Milk: It Does A Body (Mind and Spirit) Good.

A review of Milk.

Milk, written by Dustin Lance Black and directed by Gus Van Sant, is a deeply affecting and profoundly moving film. The film itself is not without flaws, but the experience of seeing it was nearly perfect. I can’t recall another movie-going experience when there was such enthusiastic, sustained applause at its conclusion. Milk would be affecting whenever it might be seen, but the synergistic timing of its release in the wake of the passage of Proposition 8 in California heightens its relevance as well as its odds of dominating in the upcoming awards season.

One of the triumphs of Milk is in what it avoids – it could easily have become an aptly-named, self-fulfilling prophecy, “milking” its viewers for their most sentimental, basic feelings of pity. Instead, Milk has churned itself into a beautiful, multi-layered piece, one that forces you to deeply identify at one point or another with someone or something in the film. I know I’ve seen a truly great movie when I am not only moved and entertained by the experience of seeing it, but I also learn something. Perhaps it is my own ignorance of the history of the gay rights movement and of the politics of the ‘70s, but, though I knew the film had its own agenda, I really got a sense of what a struggle it was (and continues to be in much of the world) for gay men and women in the ‘70s to exist, to survive, let alone be accepted.

Milk follows the story of Harvey Milk (Sean Penn), the first openly gay person to be elected to public office in California. After four unsuccessful attempts (and the redistricting of San Francisco) over as many years, Milk and his motley crew of true believers finally accomplish their goal and get Milk elected to the office of Supervisor of the City of San Francisco. But the victory is not without sacrifice, as his single-minded drive ultimately costs Milk his relationship with Scott Smith (James Franco), who the film suggests, is the love of his life. Milk is short on details of Harvey’s life prior to meeting Scott in New York City in the early ‘70s, which is one of my complaints about the film. I appreciate the detail with which Milk depicts his political career through to its tragic end, but, as a biopic, it feels fairly incomplete. While the script is sprinkled with a few lines here and there to give the audience a sense of his family history (i.e., the fact that he was never able to come out to his parents and only came out to his brother after they had passed), it left me wanting to know more, in particular more about what drove his activism.

Milk devotes a great deal of detail, however, to Harvey’s fight to defeat Proposition Six (a California ballot initiative which stated that any public school teacher “advocating, imposing, encouraging or promoting” homosexual activity could be fired) in 1978. The parallels between the battles waged over Proposition Six in 1978 and Proposition Eight in 2008 are truly uncanny. In both cases, the parties seeking to discriminate used reprehensible tactics, invoking fear, and more specifically exploiting children to invoke that fear. Yet, the powerful unity that resulted in the successful defeat of Proposition Six in 1978 versus the failure to vanquish the same spirit of hatred in 2008 made me wonder if perhaps something I believe I read on Andrew Sullivan (of The Atlantic)’s blog (The Daily Dish at andrewsullivan.theatlantic.com) was correct – that acceptance isn’t won by couching it as a civil rights issue, but rather by gay people proudly proclaiming themselves and their commitment to their partners. In that way, more people could overcome their fear and see that the majority of them know a committed gay couple who deserves equal rights and access to marriage just as much as any heterosexual couple.

I shall step down from my soap box and note that I particularly enjoyed the moment when Harvey stepped upon his. There were so many great moments and artistic choices to appreciate about this film. Director Van Sant’s stylistic use of opera worked well at times, and felt a bit over the top at other times. The city of San Francisco itself felt like a vibrant character and the use of historical footage was masterfully interwoven. Sean Penn gave an utterly brilliant performance, making you forget he was Sean Penn and completely inhabiting Milk. James Franco was terrifically understated as Scott, conveying volumes with a slight smirk and a shake of the head, carving out more and more of a distinct identity for Scott as the film progressed. Emile Hirsch’s Cleve Jones was incredibly entertaining. I was a bit concerned by his first scene’s introduction of his character, as it was more caricature than character, but the more we got to know Cleve, his unique energy and voice became apparent. Josh Brolin (as Dan White) and Victor Garber (as Mayor George Moscone) also gave strong, noteworthy performances. The one weak link for me was Diego Luna’s portrayal of Jack Lira. It felt too theatrical and staged, and I needed it to feel a bit more grounded and real in order to connect with what Milk experienced through that relationship. The off-balance nature of the character was so exaggerated that it made me wonder how accurate a portrayal it was.

I was also left wondering whether the tape recording used as a framing device was an artistic invention. The very fact that Milk made me want to know more is, to me, the sign of a successful piece of art. I feel as though I’ve seen this year’s Best Picture winner. While it is true that I have a soft spot in my heart for the biopic genre, I think that the quality of this film combined with its eerie electoral timing makes it a lock. Given the California political landscape, I’d be surprised if Academy members don’t take this opportunity to make a statement of their own. So I urge you to make a statement with your wallets and go see this wonderful film in theaters sooner rather than later.

Livin' On a Prayer

A review of Religulous.

Bill Maher’s Religulous, directed by Larry Charles (Borat, Curb Your Enthusiasm), is smart, incisive and engaging. To be familiar with Bill Maher and his brand of intelligent, biting, envelope-pushing humor is to similarly be aware of his utter disdain for organized religion of any kind. At least that is the persona he chooses to present to the public. Notably, however, when one watches his big screen endeavor intended to deflate and challenge the premise and plausibility of organized religion, Religulous, it becomes apparent that Mr. Maher is not devoid of faith, but rather seems to be suffering an ongoing crisis of faith precipitated during his teenage years by his parents’ departure from the church (he was raised Catholic though his mother was Jewish) so that they could utilize birth control. That seems to me to explain a great deal, not only about the genesis of Mr. Maher’s search for logic in religion, but also with regard to his highly sexualized public persona. Instead of making a film to demonstrate that religion is silly, Religulous seems to chronicle a quest for proof that there might be some form of organized religion that isn’t a farce (by Mr. Maher’s demanding standards).

The prospect that such a religion might actually exist seems to terrify Mr. Maher on some level, since accepting such a notion would require him to rethink and reset who he is, publicly and privately. Thus, as so many of us do, he uses humor as a defense mechanism and goes for the broad and “easy” jokes to ensure that he entertains his audience while also demonstrating his intellectual superiority. To achieve this, among the majority of the people that he spoke to for his film, Mr. Maher clearly selected those who represent the most extreme views of their particular religion. While seeing him provoke these various characters in interviews might seem to make for better drama and ostensibly be more interesting, in reality, it’s a copout. Sure, we all get a good laugh at how ridiculous these people seem and at Mr. Maher’s mostly clever snark, but the greater challenge would have been for him to speak with more relatable people and draw their views out, then find the humor in the spaces between, because it’s certainly there to be found.

