THE SOLOIST

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

Last week I saw and reviewed the journalistic thriller “State of Play,” which had its closing credits superimposed over a Learning Channel-ready sequence of newspapers going to press, from lithographic plate to street corner. This week it's the fact-based tale “The Soloist,” which uses practically the same printing process as the backdrop for its opening titles, creating a smooth, serendipitous segue between the two films that couldn't go unmentioned. In “State of Play,” the images are used to romanticize the newspaper biz and drive home the need for truth in stark black and white. In “The Soloist,” their primary function is to introduce the life and work of Steve Lopez, a real-life Los Angeles Times columnist who in 2005 met Nathaniel Ayers, a homeless schizophrenic who just happened to be a brilliant classical musician. Lopez began writing a series of enormously popular columns on Ayers and, in the process, unexpectedly became the former Juilliard prodigy's benefactor and best friend. Lopez's articles brought much-needed attention to mental illness and L.A.'s drug-infested, vagrant dumping ground, Skid Row. They also led to a book – Lopez's “The Soloist: A Lost Dream, An Unlikely Friendship, and the Redemptive Power of Music” – which, in turn, became this movie. Thanks to some beautiful imagery and interludes, the musical power remains intact, but a number of defects drain the drama from the friendship and make the dream of the story transitioning well to screen a lost one indeed.


Like “Rain Man” or “I Am Sam,” “The Soloist” is one of those inspirational stories in which the helper, not the less fortunate person being helped, unwittingly gets the most out of the relationship. Played by Robert Downey Jr., Lopez is presented early on as a disenchanted cynic with little interest in anything, least of all being a hero. When he first finds Ayers (Jamie Foxx) playing a two-stringed violin in downtown L.A.'s Pershing Square, the writer sees the rambling, oddly-dressed, but clearly skilled musician as just another subject, visibly distancing himself from whatever woes brought Ayers to such a fractured state. But as he digs deeper, and as his columns gain an increasingly devoted following, Lopez, reluctantly then resolutely, embarks on a mission to help the initially obstinate Ayers reestablish his talent, his sanity and his place in the world. In reality, the trials and triumphs of the atypical alliance changed the lives of both men, eventually getting Ayers off the street (and into the Skid Row shelter LAMP), and revitalizing Lopez's passion and career. It's clear that the film, written with very little grace by Susannah Grant (“Erin Brockovich”) and directed with an equally heavy hand by Joe Wright (“Atonement”), is intended to convey those same profound changes, but it rarely succeeds, often unfolding before our eyes on emotional autopilot.

In order for any on-screen relationship to be dramatically effective, two things are needed: a believable, carefully-laid foundation between characters and chemistry between the actors playing those characters. “The Soloist,” which is entirely about its on-screen relationship, has neither. Blame it on Grant's running-time-conscious script, which whittles Lopez's and Ayers's bond down to a succession of plot-advancing encounters, breezing past important stuff like both men's motivations to get to (apparently) more important stuff like flashbacks and conflicts. Problem is, conflicts are futile without audience concern, and I never truly cared about – or even knew – why these guys were doing what they were doing and/or what they meant to each other. Blame it also on Wright, who facilitates Grant's chomp-at-the-bit adaptation with predominantly weightless scenes, and favors melodrama and stylish tricks over real drama and subtlety. Particularly in the ill-conceived flashbacks (which exhibit Ayers's lifelong musical aspirations and mental struggles), the director orchestrates disingenuous moments and makes irritatingly literal the voices in the soloist's head. Most reprehensible is Wright's failure to inspire his stars to create any real connection. Don't blame it on Foxx or Downey Jr., for both actors give dynamic, first-class performances individually. Together, though, they have the rapport of two people working on two different films, a fatal flaw that conclusively prevents “The Soloist” from ever reaching far beyond superficiality.


But, oh, what superficiality to behold! “The Soloist” benefits much from the crafty cinematography of Seamus McGarvey, the same Irish D.P. who made “Atonement” so breathtakingly lush and grandiose. Lyrically visualizing the director's wiser decisions, McGarvey does some slick and splendid things with his camera, such as fluidly pulsing through the L.A. Times newsroom in unbroken takes, offering bird's eye views of L.A.'s criss-crossing freeways, soaring through the Disney Concert Hall from the stage to the nosebleed section and homing in on Foxx's fingers as Ayers creates chords with various stringed instruments (he plays the violin, cello and bass, among other things). It is the photography that communicates that “redemptive power of music,” especially when paired with the film's exquisite sound and music design. When Ayers plays, “The Soloist” takes well-appreciated pauses, and though Wright employs odd gimmicks like CG birds and laser shows (don't ask), the scenes are mesmerizing and they're some of the only scenes that achieve poignancy and express what the characters care about (the others belong to Foxx and Downey Jr., who each nail their own private dramatic crescendos).

