“Duplicity”: Seeing Stars

To those who lament the lack of movie stars in motion pictures, “Duplicity” offers solace.

Presently, Hollywood showcases actors of varying talents; what it doesn’t have on a consistent basis is silver screen icons. There are a plethora of good actors who hold our attention, surely, but far too many seem to favor self-indulgent and disconnected parts. Bankable names like Russell Crowe, Johnny Depp and Christian Bale choose roles where they almost exclusively portray loners, apparently finding solace in their character’s insularity and by losing themselves in costumes, accents and affectations. Powerful but distant, their detachment makes them feel small and isolated. There are thespians, fine artisans such as Philip Seymour Hoffman or Hillary Swank, who, bluntly, just don‘t radiate that “It” quality. And we’re encumbered with another generation of headshot pretty, vacant line readers; while that may be no different than the age of the studio contracts, it doesn’t alter the perception that they are merely wisps of space. Animation and special effects have nudged out, if not supplanted in many instances, live actors, both the gifted and the rubbish.

Perhaps nowhere has this dearth of magnetism been more telling than in romanticism because those box-office behemoths are just too comfortable playing the emotionally unavailable. Has Crowe ever cuddled on-screen? Has Depp ever swept a paramour off her feet? Has Bale ever swooned? It seems they’re too laden with breast plates and scissor hands for a little slap and tickle. With A-List actresses summarily jilted, it’s left to foreign flicks like “Priceless” or independent films such as “Milk” or even animation to provide the spark. It is telling that “WALL-E” was one of 2008’s most meaningful expositions on intimacy. It’s gotten so desperate that it can’t be too long until lesser lights attempt a computer-generated romance; coming this autumn, “PS, CGI Love You.”

In “Duplicity,“ Julia Roberts and Clive Owen exemplify not only the essence of being a movie star; they show self-indulgent SAG sack superstars how to bring sexy back. In his follow-up to the fabulous “Michael Clayton,” director and writer Tony Gilroy returns to the rubric of corporate intrigue through a lighter prism with Roberts and Owen as CIA and MI6 operatives who become lovers, retire from government spying, and enter the nefarious domain of corporate espionage by working for competing cutthroat multinational cosmetics companies. A byzantine plot trundles in a circuitous route, leaping back and forth through the last six years, skipping across continents. And while the film never flags, the labyrinthine machinations deviate from what makes “Duplicity” so much fun: the unforced chemistry from two scintillating performers. Through all of the plot twists and story subterfuge, Roberts and Owen deliver performances that accrete seamlessly as they let fly with sharp, flirtatious repartee that harkens to an age when witty verbal jousts between besotted equals were commonplace.

Roberts radiates the supreme confidence of a Tinseltown pro in her turn as the Claire Stenwick. With a twinkle in her eye, she has a certain Rosalind Russell vibe when swatting away Owen‘s chat up lines, or feeding him one of her own. Owen cleans up quite nicely for this film. In recent years, he‘s carved out a terrific resume in such films as “Sin City,” “Children of Men” and “Shoot ‘Em Up,” where he carried a perpetual seven o‘clock shadow like it was a trusty six shooter. But with smooth, high cheekbones shading his face like a single bruise on an apple, a clean-shaven Owen generates a stellar comic technique as Ray Koval. Wearing button down shirts even when on vacation, he looks like the dapper stud in the Lancôme cologne ads. (Before this film, if he was being paid in scents, it would have been British Sterling.)

Gilroy casts the additional, secondary roles with astute choices. Tom Wilkinson is eerie disquiet as Howard Tully, the paranoid conglomerate CEO. Wilkinson is wickedly adept at finding the unnerving in a normal moment. As his rival, Richard Garsik, a snarling Paul Giamatti continues to construct the supporting actor as All-Star relief pitcher, a Mad Hungarian of frothy interjections and ruthless maliciousness. Further fine actors such as Denis O’Hare and Thomas McCarthy make up a notable “Michael Clayton” ensemble.

But “Duplicity” is best when focused on the pulchritudinous pair bonding with a terrific alchemy and it is this relationship which fomented my earlier (perhaps too) curmudgeonly rhetoric. Roberts and Owen simply provide a dwindling presence that makes going to movies so wondrous. Sometimes it’s just exhilarating to sit in a darkened theater watching movie stars.