The moments when Mr. Maher chose the easy, obvious and occasionally offensive insults were disappointing precisely because he is so intelligent and capable of more. It is this expectation of a higher level of humor and discourse that brought me to the theater to get more than my weekly dose from Real Time instead of, say, finding satisfaction with Dane Cook’s Tourgasm. That being said, a great deal of Mr. Maher’s conversations were fascinating. For example, when he did speak with a more moderate figure, a prominent American scientist who bucks the trend in the scientific community and sincerely embraces a Christian faith, the conversation was both illuminating and entertaining. Mr. Maher sought to elicit an explanation of the inexplicable from one who lives his professional life according to the scientific method.

Mr. Maher similarly seeks an explanation for how the United States’ identity has become so wrapped up in religious fervor. He compares Americans to those of similar faith abroad, trying to understand how it is that Americans have gotten so carried away in their expression of faith. A particularly clever and illuminating segment of this exploration involved an examination of the origin of what some claim is “this Christian nation.” Mr. Maher thoroughly debunks that notion by tracing the history of the birth of the United States and presenting numerous quotes from various Founding Fathers that directly contradict those who would claim the U.S. to be “this Christian nation.”

It is these moments, when he makes the political personal, that Mr. Maher is most effective. The conversation that he has with his mother and sister, tracing the origin of his own faith and crisis of faith is both witty and touching and frames the film’s narrative well. But the relatively small glimpse we get of this conversation left me wanting more. Similarly, Mr. Maher bookends the film with his attendance of a truckstop church service and his discussion with the truckers in attendance after the service. Though he ultimately shakes his head in amusement at their embracing of a faith they cannot explain, it actually seems as though, more than anyone else, this group challenged Mr. Maher in his cynicism and made him think. That is ultimately what Religulous seeks to do it and it is a goal well-achieved. I recommend the film to anyone intrigued by a mostly-intelligent discourse on religion, although be forewarned if going to see it in the theater: not only does Mr. Maher have a big head when it comes to his estimation of himself, but physically as well -- the close-ups of his head/face/forehead on the big screen can be distracting as they make it clear: the man has had work done. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, especially since with this film, he’s delving deeper and getting spiritual work done.

Sister Act

A review of I’ve Loved You So Long.

Written and directed by French filmmaker Philippe Claudel, I’ve Loved You So Long (“ILYSL”) is a beautiful, artful film. It’s the first theater-going experience I’ve had in a long time where I had the thought while watching, “wow, this is a really great film.” And I specifically used the word “film” rather than “movie” in my head, not because it was in French with English subtitles and I was therefore affected, infused with unadulterated pretentiousness and seduced by croissants. Rather, it is objectively a well-crafted, emotional story of the reunion of long-estranged sisters whose lives intersect once more fifteen-plus years after the wrenching tragedy that ripped them apart.

Kristin Scott Thomas plays Juliette, who has come to stay with her much younger sister, Léa (Elsa Zylberstein), after a fifteen year absence. (In choosing not to reveal what has kept Juliette away, I am probably engaging in spoiler-avoidance overkill, as that revelation occurs fairly early in the film. However, I feel that my experience seeing this film was enhanced by the blank slate nature in which I took it in, and my wish is for you to have the same kind of enthralling, unmarred-by-anticipation experience.) Juliette not only moves into Léa's home, but also into her life -- with her family, including husband, Luc, Luc's father, Papy Paul, and her two adopted Vietnamese daughters, P'tit Lys (age eight) and Emelia (about three), as well as with her friends, in particular, Léa's colleague and fellow professor, Michel. Juliette and Léa have one of those Big Heavy Events From The Past ("BHEFTP") to resolve between them, but unlike in Rachel Getting Married, the BHEFTP here informs and motivates the action rather than usurping it.

ILYSL relies upon symbolism to set much of its tone, and while it occasionally teeters on the line of obviousness, it primarily achieves its goal with subtlety. There are two primary symbolic journeys, the first involving Juliette's physical appearance. At the beginning of ILYSL, Juliette appears so haggard, awful and pale that she is barely recognizable as a woman. As she progresses through her journey of reconnecting with her family and the world around her, she slowly regains her color and vibrancy and her femininity. Similarly, we also track Juliette's state of being by her ability to physically connect, literally, to tolerate human contact. Specifically, Juliette's relationship with her niece, P'tit Lys, provides a kind of visual barometer for Juliette's emotional and mental state. At the outset of ILYSL, Juliette can barely be in the same room as P'tit Lys, let alone hug or touch her. But as Juliette allows herself to slowly reawaken and do more than merely occupy space in the world, she allows herself to grow closer and more affectionate with her nieces, reaccepting her maternal self. These two symbolic journeys were very clear and easy to clock, but portrayed artfully. Juliette’s steps forward felt more than merely depicted, they felt earned.

In the same vein, all of the accolades that Kristin Scott Thomas is sure to garner for her performance will likewise be earned. She gives a transformative performance that was compelling, heartbreaking and quite simply magnificent. She will surely be nominated for an Academy Award, and rightfully so. I would be surprised if the film were not also similarly recognized, in either the Foreign Film or Best Picture categories, or both. Each of the performances, from Elsa Zylberstein’s guilt-laden Léa to Frédéric Pierrot’s tragic Captain Fauré, a seemingly minor yet significant presence in Juliette’s new life to the ebullient Lise Ségur as P’tit Lys, together provide strong support to an engaging tale. It is not only the performances that are noteworthy, but also the construction of such unique and fully-realized characters who progress through well-defined arcs that build the momentum toward the reveal of the central mystery.

And even though I guessed the specifics of the central mystery early in, knowing what was coming did not in any way detract from my enjoyment of ILYSL. The story was well-paced and unfolded naturally. Certain stylistic choices, for example the thematic use of water, felt a bit heavy-handed, but not distractingly so. And other overly-dramatic moments, such as the recitation of a children’s book over news being received on the phone felt staged, but were effective nonetheless. Similarly, Juliette’s final words and the echo that the film leaves us with were a bit theatrical, but could not be more apropos or poignant. Overall, ILYSL is a beautifully crafted film that I would not hesitate to recommend sans réserve.

Patently Reviewed.

A review of Flash of Genius.

I really wanted to love Flash of Genius, because it’s my kind of movie. If I have a wheelhouse, the biopic tale of an underdog triumphing over evil occupies a great deal of real estate in there. And while I enjoyed Flash of Genius and wouldn’t discourage anyone from seeing it, the film does not fall into the "rush right out" category. In fact, given its pacing, Flash of Genius is precisely the type of movie that might best be enjoyed at home on DVD, so you can pause it every so often and even take a break at some point so that you don’t get too impatient with the methodical unfolding of events that builds toward a predictable conclusion.