Other pleasures contained in “The Soloist” include a strong-as-usual but squandered Catherine Keener as Lopez's colleague and ex-wife; some cameos from seemingly non-actor homeless folks that dodge exploitation; and Ayers's continuously bizarre and gleefully colorful costumes, designed with uncaged inspiration by Jacqueline Durran (“Happy-Go-Lucky,” “Atonement”). But for a project with such encouraging source material and such an impressive pedigree (nearly everyone involved is at least Oscar-nominated), the movie is remarkably off-key, unable to hit the high notes of a remarkably uplifting true story.

STATE OF PLAY

Review: State of Play
3.5 stars (out of 5)
By R. Kurt Osenlund

If you're reading this review in print instead of online, and still regularly get your news from pages that require flipping and folding instead of clicking and scrolling, odds are you're the ideal audience for “State of Play,” a movie that's built up as a brainy political thriller but is in fact a sentimental love letter to the endangered newspaper industry. Based on the BAFTA-winning 2003 BBC miniseries of the same name, this film version – directed by Kevin Macdonald (“The Last King of Scotland”) and written by the Herculean screenwriting quintet of Matthew Michael Carnahan (“Lions for Lambs”), Tony Gilroy (“Michael Clayton”), Billy Ray (“Shattered Glass”), Peter Morgan (“Frost/Nixon”) and the show's author, Paul Abbott – brings stateside the drama of an investigative reporter looking into the smoke-and-mirrors death of a politician's mistress. In just over two hours, it attempts to pack in all of the series' six hours' worth of conspiratorial content, making it as layered as a beefy stack of Sunday editions. Not all the layers work: some that pique our interest are left unexplored, while others should have been nixed altogether. As with the BBC show, the one that gets top billing is the murder mystery, which has a lot of its own skins to shed. But the one that's the most lasting and effective is a knowing, affectionate nod to the dying world of print journalism.


Cal McAffrey works in that world – for the fictitious Washington Globe – and he, too, is a dying breed. An old-school journalist, he types up his copy on an ancient computer, has a cubicle that's littered with notes and clippings, drives a cheap 1990 Saab and still has the kind of wise-assed moxie that's made him well-known around D.C., for better or worse. He's portrayed as a scruffy, unkempt workaholic by Russell Crowe, the leader of quite a powerful pack. Along with its plot elements aplenty, “State of Play” features so many name actors, I sometimes forgot a couple of them were even in the movie. Ben Affleck plays Cal's old college pal, Stephen Collins, a strapping, square-jawed U.S. Congressman whose illicit girlfriend's death-by-subway car sparks that major story layer. Rachel McAdams is the Globe's new blood and Cal's eventual partner, Della Frye, a plucky Capitol Hill blogger who wants the murdered mistress story so bad, she can taste it on her gossip-flapping tongue. Both Cal and Della work for Cameron Lynne, the newspaper's cold-as-ice editor who's got new corporate owners to impress with BIG stories and is played by Helen Mirren, a frigid Brit who even has the silver, “Devil Wears Prada” coif to boot. There's also Robin Wright Penn as Stephen's loyal-yet-humiliated wife, Anne; Jeff Daniels as a snide fellow Congressman under suspicion; and funnyman Jason Bateman as a sleazy PR rep whose ties to the dead girl make him an unlikely key source.

“State of Play” weaves together more twists, secrets and disparate threads than you can count on two hands, and it's a testament to the compounded skills of the writing team that all of it actually makes sense. It takes you down a rabbit hole with multiple detours. The murder of the young woman is connected to two other slayings, and all three apparently lead back to a shady, frighteningly powerful war profiteering company that Stephen has a case against. Cal's investigation of the events is often compromised by his friendship with Stephen, which is on shaky ground to begin with given Cal's especially friendly past with Anne. Meanwhile, on the loose is a creepy, military-trained assassin straight out of “The Manchurian Candidate,” one of a handful of dubious characters in what primarily becomes a ripple-effect whodunit. All this amidst the Globe's very possible – and very palpable, at least to some of us – termination, which is constantly acknowledged in the script and makes “State of Play” perhaps the first major U.S. movie since the country's economic downturn to pointedly address the changing state of news media. With his notepad in hand and his life on the line, Cal represents the merits of those still willing to stick their necks out for a good, old-fashioned scoop. Della, who “cranks out copy every hour,” has those merits, too, but she writes infotainment and uploads it, denoting the blurred line between what's newsworthy and what's not. It is this, the story of these reporters' evolving environment, not the story they're working on, that's the heart of the movie, even if it's presented in a very familiar fashion.


