jews went quietly to their deaths during WWII. It not only illustrates this fact but repeatedly reinforces it in the dialogue. It's the one true thing that eeks its way out of the fray of gimmicks and gunshots because, ironically enough, it's more powerful than both. Why didn't anyone tell the filmmakers?

THE WRESTLER

Review: The Wrestler
4.5 stars (out of 5)
By R. Kurt Osenlund

Those of you who'll be participating in an Oscar pool with friends or colleagues this year would be wise to check off Mickey Rourke in the category of Best Actor. Like Charlize Theron's serial killer in "Monster" or Forest Whitaker's dictator in "The Last King of Scotland," Rourke's starring role in director Darren Aronofsky's painfully human character study, "The Wrestler," is one that comes around once in a lifetime. That he tears through it like lacerated flesh and has emerged the comeback kid of 2008 (sorry, Robert Downey Jr.) are only further incentives for Academy voters to take notice. If anyone's poised to rob Sean Penn of his second gold statue, it's Rourke, who you'd think spent his time away from the spotlight consulting the ghost of Laurence Olivier. As Randy “The Ram” Robinson, a washed-up and broken-down pro wrestler still clinging to his glory days in the '80s, Rourke creates an unfeigned, audacious self portrait. What Aronofsky and writer Robert D. Siegel create is a low-budget flick that's more captivating than most multi-million dollar blockbusters.


Best known for the daredevil stylistics of “Requiem for a Dream” and “The Fountain,” Aronofsky proves equally capable of stripping things down to their gritty core. Often shot with handheld cameras and finished with Eastwood-like minimalism, “The Wrestler” looks and feels as bruised and battered as its central character. It's a tactful aesthetic decision by Aronofsky, whose intuition to step back and let Rourke's acting and Siegel's writing flex their muscles is a model of restraint. His movie, set in the unremarkable city of Elizabeth, NJ, plays like the tragic memoirs of a dying king. He opens it with a credit sequence that's bursting with '80s nostalgia, from the tacky wrestling propaganda posters to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle font. When we meet Randy in present day, he's in his weather-worn 40s, and he's gearing up for a wrestling match in a...high school gym. Such humdrum gigs are the only ones he can land nowadays and, since he apparently lacks any other skills, the poor demand is taking its toll on his wallet. He's been evicted from his trailer for failure to pay rent; he's got a part-time deli job that's more appropriate for a college freshman; and he can barely afford to maintain his image via tanning, steroids, weightlifting, and bleaching his shoulder-length, rock star mane. Oh yeah, and he's got a daughter who he hasn't seen in years and to whom he surely isn't sending monthly checks.

But he has wrestling. Aronofsky and Siegel do an incredible job of illustrating the world of performance fighters with documentary-style fascination, exposing the behind-the-scenes choreography and the lengths to which these guys will go to put on a good show (Randy keeps a razor blade stashed under his wrist tape so he can create real blood effects – a.k.a., cut himself). Whether or not everything that's depicted is accurate is up for debate, but it certainly got my attention. There's something very raw and true about sports that take place within a ring, which is probably why the movies about them are the greatest sports films of all time. Caught inside that roped-in square, under blinding spotlights before a screaming crowd, is humanity at its most animalistic – bloody, sweaty, carnal, and vulnerable. It's powerful enough to make stories about baseball seem childish in comparison. In this tradition, “The Wrestler” stands among classics like “Rocky” and “Raging Bull.” In a more literary sense, it resembles immortal works like “Oedipus” or “Death of a Salesman.” Randy is like the Willy Loman of pro wrestling, refusing to let go of unreachable dreams while the rest of his life crumbles around him. A sudden heart attack after a particularly gruesome match brings him a much-needed moment of reflection, and it brings the movie a perfectly-timed opportunity for greater depth.