Adapted by Philip Railsback from a New Yorker story by John Seabrook and directed by Marc Abraham (an accomplished producer of such fare as Children of Men and Thirteen Days making his directorial debut), Flash of Genius chronicles the tale of Dr. Robert Kearns (Greg Kinnear), the electrical engineering professor who first cracked the code, so to speak, and successfully created a functioning intermittent windshield wiper. After conceiving the circuitry behind the intermittent windshield wiper, Kearns strikes a deal with the Ford Motor Company to manufacture and supply it to Ford. Flash of Genius recounts Kearns’ struggle to hold Ford accountable when the powers that be renege on the deal and, for all intents and purposes, steal Kearns’ invention, and the havoc that Kearns’ obsession with and inability to get past this wrong wreaks upon his life and his family.

Flash of Genius is filled with superb performances. Greg Kinnear truly inhabits Bob Kearns, unflinchingly embracing his prickliness, unyielding morality and obsessive nature. Mr. Kinnear infuses Bob Kearns with layers and nuances that make him more likeable than he may have a right to be. He is both the heart of the movie and, to some degree, its greatest challenge. I had the pleasure of attending a Q&A with Mr. Kinnear after seeing the film, and interestingly, he seized upon one of my notes – he mentioned that, originally, after he had read about half of the script, he put it down, having determined that he was fairly certain he didn’t actually like Dr. Kearns. Ultimately, to the benefit of everyone, Mr. Kinnear seized the gauntlet thrown down by the prospect of playing a character like Dr. Kearns. Equally crucial to the film's high quality was the casting of Lauren Graham as Bob’s wife, Phyllis Kearns. In less deft hands, Phyllis could have come off as villainous, shrewish or even ancillary to the tale of Bob’s fight. But Ms. Graham strikes just the right balance of wifey-ness and independence, maternalism and spunk, and instead, Phyllis remains front and center, even when she’s not physically present.

The primary weakness of Flash of Genius is that the tale of a man who invented something as small in scope and grandeur as the intermittent windshield wiper and then fought about its ownership in court is an inherently difficult story to dramatize. For better or for worse, windshield wipers simply aren’t all that sexy, and a battle over their speed isn’t exciting to watch, especially when one considers the fact that a particular outcome had to have been achieved in order for the story to merit a cinematic adaptation. The story also lacks the Brockovichian urgency of an intense life-or-death fight against The Man, a nefarious corporate power who is responsible for inflicting grievous physical harm upon hundreds of people. Here, Bob fights an iteration of The Man, Ford, for stealing, which is deplorable, but not nearly as visceral as, e.g., causing cancer in a child. Further, the more significant wrong committed against Bob is not the theft of profits from his invention, but more importantly, the robbing of his dignity, which is a more internal loss, and thus more difficult to translate to the screen.

Similarly, while I understand the filmmakers' choice to hook the audience into the story of Flash of Genius via flashforwarding to Bob's nervous breakdown (note: I don’t consider this to be a spoiler as it is the opening scene of the film), I ultimately found the moment difficult to connect with because it wasn't fraught with tension and drama (for me, anyway). It actually confused me a bit as an introduction to the character and left me in a state of anticipation, waiting for the moment when the story would catch up to where we as an audience had already been taken. That set the tone for the pacing of the rest of the film, and I felt impatient watching it, wanting Bob to get to the next step quicker. It also probably didn't help that it's difficult to spend two hours with a character who is so prickly and at times, fairly unlikeable. Ultimately, though, Flash of Genius is worth your time; it's a well written, well directed, well performed movie that, like the court system portrayed in the film, is just a little slow.

The Neverending Wedding

A review of Rachel Getting Married.

Written by Jenny Lumet (daughter of director Sidney) and directed by Jonathan Demme, Rachel Getting Married (“Rachel”) is not a fun movie to watch, nor does it seem it was intended to be. It's one of those indie films built around a Big Heavy Event From The Past (“BHEFTP”) that allows that BHEFTP to dominate everyone and everything in the film. And we get that from the opening scene of the film, so there’s nothing left to do but watch how that BHEFTHP is going to play out between our protagonist, Kym (Anne Hathaway), and every other character in the movie, including Kym’s sister, the nuptials-bound Rachel (Rosemarie DeWitt) of the film’s title.

Kym, released from a nine month stint in rehab at the top of the film, returns home to her family's sprawling Connecticut home just in time for elder sister Rachel's wedding. We learn immediately that Rachel and her friends resent Kym for siphoning attention on this and every occasion. Kym and Rachel's overly emotional father, Paul (Bill Irwin), can't help but keep constant tabs on Kym while their mother, Abby (Debra Winger), couldn't want less to do with her. Divorced from each other, both parents are remarried but maintain a cordial relationship. Rachel chronicles the weekend's worth of wedding events and how Kym's presence in the face of this happy milestone forces everyone to confront the BHEFTP.

One of the strengths of the film is its performances. Without a doubt, Jonthan Demme is an immensely skillful director who ably conjures extraordinary performances from his actors (see, e.g., Jodie Foster and Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs and Tom Hanks and Denzel Washington in Philadelphia). But some of his choices in Rachel are mind-boggling (we'll get to those). Under his tutelage, however, Anne Hathaway gives a fierce, fearless performance. She made me forget she was the adorable Mia of The Princess Diaries or the annoying Andy from The Devil Wears Prada, and she disappeared into the role of Kym, giving a great deal of depth to her performance. And even though I found the movie predictable, and somewhat frustrating in its predictability, Ms. Hathaway’s performance still managed to move me at the climactic moments without making me feel too manipulated. Likewise, Rosemarie DeWitt infused Rachel with authenticity and made what could've been a tiresome character both relatable and sympathetic. Debra Winger stood out for giving a fairly two-dimensional character many layers, more often for what was left unsaid than her actual dialogue. And the rest of the cast, for the most part, was strong. Thus, the film’s flaws are not to be found in any weakness of performance.

Rather, the flaws in Rachel are to be found in its script. None of the characters felt fully realized; I never got a real sense of who they were, just what happened to them. They were limited in their revelation to us not in being defined by the BHEFTP, but by failing to show us who they were beyond the BHEFTP. For example, I never really understood why Rachel and Sidney (her fiancé, l’m guessing named for Ms. Lumet's father) fell in love each other. I heard the story of their meeting, but that didn't tell me anything of who they were to each other. It felt like Sidney existed to further other characters' arcs. For example, in a particularly calculated scene involving Paul and his soon-to-be-son-in-law, he and Sidney engage in a manly contest over the loading of the dishwasher. Yes, you read that correctly: the loading of the dishwasher. As in, which man could fit more dishes in. Anyway, the entire point of this fairly long and convoluted dishwasher scene was the discovery of a particular plate, or rather, Paul’s reaction to seeing said plate. It felt like a scene that would be constructed in a screenwriting class as an example of emotional manipulation. On top of that, there were a number of scenes where I cringed in my seat waiting for the cliché to happen, and more often than not, it did. Particularly egregious was the rehearsal dinner toast scene in which we got the self-centered, just out of rehab Kym making a toast to her sister that’s really all about herself and her recovery. And while we’re at the rehearsal dinner, why were there so many toasts? I’ve been to my fair share of nuptials and nuptial-related events, and I never seen that many toasts. It was fairly maddening.