One of the dilemmas of “State of Play” is that everyone, from the disgraced politician (the affair goes public) to his equally disgraced wife who's forced to make a face-saving statement, is not a person but a type of person. In the newsroom in particular, characters like Cameron are given inauthentic dialogue and props like a desk plaque that reads: “Never Trust an Editor,” thus making her about as real as J.J. Jameson from the “Spider-Man” movies. Mirren's a pistol, but she could play this kind of role in her sleep. Same goes for Crowe, who seems so laid back and unchallenged as Cal you'd think the Oscar-winner shot the movie for fun in his spare time. The only cast member who struggles with the material is Affleck, who so clearly wants to be taken seriously as an ACTOR but can't seem to get past what he learned in the Ben Affleck School of Overcompensation. Apart from its nearly newsprint-thin characters, the script barrels down too many roads, however clearly defined they may be. It picks up some serious speed in its third act as the puzzle comes together, but it's only moderately exciting, and it's halted by an excessive amount of revelations and climactic moments, needlessly burrowing even further down that rabbit hole.

What sticks when all is said and done has very little to do with the Congressman, the dead mistress or the villainous war profiteers (heck, even the delicately underplayed, quietly alluded to affair between Cal and Anne is more intriguing than all of that). It's the fondness for newspaper men and women that endures, capped off by an excellent final scene in which most of the Globe staff watches intently as an exhausted and emotionally drained Cal bangs out what's essentially the film's conclusion just hours before deadline. For those in the field, it is a poignant scene, though I imagine it will resonate with other viewers as well, thanks in large part to a touching moment between two characters. “State of Play” lacks the kind of compelling suspense that makes the best journalistic thrillers tick, but it has the same soul. Its lead story may not grab you, but there's something special beneath the headlines.

HUNGER

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

Having crept its way into U.S. theaters with the haste of molasses, “Hunger,” a quietly brilliant and bracingly beautiful Irish drama, has a title that's now far more apt than originally intended. Technically a 2008 film, it's been whetting the appetites of serious American moviegoers for months, decorated with multiple international prizes and rhapsodic reviews from critics who've actually seen it. Though still in limited release, it opens in Philadelphia this Friday, nearly one year after its debut at the 2008 Cannes Film Festival where it won the coveted Caméra d'or. To say that it was worth the wait is the grossest of understatements. The movie is a rarity among rarities, an unflinching and poetically realized knockout of an art-house picture that stimulates the mind as much as it does the eyes. Brutally dramatizing a particularly deplorable chapter in the history of European politics, it's not an easy film, it's not a pleasant film and it's certainly not one to which you should bring the family. But, for art enthusiasts like me who grow weary of mainstream conventions and – dare I say it – hunger for something more, it's a challenging and highly valued gift.

Unfolding in three distinct acts, “Hunger” depicts what most likely occurred inside the walls of Northern Ireland's Maze Prison during the 1981 Irish hunger strike, the devastating peak of a five-year protest by members of the Irish Republican Army (IRA) who were imprisoned and tortured at the hands of the British government. Though historical knowledge of the events is not required to appreciate the film, it begins with a brief on-screen breakdown of the effects of “The Troubles,” the political and religious conflict of said region that spanned from the late '60s to roughly the late '90s and claimed the lives of thousands. One of the fallen was Bobby Sands (Michael Fassbender of “300”), the unbending, Christ-like IRA revolutionary who started the hunger strike at Maze and adhered to it to his death. In a remarkably uncompromising manner and a succinct 95-minute span, the movie chronicles Sands's agonizing final six weeks of life, his body deteriorating while his purpose remains resolute. His struggle is used to represent the struggles of many, not only in the hunger strike – which lasted seven months and ended with the British granting the prisoners' demands – but in the conflict at large.


The virtues of “Hunger” start with its ingredients. Its subject matter is controversial, grisly, fascinating and of international and cultural importance. Though it ends in death, its story is heroic, timeless and relevant, hauntingly echoing the recent events in places like Abu Ghraib. And, of most crucial significance, it is painstakingly directed (and co-written) by English visual artist Steve McQueen, who has a famous name but is virtually unknown to film audiences. Previously notable only in the world of galleries and exhibitions, 40-year-old McQueen has never made a feature before this, an astonishing fact given its superior craftsmanship and bold, vivid storytelling. That such a seriously gritty picture was conceived and visualized by someone who is an artist first is key to its success. That an artist with no prior theatrical film experience (only film and video installations) could conceive and visualize something that so wonderfully speaks the language of cinema is something of a miracle.