The incident allows Aronofsky to shift “The Wrestler” into a lower gear, inviting in two additional characters to colorize his dark palette. Marisa Tomei, an actress who seems to get better with every film, plays Pam, a local stripper and single mother whose alias, “Cassidy,” isn't the only falsehood she uses for self-defense. Evan Rachel Wood, an actress who's bound to mature one of these days, plays Randy's estranged daughter, Stephanie. For better or worse, the two women awaken things in Randy that were long buried beneath his blind ambition and delusions of grandeur. Particularly, the relationship he forms with Pam reminds him (and her) how to live life as it happens, and the exchanges between the actors are highly realistic and quietly tender (watch for a brief scene inside a bar where the two bond while reminiscing and the whole world seems to fall away). Tomei convinces you that Pam is a living, breathing, struggling person and her ingenuous skills are well suited to the material. Wood exhibits growth as a performer but still has a long way to go; her turn is a bit noisy even for a noisily written character, and it's all the more conspicuous in a film that's as notable for its subtleties as it is for its brutality. Rourke remains the main event throughout, clawing his way through scenes like a world-weary grizzly bear. His indelible performance is layered with laughs, tears, truths, and surprises, and he keeps you hooked right up to the film's decidedly unsentimental final moment.

“The Wrestler,” admittedly, is not for everyone. Squeamish viewers and those who like their movies nice and pretty are better suited for a date with “Benjamin Button.” But in the pursuit of great drama, passing by this carefully nurtured gem would be a big mistake. Similar to the bar scene with Randy and Pam, it wraps you up in its gripping story until the rest of the world falls away. Aronofsky, who won the Golden Lion for Best Director at 2008's Venice Film Festival, and Rourke, who's collected a slew of critics' awards and nominations, both deliver career-best work, collaborating on a project that's the cinematic equivalent of a body slam.

THE CURIOUS CASE OF BENJAMIN BUTTON

Review: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
4 stars (out of 5)
By R. Kurt Osenlund

Let's not kid ourselves. Regardless of what's written about it, “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” is THE movie to see before the Oscars. Heralded throughout the year and bound to be up for numerous awards (including Best Picture), David Fincher's epic ode to life, death, and special effects is the one prestige film to which the most viewers will be flocking. And so they should – while it's still in theaters. This is a movie that deserves to be seen on the big screen in all its splendiferous glory. Beautifully rendered, it's the source of some of the year's most extraordinary cinematic images. Yet while it excels in inventive eye candy, “Benjamin Button” lacks in satisfying storytelling, and its failure to deliver the “Titanic”-sized sweep it promises drops it just below 2008's best films.

A vast expansion of the 1920s short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, the movie uses a narrative device much like that of James Cameron's sinking boat saga: at the end of her life, an old woman looks back on the romance that defined it. The woman here is not Rose but Daisy (the great Cate Blanchett, buried beneath one of many makeup department miracles), a 90-something New Orleanian on her death bed, and the significance of her memories is not historical but fantastical. During what's presumably her final hospital visit, Daisy's daughter, Caroline (the under-worked Julia Ormond), reads to her mother the diary of Benjamin Button, Daisy's old flame who burned out before Caroline's dad came into the picture. As Caroline reads, so begins the titular journey, as narrated – after a voiceover shift – by Benjamin himself (Brad Pitt), who just happened to age backwards. We travel back to 1918 New Orleans when Benjamin was born a wrinkled, arthritic infant to a wealthy – ahem – button manufacturer (Guy Ritchie favorite Jason Flemyng) who, horrified at the thought of raising a freak, abandons Benjamin on the stairs of an old folks' home. The establishment is owned by Queenie (“Hustle and Flow”'s Taraji P. Henson), a benevolent mother hen-type who finds Benjamin, sees past his shocking exterior, and raises him as her own. As the miracle of nature grows up (er, down), we follow him through his entire counterclockwise life, much of which consists of the relationship with Daisy, whose existence runs parallel to his but in the other direction.


On paper, the concept of “Benjamin Button” reads like a dizzying headache of impossibilities. To ground the story, Fincher and screenwriter Eric Roth (the structurally similar “Forrest Gump”) minimize the fantasy element as much as possible. After the initial wow factor, virtually none of the film's supporting characters make much of Benjamin's “unusual circumstances” beyond the occasional mention of him as a “special person.” He divulges his “case” to those he chooses (folks such as an early lover played by Tilda Swinton are completely unaware of it), he's never hassled by the press, he's never scrutinized or even approached by need-to-know medical scientists. He simply goes about life as anyone would, eventually journeying out into the unknown and letting his experiences and encounters with others mold the man he will become. Such an approach is a bit jarring to the viewer (even we begin to forget about the reverse maturation), but it holds the film in a tangible realm of reality, almost welcoming the possibility that something like this could actually happen.