Also maddening was the constant din of music in the house. About halfway through Rachel, one of the characters comments about that music – “do they ever stop?” That may have been the most apt line of the movie. Seriously, they never stopped. And I understand that the presence of the music was likely serving as artistic symbolism regarding the drowning out of the pain and the sorrow in the house, but it just became distracting to the greater art that was the film. In addition, so many scenes in the movie felt neverending. In particular, the musical acts at both the rehearsal dinner and the wedding reception. I honestly thought the wedding reception might never end.

And finally, speaking of endings, I found the conclusion of Rachel to be confusing and ambiguous, which left me feeling even less satisfied about the experience of seeing the film. Thus, while normally after a review such as this, I would urge you, fair reader, to wait until the DVD release to see Rachel if you feel inspired to see Anne Hathaway's performance, I will instead urge you to go see it in the theater if you are so moved, and then let me know what your interpretation of the ending was. Rachel at least achieved that much – it will certainly stay with me, although it will be the nagging uncertainty over the conclusion that remains stuck in my brain.

Tropic Blunder

A review of Tropic Thunder.

My popcorn was better than Tropic Thunder, and that's saying something, because it wasn't even primo movie popcorn. This is a sad review for me to write, because Tropic Thunder had such potential. Written by Ben Stiller, Justin Theroux and Etan Cohen and directed by Ben Stiller, it was a movie that I eagerly anticipated all summer. The premise is ripe with possibility; there’s just so much funny that can come from it. And damn if the previews didn’t make it look, well, fairly awesome. So sad was I, then, when I hit the moment, and literally there was a moment as I watching the film (fear not, we'll get to it), when I knew unequivocally that Tropic Thunder would fail to live up to its potential. And perhaps my review will end up being harsher because my expectations were so high. If so, so be it. To those with great talent comes great responsibility and therefore accountability.

Tropic Thunder chronicles the misadventures of a cadre of actors assembled to shoot an action movie of the same name, based upon the bestselling supposed "true story" of Vietnam veteran Four Leaf Tayback's (Nick Nolte) time as a POW and his subsequent rescue. Threatened with a shutdown by the studio on only the fifth day of shooting on location in Vietnam, director Damien Cockburn (the hilarious Steve Coogan) desperately seizes upon Four Leaf's idea to shoot the film guerilla style. The mechanics of this "guerilla" style of filmmaking are never fully explicated, but they involve the use of "surveillance" type cameras installed in the jungle, as well as remote controlled explosives rigged by the trigger happy SFX guy, Cody (Danny McBride). Lead actors Tugg Speedman (Ben Stiller), Kirk Lazarus (Robert Downey Jr.), Jeff Portnoy (Jack Black), Alpa Chino (Brandon T. Jackson) and Kevin Sandusky (Jay Baruchel) are unceremoniously dropped in the middle of the jungle and quickly become the prey of real-life dangerous heroin manufacturers.

If that set-up seemed laborious to read, imagine what it felt like to watch. And that's not even all of it. There was just too much there, which I often find to be a flaw in Ben Stiller's brand of humor – he doesn't know when to say when, overtaxing what might otherwise be an unequivocally funny movie. And there is a lot to be amused by in Tropic Thunder. From the very first moments when we are introduced to the main characters via trailers for their upcoming individual projects, the laughs are plentiful, especially when Robert Downey Jr. appears – the trailer featuring Kirk Lazarus made me laugh so hard I nearly cried – it's pure genius. As is the very premise of Lazarus – an Australian super-actor (winner of five, yes, that's five Oscars) who has undergone a skin pigmentation process to play an African American soldier who never breaks character. His interactions with Brandon T. Jackson's Alpa Chino (who makes the most of a two-dimensional character) are effective and amusing. Jay Baruchel plays a great straight man and mines the humor skillfully out of each of his scenes. Jack Black and Matthew McConaughey (as Tuggs's TiVo-obsessed agent, Rick Peck) are both somewhat annoying, but then so are their characters, so well played gentlemen, well played. And Tom Cruise as tubby, follicularly-challenged studio head Les Grossman is truly a gem, striking just the right level of crass bawdiness to make for a highly entertaining performance. And who knew Cruise still had such moves? Be sure to stay through to the closing credits to get the full effect.

And then there's Ben Stiller's Tugg Speedman, an annoyingly un-self-aware lug of a fading action star. Tugg is very one-note and funny only in limited doses. (Beware, some of the following may be considered to be "spoilers," although nothing revealed will actually spoil your enjoyment of the movie.) The gag relating to his bid for serious acting accolades, starring as a mentally challenged man in "Simple Jack," was funny insofar as it relates to Lazarus' discussion of what it takes to win an Oscar (not going "full retard"). But as he does so often (see, e.g., Dodge Ball), Stiller takes the joke too far. And here's where we return to that moment that made me go "oh no" as I was watching Tropic Thunder. First, there is a foreshadowing of the "oh no" moment as Tugg, alone in the jungle, is startled by a creature that he wrestles and kills, only to discover it is a cuddly panda, an animal he has been previously been photographed supporting. That made me groan because (a) what are the odds that he'd encounter the very animal whose livelihood he's made his cause and (b) a panda, in the Vietnamese jungle? really? The moment Tropic Thunder lost me for good, though, came soon afterward, when Tugg is captured by the dangerous heroin manufacturers. Really, the one DVD they have access to is "Simple Jack"? And they worship that schlock as true art? And seriously, the group's leader is a kid? Why? None of it made any sense, and none of it was particularly funny.

And therein lies the problem, because the rest of the movie is built on the notion that these are funny set pieces that can sustain the momentum of the plot. My take: they can't. So ultimately, Tropic Thunder is only half a good movie. I laughed at many parts of it and overall seeing the movie wasn't a bad experience, it just wasn’t particularly good. I could've waited on this one until it came out on DVD.

Walk This Way

A review of Man on Wire.