The narrative of “Hunger” is communicated primarily through its imagery. Its first third contains hardly any dialogue at all. With the exception of the short, back-story opening, it establishes its setting and characters not by telling you what and who they are but by showing you and allowing you to fill in the holes yourself. Sands is not the first character introduced, nor is his introduction immediately indicative of a protagonist. McQueen initially shows us a Maze guard at home, getting ready for work in a routine that we later realize is filled with paranoia and moral confliction. We then meet a recently captured IRA prisoner and watch as he's processed in the facility, stripped naked and hauled to a cell that's coated, wall-to-wall, with excrement. This soon gives way to torture scenes more gruesome and cringe-inducing than anything in your average slasher film, showing inmates beaten, prodded, probed and humiliated with nightmarish clarity. Incredibly, all of this is captured by McQueen (and cinematographer Sean Bobbitt) with stark aesthetic grace.


“Hunger” is what I like to call a “freeze-and-frame” film, meaning, perhaps obviously, that you could hit the pause button at practically any point and be left with a museum-quality photographic composition. Its beauty is consistent, inventive and staggering, making your eyes dart back and forth or holding them transfixed, even when what's on display is enough to make one wince. McQueen is constantly delivering graphic shapes and potent images (he even makes the swirling, feces-smeared walls a handsome sight). It's so rare for a movie to have that freeze-and-frame quality, the notion that, if de-constructed, it could still look as great as when assembled. Even rarer is such a movie that also possesses such an utterly engaging story. Rarer still is one that can do so while dealing with such mortifying material, and rarest of all is that it was done by a debut filmmaker.

The component of “Hunger” that's arguably garnered the most attention and buzz is the portrayal of Sands by Fassbender, whose gut-wrenching, transformative performance is comparable to the shrinking-man work of Christian Bale in 2004's “The Machinist.” Continuing the tradition of devoted actors suffering for their art, Fassbender puts his body through hell in this film, enduring strenuous sequences of physical abuse and drastic, bone-protruding weight loss. The physical dedication is, of course, dramatically effective, but nowhere near as weighty as a single 17-minute scene at the center of “Hunger” that serves as its fulcrum and its entire second act. Seated with a priest whose presence he requested, Sands divulges all of the details and motives behind the impending hunger strike, the first ongoing stream of dialogue after nearly 40 minutes of film. Loaded with political, cultural, religious and deeply personal insights, the one-take exchange is rumored to be the longest single static shot ever in a major motion picture, a mighty feat for Fassbender, for co-star Liam Cunningham and, of course, for McQueen. Its words -- penned by McQueen with Irish playwright Enda Walsh -- are what we hear as “Hunger” makes its final, silent descent, soon arriving at a harrowing conclusion that is, like the rest of the movie, unforgettable.

MONSTERS VS. ALIENS

Review: Monsters vs. Aliens
2.5 stars (out of 5)
By R. Kurt Osenlund

While excitement-hungry kids are no doubt licking their chops, I'm having a hard time stomaching Hollywood's latest multi-million dollar attraction: an all-you-can-ogle buffet of 3-D animation flicks. For those of you who don't know the difference between stereoscopy and CGI, let me be clear: I've no quarrel with computer-generated marvels like “Wall-E” and “Finding Nemo,” which go down easy and pop your eyes without the aid of red and blue-tinted glasses. The tough-to-digest toons are the ones specifically created to be viewed in 3-D. These movies – which kicked off around 2007 and, according to DreamWorks Animation CEO Jeffrey Katzenberg, who announced that year that his company would no longer be dabbling in 2-D, are set to continue into infinity and beyond – often abandon art and story for the sake of sheer spectacle, forcibly probing the senses rather than cleverly stimulating them. DreamWorks' “Monsters vs. Aliens,” a basically harmless but undeniably ridiculous throwback to B-movies of the 1950s, is the first of a long roster of 3-D titles to be released throughout the year. Like a poorly written pop-up book, it's dazzling but disposable, and if it's a good indicator of the other buffet selections, I had better stock up on Tums.


In case you missed the galaxy-sized marketing campaign for “MVA,” which included SoBe beverage tie-ins and 3-D commercials during the Super Bowl, here's the 411 on this beastie battle royale: Susan, a wholesome Californian whose voiced by Reese Witherspoon but whose big eyes and toothy smile suggest Julia Roberts, is ecstatic about marrying her ambitious weatherman beau, Derek (Paul Rudd). But on the big day, Susan is hit by a massive meteorite containing Quantonium, a powerful substance we later learn is the most coveted in all the universe. The stuff turns out to be the ultimate growth hormone, transforming Susan into a 50-foot giant with super strength (and an unexplained rock star hairdo). This puts a damper on Susan's white wedding and, even worse, lands her in a top-secret government stronghold where other captured “monsters” have also been imprisoned. Branded with the codename Ginormica, Susan is forced to bunk up with Dr. Cockroach (Hugh Laurie), a mad scientist whose experiments made him into a bug-man a la “The Fly”; The Missing Link (Will Arnett) a 20,000-year-old fish-man a la “The Creature from the Black Lagoon”; B.O.B. (Seth Rogen), a one-eyed wad of indestructible goo a la “The Blob”; and Insectosaurus, an odd amalgamation of a moth, a lobster and a gerbil that has the city-stomping temperament of “Godzilla” but might as well have been lifted from the doodles of a toddler. When Earth is invaded by the evil Gallaxhar (Rainn Wilson), a multi-eyed, multi-tentacled and narcissistic extra-terrestrial who's after that Quantonium, Susan and her new friends are called upon as a last resort to save the planet.