It certainly looks real enough. There are incredible special effects in “Benjamin Button” that are unlike any you've ever seen, namely those that transform Brad Pitt from an 80-ish, height-challenged weakling to his former, wrinkle-free self. (At one point, he's the spitting image of himself circa his blazing, “Thelma & Louise” debut, and it's in that moment when we realize that the male heartthrob of our time was the only choice to play a role in which the stages of youth and beauty are not only addressed but personified.) The transitions were achieved through a plethora of state-of-the-art techniques, including digitally painting Pitt's made-up face onto the bodies of smaller actors. What surrounds Pitt is equally marvelous, as Fincher (“Se7en,” “Zodiac”) is no stranger to creating worlds so intricate and comprehensive, they envelop the audience. The 46-year-old director has become an atmospheric master of Ridley Scott-caliber talent. For his – and the year's – most ambitious undertaking, Fincher and cinematographer Claudio Miranda make magnificent use of the medium, capturing within their frames the breadth, splendor and sorrow of life itself. Whether in scenes that stretch to far-off horizons or in carefully chosen interiors, the film is drawn with tremendous detail and literal depth, leaving you hardly aware of the nearly three-hour running time.


The things that are great about “Benjamin Button” are stalked by the things that aren't. As much as I'd love to wholeheartedly praise this movie, its flaws are tough to ignore. Fincher's and Roth's decision to play down the miracle aspect is commendable for relatability; however, it presents the viewer with a needlessly exhausting struggle. Too many elements – such as how Benjamin can account for the events for which he was not present or the ways in which the final stages of the character's physical arc are depicted – are asked to be accepted as fantasy while still belonging to something that's clearly trying to cement itself in reality. There's a constant tug-of-war between the real and the impossible that eventually proves to be unworthy of wrapping one's head around. Then there's the overpraised performance by Taraji P. Henson, which will probably earn an Oscar nomination. A shameless bit of comic relief, Henson's character is the most cartoonish contender since Renee Zellweger's Ruby from 2003's “Cold Mountain.” Worse yet, the nature of Queenie as the archetypal black “mammy” is borderline offensive in racial terms. Also undeservedly lauded is Brad Pitt in the title role. He may have been the perfect choice, but Pitt's performance is cold, monotoned, and vacuous. Even after all the places we go and things we see with Benjamin, we're never really able to get inside his head and, thus, never truly able to care about him.

If “Benjamin Button” were any other film, I'd probably let its shortcomings slide. It's a rather huge achievement and a personal triumph for Fincher. But this is THE movie of 2008 – the one that claims to have it all, the one that's billed as a rapturous romantic masterpiece, the one that was built up incessantly and withheld until Christmas day. A film with so many self-induced expectations is all the more reprehensible when it fails to live up to all of them. What few notions it evokes about human nature fade almost immediately after it ends. True movie lovers would be foolish not to catch “Benjamin Button” before it finishes its theatrical run, but many will find that the experience burns out faster than an old flame.

VALKYRIE

Review: Valkyrie

2 stars (out of 5)

By R. Kurt Osenlund

Superheroes may have ruled the summer blockbusters, but Nazis are the suited figures dominating cinemas this winter. By year's end, more than five major films themed around some aspect of Nazi Germany will have been released, including “The Boy in the Striped Pajamas,” “Adam Resurrected,” “The Reader,” “Defiance,” and “Good.” Bryan Singer, who's perhaps best known for helming the Oscar-winning cult classic “The Usual Suspects” but more recently notable for taking on projects like “X-Men” and “Superman Returns,” should have stuck with the warm weather pack. His Hitler-assassination thriller, “Valkyrie,” which has him directing Tom Cruise in the fading star's latest futile attempt at a comeback, is sure to be the worst of this Reich-ridden lineup. Burdened by Cruise's misguided, distractingly self-important performance, it's a shoddy, Hollywood-ized take on an otherwise fascinating true story.

Cruise is Nazi Colonel Clauss von Stauffenberg, a key player in the German Resistance movement and the key player in a film that's loaded with characters who have very German names but are portrayed by very not-German actors. In “Valkyrie”'s opening sequence, Stauffenberg, while on patrol in the deserts of Africa, is severely wounded in an aerial attack. The incident costs the colonel his right hand, a few fingers, and his left eye, forcing him to wear a pirate patch and giving Cruise the opportunity to once again pursue character depth via facial disfigurement (see “Minority Report,” “Vanilla Sky”). It also facilitates Stauffenberg's traitorous-but-noble desire to dethrone Hitler (played by relative unknown David Bamber), a man who, in July of 1944 when the film is set, had become “not only an enemy of the world, but an enemy of Germany.”