Man on Wire, a documentary directed by James Marsh, chronicles the incredible feat of Philippe Petit. (Yes, let’s all throw paper airplanes at me for the unintentional though clearly avoidable rhyme.) On August 7, 1974, Philippe Petit wirewalked across the terrifying expanse of nothingness between the barely completed Twin Towers in New York City. The political landscape of the moment – i.e., the imminent resignation of President Nixon and a nation consumed by the dishonesty and obfuscation of its leadership, provides an evocative context for Petit's single-minded focus on a seemingly purposeless goal.

The film does an excellent job building dramatic tension out of a story without suspense (we all know Petit came, he saw, he wirewalked). Similar to the way Titanic’s graphic reenactment of the ship splitting in two prepared the audience for what was to come, so too did seeing Petit’s actual wirewalks at Notre Dame and in Sydney, Australia. The film also utilizes dramatic re-creations of wirewalking, which are at times effective and at other times seem a bit cheesy. However, seeing the guerilla-esque preparations along with having the visual of those first two exploits makes it a little bit easier to wrap your brain around the truly remarkable nature of what is to come.

But the act of wirewalking is not the only mesmerizing aspect of Man on Wire. Philippe Petit is himself a force of nature with whom one does not really relate so much as witness. Petit's charisma almost vibrates off the screen, and the reverent manner in which his accomplices describe him even now, more than thirty years later, suggests that he is a kind of cult-inspiring figure. There is a magnetism to his charm that helps us to understand how people were pulled into his orbit and why a man like Jean-Louis would be reduced to tears when recalling his participation. Present-day Petit himself is interviewed on screen, giving us a more three-dimensional sense of his presence, though the most revelatory image of Petit is that of him deep in concentration, in the act of wirewalking between the Twin Towers. It's almost as if he has transcended to another dimension of consciousness.

The footage of Petit actually wirewalking between the Twin Towers would be compelling in and of itself, without the tragedy of September 11th. But being able to peek back into the past and see the Twin Towers when they were nascent creations, in their final stage of construction, is just plain eerie, as one watches from an inescapable post-9/11 perspective. In particular, there is one shot of Petit as he is traversing the wire and a jet crosses overhead. I believe this was a still photo in which the plane hovers, seemingly mere feet above Petit’s head. It seemed to almost portend the danger that would come with the turn of the 21^st century.

The filmmakers try to create an atmosphere of danger in the smuggling of the equipment to the roof of the Twin Towers, the illegal nature of the act itself and the exposure of the accomplices to liability. In this, they do not fully succeed, but that has more to do with the subject of the film than the filmmakers' effort. For, while Petit's act was breathtaking and beautiful, it was also phenomenally reckless. When you get right down to it, Petit is an incredibly selfish figure. What he did was ultimately for himself and in reality put a large number of people in great danger, not only his accomplices, but those souls watching from the sidewalks below. While the experience of watching the wirewalk undoubtedly gave those who saw it a great deal of pleasure for those brief moments, it was a fleeting pleasure, one that could hardly compare with the exhilaration felt by Petit during and after that wirewalk.

The title, Man on Wire, we learn in the end is less about the clever play on words it evokes than the surrealism of the feat portrayed, as the words are lifted directly from the police report indicting the fantastical act of Philippe Petit. How else to describe what they had witnessed that day? And in that same vein, rather than reading a description of this film, I urge you to see it on the big screen and experience Petit's act for yourself. If the foregoing hasn't been enough to convince you, see it because any movie that has a credit for an "archery consultant" has got to be worth your time.

Pantsed.

A review of The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2.

As a self-avowed chick and a lover of flicks, a chick flick like The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2 (Pants 2) is tailor made for me. (Pun fully intended; groans fully expected.) Adapted by Elizabeth Chandler (who also wrote the first film) from Ann Brashares' series of novels (which I fully disclose I have never read) and directed by Sanaa Hamri (Something New), Pants 2 delivers exactly what it promises to. It's a solid chick flick that entertains, amuses and tear jerks, all in good measure. Pants 2 is well executed in that as a whole, it is greater than the sum of its parts, which is a somewhat remarkable accomplishment when one considers the talent assembled to make the film – the four members of the “sisterhood” are played by Alexis Bledel, Amber Tamblyn, Blake Lively and America Ferrara, who have each starred in or are currently starring in their very own drama series.

Pants 2 follows the story of lifelong friends Lena, Tibby, Bridget and Carmen, picking up two summers after Pants 1, when the girls have just finished their freshman years at college. They each have selected a course of action for the summer that matches one of their passions – Lena is studying figure drawing (and the class’ attractive male model), Tibby is focused on filmmaking, trying to write a romantic comedy script at the same time her relationship with Brian couldn’t be more dissimilar from that genre, Bridget enrolls in an archaeology program in Turkey, only to discover that the culture she has the most to learn about is closer to home and Carmen finally learns to put herself first and flourishes in a summer stock Shakespeare leading role. They endure their fair share of heartache and joy, angst and triumph.

Pants 2 approaches the original movie in quality, but doesn't quite get there. The transitions between the four stories are not nearly as well executed or seamless as they were in Pants 1. Part of the reason for this is that it felt like the filmmakers were just trying to cram too much story into one movie and something or someone needed to take a backseat. Of course, given the fairly equal star power of each of the lead actresses, this clearly wasn't going to happen. So the film ends up feeling like the screen time of each of the girl's stories was meticulously calibrated. And instead, it was the pants themselves that took a back seat. Unlike in the first film, the pants' role felt shoehorned in, which made the last act of Pants 2 jarring, as its action is primarily motivated by the pants.

The strength of the film is that the four leads work well together, and the best scenes are the ones that feature them actually physically interacting. In particular, the relationship between Tibby and Carmen translates across the screen in a very real manner, just as it did in Pants 1. There is love and pathos, and they have the kind of fights that anyone with a true best friend can identify with. Lena comes into her own in her relationships with Kostos and the other girls, and Alexis plays her with great warmth, heart and humor. Amber Tamblyn has long been a favorite of mine, and her Tibby feels very real, although her story moves a little bit too slowly. Bridget's, on the other hand, feels rushed and plays the weakest, through no fault of Blake Lively's performance, as her path is almost too linear and predictable and a bit of a retread of her journey in Pants 1. Finally, America Ferrara's Carmen not only anchors the movie with her voiceover narrative, but is also the soul of the tale. While Carmen's easy success in the theatre is not necessarily something everyone can identify with, her struggle to find a place to belong is, and America translates it beautifully.

Speaking of beauty, one complaint about Pants 2 – it's a focus I can't seem to stray from: each of the girls always looked so good and perfectly coiffed this time that it was a little bit distracting. Even the pony tail Blake Lively wore in her scenes digging around in archeology pits was flawless. And don't get me started on Lena's little sister, Effie's, hair. Every time she was on screen, I found myself wondering if they had flatironed that 'do, probably not where the filmmakers' would've liked my focus to be. I will admit that my focus also strayed whenever Tom Wisdom's Ian appeared (Carmen's love interest), because he resembles Keanu Reeves to such a remarkable degree that I could only think to myself "Whoa." (I know, I know, insert more groans here: _______.)