To be fair, the description of this film doesn't sound any sillier than a panda who practices martial arts. But the crucial difference between “MVA” and last year's DreamWorks hit is that “Kung Fu Panda” took the time to develop its characters and its narrative. There isn't much of a story here, and the connection to the personalities on screen is even more threadbare. Homesick Susan supplies some human relatability, but even her character's arc feels rushed and unnatural, leaving the audience with no one to cheer for. And, let's face it, at least that panda was cute. Aside from B.O.B., who drums up a few aw-shucks points as the big, dumb lug, none of these monsters are very appealing, least of all that dreadfully uninspired Insectosaurus. So, these unattractive creatures that we don't really care about are dropped into scenarios that don't feel urgent. What's left? What else? Action and special effects.


“MVA” has some spectacularly rendered sequences, but they lack cohesion, arriving in showy, intermittent bursts. The first major battle feels like it could be the climax and the climax is notably anti-climactic. And all of said sequences, though fun and fast-paced, have clearly been borrowed from live-action pictures that were far more effective. When Susan sprouts to about ten times her natural height and crashes through the roof of a church, we think, of course, “Attack of the 50-Foot Woman.” When swirling cameras follow helicopters and jets as they whiz around the arms and legs of a giant robot, I, at least, thought, “The Empire Strikes Back.” And all those protective forcefields surrounding the alien spacecrafts scream “Independence Day.” Why is it that so many kids' flicks insist on being derivative, notoriously plucking from pop culture and pre-existing texts? This movie was written by five people, directed by two people, and it still leaves much to be desired in terms of creative vision, a void that no amount of flashy 3-D imaging can fill.

Due credit must be given to the the film's uncommonly star-studded voice cast, all of whom turn in fine work despite the conditions. Though even she can't give Susan much of a heartbeat, Witherspoon, a truly genuine actress, is surprisingly endearing as a skyscraper-sized superheroine. Rogen, a truly loveable lug, is surprisingly charming as a blue bubble of ooze. Laurie, a truly hilarious intellectual, is surprisingly perfect as a brainy insect. And Wilson, a truly strange comedian, is surprisingly articulate as an archetypal villain. But none of these talented actors, which also include Kiefer Sutherland and Stephen Colbert, are able to bring much depth to this material. For all its 3-D embellishments, “Monsters vs. Aliens” is, not so surprisingly, one-dimensional.

SUNSHINE CLEANING

Review: Sunshine Cleaning
4 stars (out of 5)
By R. Kurt Osenlund

Nominated for the Grand Jury Prize at the 2008 Sundance Film Festival, “Sunshine Cleaning,” an offbeat indie that targets your heartstrings and your funny bone with equal earnestness, has been leaving viewers and reviewers with a sense of dramedic déjà vu. Backed by two of the producers of “Little Miss Sunshine,” another ray-coated festival sweetheart, this close cousin has a lot of the same ingredients as the 2006 Oscar-winning hit. There's a precocious little kid, a van that calls to mind that iconic yellow bus and even '06 Best Supporting Actor Alan Arkin, back to play yet another outspoken, goofball grandfather. Oh yeah, and there's that title. It's easy to point out the similarities here and deride the new film because of them. But though the formula looks familiar, “Sunshine Cleaning,” directed by Christine Jeffs (“Sylvia”) and written by newcomer Megan Holley, has enough of its own quirky qualities and heart to still feel fresh and affecting. And it's helped immensely by two glowing performances from Amy Adams and Emily Blunt, two of today's most talented young actresses.


Rose Lorkowski (Adams) hasn't done much that she's proud of lately. In high school, she was the captain of the cheerleading squad and girlfriend of the star quarterback but, now, in her early thirties, she's a single mother who cleans houses to (barely) make ends meet. She still sleeps with the quarterback, in seedy motels on Saturday nights, except he's married to someone else and has kids of his own. As unhealthy and dead-end as Rose's circumstances may seem, her situation is a bona-fide success story compared to that of her slightly younger sister, Norah (Blunt), a textbook slacker who can't hold a job and still lives with their father, Joe (Arkin). When an incident forces Rose to seek better schooling for her ADHD-addled son, Oscar (Creepy-But-Cute Kids Club member Jason Spevack), she turns to the quarterback, Mac (Steve Zahn), for advice. Mac, now a cop, tells Rose to get into the “racket” of crime scene clean-up – the maid duty of the macabre – which, for some, rakes in up to $3,000 per job. Rose is game. She recruits Norah as her business partner, adopts the peppy moniker of the title as her business name and buys a cheap, old van to be her business headquarters-on-wheels. What follows is a somewhat obligatory but satisfactorily original road to giggles, tears and self-discovery.