In Stauffenberg's corner is a handful of high-ranking military men, all of whom have similar minds for treason and most of whom are played by classically-trained Brits. There's Major-General Henning von Tresckow (Kenneth Branagh), who takes an early crack at offing the Fuhrer with a killer Cointreau bottle; General Friedrich Olbricht (Bill Nighy), who shapes up to be Stauffenberg's closest ally; General Ludwig Beck (Terrence Stamp), a behind-the-scenes asset with copious political influence; and General Friedrich Fromm (Tom Wilkinson), a shrewd coward playing both sides. With none of these men up to the task, Stauffenberg assumes the responsibility of taking out Hitler himself by hand-delivering plastic explosives to one of the dictator's wooded outposts. He code-names the mission Operation Valkyrie after Germany's Reserve Army, which is meant to be employed to intercept a rebellion against the government but is instead duped into expediting one.

The best thing about “Valkyrie” is that it gets right to the point. It wastes very little time with potentially taxing backstories and/or broad coverage of WWII and instead leaps right into the task at hand. Sadly, that's about as far the movie's observance of audience concerns goes. Stauffenberg's actual act of planting the bombs is the only portion that generates any real suspense. The remaining chunk is a by-the-numbers exercise in stale plotting and studio standards. The disappointingly stock script by Oscar winner Christopher McQuarrie (“The Usual Suspects”) and first-timer Nathan Alexander is peppered with flagrant foreshadowing and oh-no-they-didn't dialogue. In the first half especially, nearly every scene is capped off with an over-emphatic exit line plucked right out of Hollywood's bargain bin, such as, “Only God can judge us now,” and, “This is a military operation – nothing ever goes according to plan” (no need for the “duh-duh-duh” music; the actors have that area covered). Two of this year's best movies, “Man on Wire” and “Frost/Nixon,” also gave accounts of well-documented historic events, but did so with smart and breathless pacing that created tension despite viewers' knowledge of the outcomes. “Valkyrie” fails to achieve that same urgency because it's so clearly a commercial concoction, led by none other than Tom Cruise.

I imagine that this movie will infuriate many Germans, especially those few who survived and/or sympathized with the events depicted. With Cruise as the conductor, any cultural authenticity is hopelessly derailed. Speaking in his American-as-apple-pie-voice and sticking out like a sore thumb among a cast of Europeans (at least the Brits are from the right side of the pond), the former box-office king feels about as alien to this picture as his space-cadet religion must feel to his fans. His presence is hulking and bizarre, further stripping the film of its prestige and revealing it as a shameless star vehicle. If his involvement is not part of his own effort to revamp his waning career, then what is he doing here? Surely the director didn't take on a film about Nazi Germany and immediately think to call Tom Cruise. I've long prided myself in the ability to separate stars' public images from their work on screen but Cruise is my Kryptonite. His peculiar paparazzi persona now follows him into the film frame, irrevocably blurring the line between the personal and the professional. If he's ever able to reestablish that divide and make a triumphant return worth watching, I'll be there, but “Valkyrie” ain't it.

The few German actors who do appear in this film are given blink-and-miss bit parts. The lovely and talented Carice Van Houten (“Black Book”), who plays Stauffenberg's wife, Nina, has about eight lines and is assigned such not-so-subtle actions as gripping her belly to let us know she's pregnant. Another is East Germany-born Thomas Kretschmann (Peter Jackson's “King Kong”), who's cast as Reserve Army leader, Major Otto Ernst Remer, and handed some of the screenplay's more priceless gems. Take this beaut, which he barks at a courier who's repeatedly brought him false alarms: “In ancient Greece, you would have been killed for this,” he says. “Lucky for you, we've evolved.” Yeah, thanks. It's a good thing the brains behind “Valkyrie” never lived in ancient Greece.

DOUBT

Review: Doubt

5 stars (out of 5)

By R. Kurt Osenlund

A telltale sign of a great film is the desire – no, the need – to see it again with the prescient knowledge that the second viewing will lead to the third and, eventually, the twenty-third. Such a feeling bubbles up after watching John Patrick Shanley's big screen rendering of his Pulitzer Prize- and Tony Award-winning morality play, “Doubt,” but not immediately. The hunger for another go-round doesn't hit you until the trip home. What comes first at the end of this enigmatic stunner is the overwhelming gratification of its performances. Headlined by the incomparable Meryl Streep, the movie is a showcase of magnificent acting. It's the hottest ticket in town for those who, like me, prefer their drama in big, thunderous portions and served to them by actors whose intensity of talent damn-near shakes the theater floor.