In conclusion, while Pants 2 may be a bit too formulaic, or hew a little too closely to pattern, if you will, overall, it was a great deal of fun to see at a matinee. I left the movie feeling happy, having had a solid cinematic experience. I highly recommend grabbing a gal pal (or dragging a captive boy – I guarantee you there's adequate eye candy) and legging it to the theater (couldn’t resist inducing one last groan – all good things come in threes) before it fades into the sunset of summer's end.

Summer Lovin'

A review of Vicky Cristina Barcelona.

Vicky Cristina Barcelona (“VCB”) is an appealing trifle of a movie. It’s like the ice cream cone you get at the end of a hot summer’s day that you don’t really need. But since it’s so much fun to try a new flavor and add some decadent toppings, you figure why not? No harm, no foul, and since when are ice cream cones about need anyway? This is VCB in a nutshell – it’s a very entertaining film that won’t change your life, but will certainly amuse and brighten your day. Seeing VCB is time well spent.

A bit of a disclaimer before I go any further: I am no Woody Allen expert. I have seen a number of his films (yes, including Annie Hall), but I am by no means a completist. So I cannot evaluate VCB as it may compare to the complete Woody Allen oeuvre.

That being established, VCB is a movie unabashedly preoccupied with love. Vicky (Rebecca Hall, most familiar to me from Starter for Ten) and Cristina (Scarlett Johansson, Woody Allen’s latest go-to muse) are friends who have traveled together to spend July and August at the Barcelona home of Vicky’s parents’ friends, Judy and Mark Nash (Patricia Clarkson and Kevin Dunn). Vicky is taking a vacation from her graduate studies in Catalan identity and her impending marriage to successful-but-boring Doug and Cristina has decided that she hates the twelve minute film to which she just devoted six months of her life, leaving her future as an actress in turmoil. They both fall for irresistibly sexy artist Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem, who seems to smolder from every pore), and coupling, uncoupling and recoupling ensues, as Vicky and Cristina simultaneously try to expand and reconcile their notions of love.

VCB skillfully sets the tone of the film from the opening moments via the Narrator (I feel the need to capitalize “Narrator” because he truly plays a pivotal role). At first, I found the narration jarring. But once I realized this wasn’t a Morgan Freeman g-d-like figure narrating, rather, the Narrator was almost commenting on the story as it was unfolding, I embraced him (especially for livening up the Scarlett Johansson-centric moments; we’ll get to that). The narration is a very specific stylistic choice, through both the words and the tone voiced, offering just the right degree of sardonic disdain.

The performances are, for the most part, laudable. Rebecca Hall as Vicky gives a wonderful, understated performance. In the wrong hands, Vicky could’ve been a tiresomely annoying character, and it is to Hall’s credit that I always looked forward to seeing her resurface in the tale. Of course, partial credit for that may also go to the wooden Scarlett Johansson, who could not have been more flat, uninspiring and, let’s be honest here, simply boring. Her Cristina is supposed to be a woman who enraptures Javier Bardem’s Juan Antonio, a passionate artist. I never bought it. (Maybe she was trying so hard to portray her character as a bad actress that it affected her whole performance? Or maybe she’s just bad.) Moving on, Patricia Clarkson and Kevin Dunn were serviceable in their roles, but they mainly served as expository crutches and tools for the expression of plot contrivances.

The highest praise must be reserved for both Javier Bardem and Penélope Cruz, who plays his ex-wife, Maria Elena. Bardem plays Juan Antonio with an effortlessness and sense of fun that elevates a character who could’ve been hopelessly two-dimensional in lesser hands. Similarly, Cruz inhabits Maria Elena fearlessly, transforming a potentially stereotypical shrew into a fully-realized fiery force of nature. The interplay between the two of them raises the film to another level entirely and is a pleasure to watch. In particular, Juan Antonio repeatedly exhorts Maria Elena to “Speak English!”, a highly amusing bit that you must see to fully appreciate.

VCB was fairly well-paced, dragging only when its focus lingered too long on Cristina (we get it, Woody, you’ve got a thing for Scarlett, but for the sake of your art, can you move on to maybe someone more interesting like… Penélope Cruz?). The climactic scene (for which Scarlett is, appropriately, absent) pushes the limits in terms of the tone of the film, but provides for a satisfying, if predictable, denouement. So if you’re looking for a diversion from the world as you know it, VCB is worth the price of admission, as well as the 97 minutes of your life. Just say sí.

Hit me.

A review of 21.

Like so many a hand in Vegas, 21 felt like a missed opportunity. Given its premise – MIT students work together in an elaborate card-counting scheme to best the blackjack tables in Vegas and reap oodles of cash – it had the potential to be a fantastically entertaining movie. Unfortunately, to my mind, it only partly delivered.

Directed by Robert Luketic (Legally Blonde, Monster-in-Law) from a script adapted by Peter Steinfeld and Allan Loeb (from the book Bringing Down the House by Ben Mezrich, which I have not yet had the pleasure of reading but now plan to), 21 tells the story of Ben Campbell (Jim Sturgess), the quintessential good kid. Ben is an MIT senior and possessor of a shiny new acceptance letter to Harvard Medical School. What Ben doesn't possess, however, is the 300 K he'll need to pay for Harvard Med (but really, who does?). Enter Professor Micky Rosa (Kevin Spacey) and his coven of "extra credit" (literally) self-styled mathletes, who entangle Ben in their high-risk card-counting scheme by baiting him with the object of his crush, Jill Taylor (Kate Bosworth), at the expense of his relationship with his best friends, his heretofore impeccable school record and his integrity. Will Ben get the girl? Will Ben keep all his teeth? Will Ben fashion a plausible explanation for why he lacks any trace of a Boston accent despite being a native Bostonian? (As Jim Sturgess is a native Brit, perhaps the filmmakers figured they should just stick with a plain old "American" accent.)

It is precisely this – Ben's personal journey – that is most problematic to me in 21. At the outset of the movie, the script makes a point of showing us just how good a kid Ben is – a good guy to his friends, a good son to his mother, even celebrating his 21^st birthday with his buddies at the restaurant where she waits tables, and a good student – beyond the aforementioned Harvard Med acceptance, he also dazzles in his classes at MIT, which is how he attracts the attention of the Luciferous (no, not a word, but it should be one that exists specifically to describe 95% of the characters Kevin Spacey plays) Professor Rosa. In keeping with his virtuous character, Ben declines the offer to join the card-counting "team" not once, but twice, the second time saying no to Jill herself, who has turned up to erode his resolve while he's on the job at J. Press (a clothing store) (where, in yet another example if his high "good guy" quotient, he's recently been promoted to assistant manager). But then in a reversal the audience is permitted no part of experiencing, Ben shows up to team practice, making his entrance by showing off his innate card-counting prowess. It was incredibly dissatisfying to see nothing of what, given the set-up, should have been quite a moral struggle for Ben. And I was left asking myself why? Why the turn? Was it strictly because of his crush on Jill? Was he that tempted by the money? I needed to see more of the justification, especially given his anti-good guy behavior later.