Depending on your sense of humor, scrubbing blood off of walls and disposing of mattresses soaked in God-knows-what might sound like a sour mix for a heartfelt comedy, or a fail-safe recipe for genuine laughs. It's both, really, and while the naysayers have ample room to object, I found that the folks involved here did a fine, balanced job of making the thematic opposites attract. Holley's screenplay, albeit a bit too adherent to the indie-movie-oddity checklist (did Norah really need tattoos, drug issues, daredevil activities and a lesbian encounter?), has wit and charm and eventually makes profound human experience its chief focus. For these sisters, what was first a disgusting and degrading – and comical – enterprise becomes a window into the shattered lives of others and a way to finally achieve some personal growth and pride. (Moving moment alert: Rose quietly comforts an old woman whose husband's suicide left a mess in a bedroom. Later, Rose upstages her snooty high school pals at a baby shower/reunion by confidently describing her line of work.) The film has a rhythmic emotional energy, drawing you in on a wave of laughter and then sideswiping you with its poignant undercurrent. The transition is smooth, usually resisting melodrama, and the characters react realistically to their evolving scenarios. At the very least, Holley and Jeffs deserve points for choosing such an oft-overlooked profession as the vessel for their story. Really, how many crime scene clean-up crews do you know?


A great deal of the movie's naturalness can be credited to Adams and Blunt, two women who are more than capable of truthfully conveying a vast range of emotions. Separately, we've seen both actresses excel at comedy (Blunt in “The Devil Wears Prada,” Adams in “Enchanted,” among other things) and drama (Blunt in “My Summer of Love,” Adams in “Doubt,” among other things). Together, they are a dream team of cinematic and sisterly chemistry, feeding off of each other's cues with believable comfort and ace comedic timing. Individually, too, they are outstanding. Both are given private scenes of humor and heartache that contain some of the film's best moments. A tender backstory involving Rose's and Norah's late mother effectively establishes an unbreakable bond much like the one seen in 2005's "In Her Shoes" with Cameron Diaz and Toni Colette. Adams and Blunt are the best screen sisters since, even bringing depth to bits that should have stayed on the cutting room floor (such as a cute running joke about a CB radio that runs a little too far). Kudos to the casting director for landing these two lovely ladies in one place.

Shame on the casting director for tapping Arkin to play the grandfather, an obvious ploy to attract fans of that other “Sunshine” film. Arkin delivers a carbon copy of his Academy Award-winning performance, right down to the unconventional wisdom he offers his eager grandchild, the only person who takes his wack-a-doo behavior seriously. Is it entertaining? For sure, but it's distractingly reminiscent and it's proof-positive that the 76-year-old's victory two years ago was little more than an honorary bone tossed to an esteemed veteran. (Unless, of course, he scores a nomination for his work here as well, which is unlikely.) Moving on, more gratifying are the other supporting players, namely Clifton Collins Jr. (“Capote,” “Traffic”) as a mild-mannered, one-armed cleaning supply store clerk who builds model airplanes and becomes a sort of surrogate father to Oscar. Collins Jr. gives a sweet and subtle portrayal that adds a new dimension to his increasingly impressive filmography. Still, he's no match for Adams and Blunt, the winning dynamic duo who put the sunshine in “Sunshine Cleaning.”

WATCHMEN

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

Adapting a beloved text to the screen is a daring, treacherous task. In addition to satisfying critics and new, unaccustomed audiences, one must also consider the sometimes millions of well-established fans and face the common collective belief that “the book is always better than the movie.” Especially tricky are the translations of popular comic books, which carry armies of geek followers who are often more cutting than the most astringent film reviewers and more protective of their babies than a cornered lioness. More sensitive still is the case of “Watchmen,” a limited edition, 12-part superhero serial by writer Alan Moore and artist Dave Gibbons that was originally published in 1986 and has since become a hallowed fanboy bible. Its road from cells to celluloid has been long, hard and full of detours – rewrites, directorial changes, battles over ownership – that plagued the project all the way up to weeks before its release. Now, it's finally here, and it's a slick, beautiful and bad-ass piece of cinema.