Set in 1964 (which we learn from cleverly planted dialogue rather than intertitles), “Doubt” takes place entirely in and around St. Nicholas, a Catholic school in the Bronx overseen with ironclad scrutiny by its dreaded principal, Sister Aloysius Beauvier (Streep). Recently, St. Nicholas has seen two new arrivals: Father Flynn (Philip Seymour Hoffman), a progressive and liberal priest aiming to make the school more user-friendly, and 12-year-old Donald Miller (Joseph Foster II), its first black student. Uniformly shunned by his peers, Donald forms a bond with Flynn, a fellow misfit whose methods and ideas are met with great disdain from Sister Aloysius. When the meek Sister James (Amy Adams) is given an inkling that Flynn's and Donald's association goes beyond mere friendship, she informs Sister Aloysius and unwittingly sets off an electrifying chain of events. Armed with all the proof she needs (which is none), the headstrong headmistress is instantly and utterly convinced of Flynn's guilt. She takes Sister James' subtle tip-off and initiates a one-woman quest for justice, focusing all of her steely resolve on ejecting Flynn from the school for good.

Housed within “Doubt”'s simple and straightforward infrastructure is a wellspring of densely layered themes and ingenious ambiguities. These days, a story about priesthood pedophilia is, unfortunately, nothing new, but the way this one is told will challenge, rattle, and, ultimately, floor you. An equal case is made for both Flynn and Sister Aloysius, and the questions of who is innocent and who is guilty are in a constant tug-of-war. Shanley's words, which are written like velvet and spat out like fire, are so cunning and duplicitous, they, along with the characters' actions, are intended to polarize the audience. I saw this film with an intelligent person whose opinion I respect. The two of us emerged from it with opposite interpretations of the outcome, neither of them incorrect. Both morally conflicted characters are drawn with balanced cause for sympathy and suspicion and who you are will determine your reaction. Every point has a counterpoint, every unturned stone another beneath it. Nestled in there, too, believe it or not, is a surprising abundance of gallows humor, making the movie not only thought-provoking but amusing as well.

While “Milk,” “The Dark Knight,” “Burn After Reading,” and “Rachel Getting Married” all featured stellar ensembles, when it comes to colossal acting across the board, there's no better one-stop shop this year than “Doubt.” Adams, who's perfectly cast, channels her inherent smarts and sweetness into her best role since “Junebug,” embodying the story's minimal purity and providing a glimmer of hope. Viola Davis (“Nights in Rodanthe”), who plays Donald's desperate mother and delivers some of the film's most shocking revelations, is so devastating, she will blow you away. Hoffman, who has yet to give a less-than-excellent performance, claims the part of Father Flynn with a commanding authority. Streep, who surely needs no introduction, does the same with Sister Aloysius, and with even greater impact. If Cherry Jones' Tony-winning take on this character is indeed better, as many say, then I'm gonna need a seatbelt if and when I see it because Streep nearly takes the house down. Icy-cold but passionately driven, her work here is even more intimidating than her editrix in “The Devil Wears Prada” due to Sister Aloysious' unswerving purpose. If there's any actor working today who's more innately gifted than Streep, he or she has never crossed my path. Aside from her dramatic ardor, she has a way of interacting with people and things within in a scene that's so natural, it would go virtually unnoticed if it wasn't so rare. You can expect her, Adams, Davis, and Hoffman to all be up for Oscars come January.

You can also expect people to tell you that “Doubt” suffers from “staginess.” You can expect them to say that its look is too bland and that its sometimes blatantly metaphorical speech is too Broadway for the screen. But I say, when the material is this provocative and the talent this explosive, a stage is all that's needed. “Doubt” needs no garnishes. Shanley – who also directed – called in ace cinematographer Roger Deakins (“No Country for Old Men,” “Fargo”) to make his sequences picture-perfect, but what's depicted is appropriately free of showy embellishments. What you get is hallways, classrooms, offices, pathways, and chapels, all of them impeccably composed. If you require more than that, you've missed the point.