In addition to the deficiencies in Ben's arc, the supporting characters were unevenly drawn. Ben's buddies, Miles (Josh Gad) and Cam (Sam Golzari), were terrific – funny, smart, spirited performances and excellent mirrors for Ben's turn to the dark side. But Ben's new companions on the card-counting team were simply types. We never got to know them, nor understand why they were on the team and why they wanted to be there. The kids never seemed to have enough fun to sell me on the greed, glitz and glamour justification. So why were they working so hard to bring Ben into the mix? And I never understood what was so special about Jill that she seemed to pull an Eve on Ben. The story revealed little about her character and Kate Bosworth's performance was, well, fine, but not compelling. And not to harp on hairstyles of actresses named Kate (see Snow Angels review), but honestly, I was distracted by how well-coiffed she was in each and every scene, and how exactly even her bangs and hair were cut, as though she had them trimmed every other day (which she probably did, on the set, but no college kid, especially one at a school in Boston in the middle of winter when hats go on heads fair often, is going to bother spending the time and money on). Kevin Spacey gave a fine performance of a one-dimensional character he's played several times before, as did Laurence Fishburne.

While the lack of definitive motivation for Ben's biggest decision prevents 21 from being a great movie, there was still plenty to enjoy. You'll probably see the "twist" coming from a mile away, but that still doesn't mean it's not fun to watch it play out. And I may be biased because I love the city, but I think Boston makes for a great setting, and sometimes a character, for many a film (see, e.g., The Departed, Gone Baby Gone, Good Will Hunting to name a few) and it only enhances 21. The contrast between wintry, conservative Boston and colorful, unrestrained Vegas is well-portrayed. I wouldn't necessarily recommend that you double-down and pony up the bucks to see this movie in a reserved-seating Arclight-esque theater, but it's certainly worth spending the nickels you would have otherwise entertained yourself with at the slots to see it on the big screen at a regular theater.

Dodge Ball.

A review of Leatherheads.

Leatherheads is a pretty fun movie. Or, one could also say that it's a pretty, fun movie. It's beautifully shot and visually stunning, the costumes and hairstyles in particular standing out in a good way. And the scenes that consist primarily of witty, rapid-fire barb-trading are amusing and zing in all the right places. Unfortunately, these scenes cannot hold the movie together and "pretty good" makes for a decent, but not great, movie-going experience.

Directed by George Clooney and written by Duncan Brantley and Rick Reilly, Leatherheads' story revolves around the efforts of Clooney's Jimmy 'Dodge' Connelly to reignite interest in professional football in the 1920s and thereby preserve the existence of his team, the Duluth Bulldogs, and his job as the world's oldest running back. Dodge sees his solution in the person of star Princeton running back and war hero Carter Rutherford (The Office's John Krasinski), whose play has been attracting crowds of upwards of forty thousand fans. Dodge succeeds in getting Carter and his sleazy agent/manager, CC Frazier (Jonathan Pryce) to sign up to play with the Bulldogs. Enter Lexie Littleton (Renée Zellweger), the Chicago Tribune's crack reporter assigned to "cook Rutherford's goose" and reveal the truth about his heroism or lack thereof while serving as a soldier in the Great War. A love triangle develops (or rather, attempts to develop) (because really, does anyone ever doubt that George Clooney will get the girl? Or is here where I need to provide the disclaimer that I find Clooney disarmingly charismatic and irresistibly attractive?) (seriously, who could deny him when he cocks his head just so and makes those puppy dog eyes?) and hijinks ensue.

But even the entertainment value of the hijinks could not obscure the underdevelopment that plagues Leatherheads. It did not feel like a fully realized tale, but rather, felt like two different pictures. There was the movie about the evolving gentrification of professional football with the introduction of rules and the removal of the whimsy and trickery that seemed to give the game its appeal. Then there was the stylized romance between Dodge and Lexie, slapstick at its best. Back and forth it went, like the tossing of a football, zigging when it should have zagged, never settling upon a true rhythm and never fully integrating the two stories. The stakes never seemed high enough because the tone of the film reassured us that neither Dodge nor Lexie nor Carter would truly lose it all. Thus, the diversion needed to come in the route to the conclusion, one that never veered from the standard playbook. Clooney should've taken a page from his character and introduced a few trick plays rather than sticking to the tried-and-true buttonhooks and standard Statue of Liberty formations.

Within those limitations, however, the performances by the main players are strong. Clooney's Dodge charms his way through every scene and his comic timing is impeccable. You can almost see how much fun he and Zellweger are having amidst their onscreen volleys. And Zellweger handled the comedy and stylized scenes deftly, although at times Lexie's utter lack of flappability (rather ironic for a flapper) took me out of the periodness of the piece. Krasinski's Carter was equally well-played, and he convincingly oscillated from likeable to unlikeable, opportunistically switching allegiances and historic truths as the situation required. And Jonathan Pryce's CC was delightfully dastardly. A great number of the supporting characters were insufficiently defined and therefore not as memorable, a flaw in the film and a shame as it wasted some very talented character actors. One notable exception was Peter Gerety's (of HBO's The Wire) role as Commissioner Pete Harkin, a highly amusing ball buster (pun intended).

The conclusion of Leatherheads will surprise no one. But watch through the end credits anyway, and you won't be disappointed. They take you through an array of amusing photos which reveal the fate of the characters. Like the players in Leatherheads, you won't be any worse for the wear for having seen it, but you probably won't be much better off, either. So I'd consider it a solid DVD rental. I'd only give it matinee-price potential if a) you're really desperate to see something in the theater and truly nothing else appeals; b) you have a fine appreciation for the art of costume design and/or hairstyling and/or cinematography; c) you like your Clooney larger than life; or d) none of the above, but you're open to a little fun. Hey, pretty fun is better than no fun.