I've only flipped through the particularly graphic graphic novel once or twice, so I can't say if director Zack Snyder (“Dawn of the Dead,” “300”) and screenwriters David Haytre (“X-Men”) and Alex Tse (“Sucker Free City”) have made a worthy adaptation or if disgruntled Watchmaniacs are already flooding the blogs with wrathful complaints. But I have seen enough movies to comfortably proclaim that, by marrying the best aspects of modern masked-men motion pictures (the post-“Matrix” stylings of “V for Vendetta” and “Wanted,” the coarsely realistic world view of “The Dark Knight”), Snyder and company have created one of the best comic book films ever. Its only major downside is that, at a hair under three hours, it demands a bit much from those who aren't ga-ga over the source material.


“Watchmen” is as American as “Superman,” as noir as “Sin City” and has as much balls-to-the-wall bravado as both “Kill Bill” flicks combined. Deemed un-filmable by its champions and creators (a stance still held by Moore, who removed his name from the movie's credits), the elaborate story's controversial content includes volatile international relations, societal collapse, nuclear war, grisly gore and – most taboo of all – superhero sex. Its vision is one of an alternative America, the history and conditions of which have been tweaked by the presence and consequences of folks like the Watchmen, a band of superheroes who live among the general public. The year is 1985 (though there are also several flashbacks). The place is – where else? – a cold, wet and shadow-enshrouded New York City. The Watchmen aren't the first superheroes (a painterly, nostalgic opening credit sequence provides a glimpse of their predecessors), but they will be the last according to President Nixon, who's demanded they hang up their capes even after they led him to a Vietnam victory and five consecutive terms in office.

Now in early retirement, Nite Owl (the appropriately all-American Patrick Wilson) is a humdrum homebody who wears thick-rimmed glasses and trades war stories with an aged colleague. “World's Smartest Man” Ozymandius (Matthew Goode) has capitalized on his image and high I.Q. to become a billionaire business mogul. Rorschach (Jackie Earle Haley) still prowls the streets, disgusted with their decline in the Watchmen's absence. Silk Spectre (Malin Akerman) lives a sheltered, pseudo-domestic life in a government stronghold with the almighty Dr. Manhattan (Billy Crudup and lots of digital makeup). And The Comedian (Jeffrey Dean Morgan) spends his sleepless nights watching TV and smoking cigars until he's hurled out of a high-rise window in the film's gorgeously rendered first scene. His killing jump-starts the plot's key strand (wherein Rorschach initiates his own renegade murder investigation), which operates within a larger, doomsday component involving Dr. Manhattan and the trigger-happy Soviet Union.


There's not a whole lot of superheroism taking place in this superhero tale, at least not of the typical “it's a bird! it's a plane!” variety. Graciously, much more emphasis is put on legitimizing the characters and their circumstances than showing them shooting laser beams from their eyes, etc. The only Watchman who even possesses supernatural abilities – the others are highly trained in combat and weaponry but still very human – is Dr. Manhattan, whose early exposure to atom-crushing forcefields in a nuclear test facility transformed him into a blue-skinned god-weapon who can do just about anything (teleport, replicate, manipulate matter, walk on the Sun). (Originally contracted by the federal government, he's the reason for the U.S./Soviet tension.) All-powerful but irrevocably all alone, the Doc is seen withdrawing from humanity when it needs him most, thus pushing Silk Spectre into the arms of Nite Owl. He's also seen, as in the comic, completely naked, and Snyder's full-frontal faithfulness to this detail will surely provoke many a conservative gasp (there was a small chorus at my screening). The nudity isn't indecent, it's logical, and it's one of many brave and brilliant choices made by the director, whose graphic style is an ideal match for this material. Snyder shies away from nothing. “Watchmen” is ultra-violent, explicitly sexual and uncommonly grim, but it is still supremely sophisticated.

The actors are all commendable aside from Goode, whose inability to hide his British accent leads to some muffled, distracting line deliveries. The best performance comes from Haley, a gifted character actor who rebounded in 2006 with an Oscar nomination for his work in Todd Field's “Little Children.” Haley brings some serious psychological depth to Rorschach, a pitiless vigilante whose ever-changing inkblot mask is a fun metaphor for his inner demons. Rorschach unearths a turning-point conspiracy, inspiring his fellow Watchmen to come out of hiding and seek justice once more. The prolonged delay of the rock 'em, sock 'em gallantry makes its arrival rewarding, but it comes around the two-hour mark, by which time the film has just begun to wear out its welcome. It's conceivable that Snyder tried to include as much as possible to please the die-hards but, in doing so, he robbed his movie of its perfection. Exciting, smart and offering a cultural perspective through a kind of dirty pop prism, “Watchmen” is a titan of its genre. If only its running time didn't loom as large.