“Doubt” is a film I can't wait to own on DVD. Its lingering power not only bears repeating in its entirety but also warrants the point-and-select enjoyment of its many compulsively watchable scenes. Before that, I'll be back to the theater to feed the hunger and see it again. “Doubt” is one of the best movies of the year and of that there is no – oh, you know.

AUSTRALIA

Review: Australia
3 stars (out of 5)
By R. Kurt Osenlund

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FROST/NIXON

Review: Frost/Nixon
4.5 stars (out of 5)
By R. Kurt Osenlund

The title sums it up: “Frost/Nixon” is a face-off. Adapted by playwright-turned-screenwriter Peter Morgan (“The Queen”) from his own Tony Award-winning Broadway smash, it's a whip-smart dramatization of the interview sessions between British journalist David Frost and former president Richard Nixon that rocked the television airwaves in 1977. An inside look behind the scenes of the the events leading up to the battle-of-wits broadcast, the film is deftly directed by Ron Howard and enthralling from start to finish. Its pace is breathless because it has a clear, pressing objective to which it builds from minute one: Nixon's eventual on-air confession of guilt regarding the Watergate scandal.


As the movie begins, those viewers who remember Tricky Dick's 1974 impeachment-impending resignation are invited to relive it while the rest of us get a history lesson in the form of high-brow entertainment. In character, key members of the supporting cast – which include Kevin Bacon, Sam Rockwell, Oliver Platt, and Matthew MacFadyen – recall the pivotal moment and its aftermath in documentary-style confessionals that are intercut with actual news footage of the era. Save Bacon, who plays Nixon's right-hand man, Jack Brenner, everyone seems to agree on one thing: the ex-president, pardoned by his successor, Gerald Ford, would never be given the trial he deserves for perhaps the most infamous political crime in US history. Enter Frost (Michael Sheen), a peppy Regis Philbin-type headlining a talk show in Australia at the time of Nixon's departure. Yearning to take on a project with far more prestige than a sit-down with the BeeGees, Frost informs his skeptical producer, John Birt (MacFadyen), that he's interested in interviewing the disgraced head of state. Enter Nixon (Frank Langella), a smug and greedy shell of a man who accepts the invitation and agrees to break three years of silence with the promise of a hefty check and with every intention of outmaneuvering his neophyte host.

No one believes that Frost can produce a legitimate segment; not the networks (they all turn him down), not Brenner (he's highly protective of his boss), and, initially, not American collaborators Bob Zelnick and James Reston, Jr. (Platt and Rockwell – they both know what's at stake far more than the out-of-his-league Frost). In fact, the only other person who's gung-ho about the show is Nixon, whose self-importance is well intact despite his public humiliation. A fight for the spotlight and the upper hand kicks off between the two determined men as the interviews – paid for, essentially, out of Frost's pocket – are taped over a period of five days. And they are hypnotic to watch.


Langella and Sheen, both reprising their roles from the play, deliver their lines like shotgun blasts. I have to admit, going into this film, I had my doubts about Langella, his Tony win notwithstanding. Too many actors have already impersonated Nixon – Dan Hedaya, Beau Bridges, Anthony Hopkins – and too many of them unconvincingly. Langella sent my trepidations right out the window. He turns Nixon into something we haven't seen before: a complex cinematic character. He transcends the obligatory prosthetic nose and peace signs in the air and makes the man his own, humanizing him while still playing him as despicable. Destined to be nominated for an Oscar, it's a towering and spellbinding performance. In the other corner is Sheen, a can't-miss actor who re-teams with Morgan after delicately portraying Tony Blair in “The Queen.” Outshined by Langella's powerhouse but more than capable of holding his ground, Sheen gives another seemingly effortless turn. Together, the two stars spin Morgan's material into pure dramatic gold.

“Frost/Nixon” is Ron Howard's best-directed film since 1995's “Apollo 13.” Naysayers may argue the validity of 2001's multiple Oscar-winner “A Beautiful Mind” but, seven years later, who but cinemaniacs like me even remember it? Howard's newest title ranks among the great movies about broadcast journalism, where it will remain for years to come. It also affords the filmmaker the get-out-of-jail-free-card he'll probably need when “The Da Vinci Code” prequel, “Angels & Demons,” drops with a thud in 2009. Though it criminally sidelines some great actors to highlight its titular match-up, “Frost/Nixon” is a seat-pinning locomotive of a movie. It barrels toward its destination, reaches it, and comes to a smooth, graceful stop. I was thrilled to be on board.