Annie Get Your Gun

Snow Angels ("SA"), a drama adapted for the screen and directed by David Gordon Green (an indie director known in indie circles for such indie fare as All the Real Girls and Undertow), is like the annoying-if-well-intentioned friendless kid in class. You want to be kind to him, but he just so completely lacks self-awareness and is so self-indulgent, that the best thing you can probably do is follow the old adage, "if you don't have anything nice to say…" Not that I can't find nice things to say about SA – we'll get to that in a bit – it's just that there are a lot of other things to say about this flawed film.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should reveal that I am not familiar with the source material – a novel by Stewart O'Nan – so I cannot comment upon how faithfully the screen version hews to the original. SA presents the story of the interconnected lives of various residents of a small Canadian town. Arthur (Michael Angarano), a sweet high school band geek, finds hope amidst his parents' break-up in a relationship with new-girl-in-school Lila (Olivia Thirlby, who looks so cold during some of her scenes that I just wanted to make her some hot chocolate). Arthur's former babysitter, Annie (Kate Beckinsale), is trying to survive single motherhood following her separation from unstable, recently born-again religious fanatic Glenn (Sam Rockwell). And Annie's co-worker, Barb (Amy Sedaris), learns to transcend her anger to help her friend when own marriage to philandering Nate (Nicky Katt) turns rocky, due in no small part to Annie.

The film begins with a marching band rehearsal (featuring a cartoonish band leader) interrupted by the jarring echo of two gunshots. We are then immediately transported to "Weeks Earlier" as the film proceeds to fill in the story. Maintaining dramatic tension while using this type of flashback device is a challenging endeavor, and it's the rare movie that pulls it off successfully – Michael Clayton is the exception, not the rule. Suffice it to say that SA is no Michael Clayton. From the moment we were introduced to Sam Rockwell's over-the-top and uncontained Glenn, I had a very clear sense of how this all was going to play out, and it wasn't pretty. In fact, when the movie finally caught up with itself, I felt only relief at the sounding of the two gunshots, rather than any sense of sadness for the fate that befell their victims.

Along the same lines, I had a hard time caring about most of the characters, as there wasn't a whole lot to like or sympathize with. Five minutes after the film concluded, I couldn't remember Kate Beckinsale's character's name (Annie), which is either a sign that she wasn't much worth remembering or that I was dropped a few too many times on my head as a youngster. While the latter may be true, I'm fairly certain the former is accurate. Quite simply, I never bought Kate Beckinsale as her character – a small town waitress with no prospects beyond the hamster wheel of a life she found herself in. Beckinsale never fit in with the rest of the cast – she was too pretty, too polished and frankly, her perfect highlights were distracting. I found myself thinking on more than one occasion: a) I wonder how her character could afford such a fantastic color job; and b) who on earth could be so skilled at highlighting hair in this small town when everyone else was clearly coif-challenged (see, e.g., Amy Sedaris' Barb).

More than that, Annie just wasn't a very nice person. She lied, cheated with her friend's husband and flirted with Arthur, her former babysitting charge, just to feel better about herself with no care to how much of a tease she was to him. And she was a selfish mother, yelling impatiently at four-year-old daughter Tara at the slightest provocation. It didn't help matters that the little girl who played Tara was simply dreadful. This is not intended to be cruel, as children of that age don't really act, but rather are coached more than anything, and the little girl who played Tara (name intentionally omitted) was not well guided. There was nothing genuine about her scenes with either her mother or father and therefore it was even more difficult to care when climactic Tara-in-peril events unfolded.

Happily, there was one storyline that was perfectly lovely to watch unfold, that of the sweet romance between Arthur and Lila. Michael Angarano and Olivia Thirlby gave understated performances with layers and depth. Thirlby in particular, most recently seen as best friend Leah in Juno is a delight to watch on the screen, and I hope to see her in even more central roles in future films. Sedaris and Katt gave admirable performances despite being saddled with rather dreary characters. Beckinsale could take a page from Sedaris' lack of vanity in portraying her character – she disappeared into Barb.

SA concludes with the same static shots of the every day life in the town that flashed by at the top of the film, as if to indicate that despite the tragic events of the past 106 minutes, nothing changes, life goes on. And the final shot of the film, which I can only assume was meant to convey the same sentiment, was so abrupt as to feel silly. Thus, I cannot even recommend SA for a DVD rental. Maybe if you're on an international flight and your other choices are Lindsay Lohan's I Know Who Killed Me and Paris Hilton's The Hottie and The Nottie, then I'd say give it a go. It's not a terrible film, it's just not terribly good.

A Sure Thing. Sort Of.

I was going to start off this first review by promising that I would never stoop to punning. You know, that I wouldn't write reviews featuring those clever attempts at plays on words that make you groan nine times out of ten, but that every so often have you nodding at your computer screen (or magazine, newspaper or parchment scroll) in amusement and admiration. But anyone who knows me for more than five minutes knows that however well-intentioned that sentiment might be, I would never quite be able to fulfill it. Much like the premise and promise of the subject of this review, Definitely, Maybe…

Definitely, Maybe ("DM") is a decent romantic comedy that delivers no more and no less than what one expects from the kind of chick flick that you're signing up to go see based upon the preview. Though DM tries valiantly to rise above the predictability of its genre with some nice, original brushstrokes, it ultimately does not, making it the kind of movie one might describe when asked "how was it?" as "good" with a little pitch to one's voice because, while there's nothing bad about it, there's nothing all that memorable about it. It's the kind of movie that you enjoy while you're watching it, assuming the rom-com genre is your cup of tea, and then you move on with the rest of your life.

That being said, there's plenty to like about DM. Ryan Reynolds is utterly charming as Will Hayes, a soon-to-be-divorced dad to Abigail Breslin's Maya. Reynolds has a self-deprecating ease about him that tempers the earnestness of Will (a good thing, because something needs to), and he cements his leading-man status with this performance. A clever set-up at Maya's school (that I would describe but is really far funnier to experience unspoiled) instigates an interrogation by Maya, and Will agrees to make like Bob Saget and recount the story of "How I Met Your Mother."

Thus we are sucked into the story of Will and His Three Serious Girlfriends, because everything always works better in threes, and we see Will meet girl, Will try to marry girl and Will lose girl several times. Elizabeth Banks, Isla Fisher and Rachel Weisz are each lovely and amusing in their own way and Breslin's Maya is cute without being cloying. Writer/director Adam Brooks' (writer of such similar fare as Bridget Jones, The Edge of Reason, Wimbledon and Practical Magic) choice to make Will an idealistic Clinton campaigner, paralleling Will's triumphs and setbacks with Clinton's, enlivens the story and distinguishes it. And Kevin Kline is a riot as dirty old man Hampton Roth, once you get past the shock of just how old he looks. Such flavor nicely tempers the fairly predictable plot that plods a bit at times and culminates in the conclusion you've been anticipating.

All in all, DM is worth the price of (matinee) admission. So if a chick flick that'll definitely make you smile and maybe choke up a bit sounds appealing, then spending an afternoon with DM is just what the reviewer ordered.