TWO LOVERS

Review: Two Lovers
4 stars (out of 5)
By R. Kurt Osenlund

Having seen the coolly composed trailer for “Two Lovers” – as well as a certain David Letterman interview – prior to my screening, I had every intention of opening this review with something like: “You won't find any of Joaquin Phoenix's recent bizarro behavior in his latest – and, reportedly, last – film.” But, lo and be dazzled, you will, and this sober romance piece from writer/director James Gray is all the richer for it.

Phoenix plays Leonard, a heartbroken, Bipolar antihero with the emotional development of a teenager and the selfish, delusional quirks of an alcoholic. An aspiring photographer and not much more, Leonard returns home to live with his welcoming parents in their Brooklyn apartment after his fiancée leaves him high, dry and suicidal. It's revealed that the split was a result of reproductive complications, but it's conceivable that she left because he's a man-child; not of the “Big” variety, but of the “I-can't-take-care-of-myself-let-alone-anyone-else” kind. Leonard sleeps till noon and goofs around at his father's dry cleaning business where he works part-time. He sneaks out of the house at night needlessly. He can't concentrate. He lies, double-books engagements and hatches impossible schemes, all of which cause him the sort of subsequent grief that most seasoned humans have learned to protect themselves against. In short, he's a paradigm of immaturity, and Phoenix's bittersweet portrayal is the most unguarded of his career. The two-time Oscar nominee is so at home playing an awkward, on-the-fringe noncomformist that one can't help but wonder if those “public performance” rumors regarding his new beard-and-shades persona are, in fact, true.


Leonard is first introduced after having just been fished out of the river by some good samaritans – the aftermath of what we learn from Mom (a heartbreaking Isabella Rossellini) and Dad (Israel's Moni Moshonov) to be one of many suicide attempts. The parents – a classic Jewish couple – are as loving as they are lovable, but they remain at an arm's length from Leonard, fearing that one wrong move could be the excuse he needs to do the unthinkable (there's a quiet anguish in both of their faces that suggests years of doctors' appointments and therapist visits). Their ultimate effort to save their functional-but-unstable son is to set him up with Sandra (Vinessa Shaw), the saintly, kosher daughter of their best friends. Sandra is everything that Leonard needs: she's nurturing, non-judgmental and she's genuinely interested in him. This, of course, makes him less interested in her and more drawn to the toxic pursuit of Michelle (Gwyneth Paltrow), his gorgeous, unattainable neighbor with his same faulty wiring. Like an adolescent boy, Leonard leads Sandra on for safe keeping while he pines for Michelle, who in turn is sleeping with a married man and wears the obligatory blinders of a mistress (“he's going to leave his wife,” etc.).

The two simultaneous relationships are vastly different. Sandra, who sees Leonard's character flaws as an outlet for her compassion, invites him to dinner with her and her family. Michelle, who can't see Leonard's character flaws because she has so many of her own, invites him to dinner with her and her hitched boyfriend (to his dismay, Leonard remains Michelle's platonic confidant through much of the movie). But both women are almost immediately taken with Leonard and his irresistible boyish charms. He may be a novice in the game of life, but he's clearly experienced in the game of courtship, and Phoenix is especially good at vitalizing this aspect of his character. There's a remarkable segment in which Leonard joins Michelle and her friends for a night on the town. En route to a club, he tries to impress the gals by spitting rhymes, drawing a playful comparison to Phoenix's supposed new vocation. Once inside the bass-laden night spot, Leonard heads straight for the dance floor and breaks into a quick routine that's both slightly embarrassing and surprisingly skillful. The whole portion is brief but outstanding because Phoenix's work is so loose and free, as if the camera – which has a dance of its own and puts you in the party – weren't even rolling.


Gray has directed Phoenix twice before, in “We Own the Night” (2007) and “The Yards” (2000), but never like this. Though also set in Gray's home of New York, the previous movies were both crime dramas, while “Two Lovers” has the mood of a French film – and not just because of the exquisite music choices. The characters, like the plot, are fostered slowly but surely. Gray and co-writer Ric Menello layer these people with believable complexity, allowing them to become familiar but never wholly predictable (specifically, Leonard's rocky temperament creates moments of unexpected suspense – when his fantasies begin to crumble, we're uneasy and unsure of how he'll respond). And Gray gets great performances from the rest of his cast as well. Paltrow, her golden locks strewn about like heaven-straw, lights up the film the moment she appears and has the power to darken it, too. Shaw, a Hilary Swank look-alike who's leading lady material all the way, makes you wonder why the most you've seen of her lately is in bit parts in fare like “3:10 to Yuma.” And Rossellini and Moshonov create a screen duo to be cherished.

But the spotlight is rarely pulled away from Phoenix, the film's indisputable star. Throughout “Two Lovers,” I couldn't stop thinking about what a shame it is if Phoenix truly means business when he says he's quitting his.