BTR IV

Steve McQueen, first-time director of the critically praised “Hunger,” engages in The Hollywood Interview with Terry Keefe.

Bowie in Space. Well, his son, at least. Duncan Jones, David Bowie’s son with ex-wife Angela Bowie, transports Sam Rockwell to outer space in “Moon,” which after a successful introduction at Sundance opens across the U.S. in June.

From Armando Iannucci, the creative force behind BBC Four’s devastatingly clever governmental satire “The Thick of It,” comes his feature film debut, “In the Loop,” a skewering of Anglo-American political relations which IFC Films will release in the States in July. The Independent profiles Mr. Merciless while The Guardian chronicles James Gandolfini, who appears as the movie’s major American presence as a Universal Soldier.

One Film Wonder: For more than 40 years, Lulu has been a superlative singer and entertainer. She also unleashed her pipes on an undeservedly underrated Bond theme song. But she delivered her only enduring film appearance as “Babs” in “To Sir, with Love,” the charming, heartfelt and human classroom drama notable for Sidney Poitier’s regal presence and her ethereal pop classic.

Opening almost imperceptibly, John Crowley’s “Is Anybody There?” stars Michael Caine as a nursing home denizen who befriends the managers’ young son fascinated by the afterlife. The indefatigable Caine chats with Newsday about Korean War service, mortality and his obsession with Google.

“Crank: High Voltage”: Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Nipples

Three years ago, “Crank” hurtled into theaters as absurdist fun. The taut, lean and gristle-free tale of a poisoned hit man who must keep his heart rate racing used a preposterous premise to concoct a wild, breakneck “D.O.A.” for the devil horns brigade. The sequel, “Crank: High Voltage,” released last weekend, is comparably a corpulent mess. Directors Mark Neveldine and Brian Taylor, who in the “Crank” DVD commentary seemed quite pleased with themselves, gorge like stoned college kids at a pizza buffet. No contrivance appears to have been discarded; one can imagine that every wacky idea was met with high fives and fist bumps. This time, Chev Chelios (Jason Statham) has been fixed with an artificial heart and spends the next 96 minutes electrifying himself as he scours Los Angeles for his pilfered organ while the film spends that time searching in vain for the coherence of its predecessor. “Crank: High Voltage” is a potent mix of the good, the bad and the offal.

A cornucopia of extraneous visceral images and self-congratulatory jokes and gestures, “High Voltage“ expresses mood and executes set pieces with less subtlety than the previous film, but what should one expect from a movie helmed by indulgent directors: a high-speed chase is brought to a pause when Chev’s car is blocked by a completely superfluous porn actors’ strike; a strip club shootout ends with a dancer shot in her pneumatic chest, the camera panning repeatedly over her oozing breasts; and a character is afflicted with “Full Body Tourette’s,” which is a gimmick overplayed. In a film in desperate need of felicitous redaction, when a crazed prostitute picks up a dirt bike, she doesn’t thrust it into a baddie’s groin once but over and over until his genitals have been pulverized. “ High Voltage” is littered with racial epithets and vile language as well; there’s a play on words using “Cantonese” that is headshakingly sad in its unfunny pun.

The movie is unrelentingly gratuitous, not morally but aesthetically. The ludicrous and implausible are more than palatable if illustrated with flair but “High Voltage” is so scattershot, so random, with both the camera and story flitting about with such attention deficiency that it begs the question of whether the editing process was completed during an Adderall withdrawal. Cartoonish films ask an audience to suspend disbelief; “Crank“ had you accepting that a dude could leap from a plane, fall from the heavens without a parachute, smack onto the roof of a car, bounce onto the street and survive. Over-the-top, for sure, but the scene was executed with the verve and ingenuity missing from the current incarnation. A sequence used in both films highlights the distinction between the two. In the first film, Chev and his girlfriend Eve (Amy Smart) engage, for medicinal purposes, in a very public (and funny) sex scene in a bustling Chinatown market. But in “High Voltage” they rut on the finish line of a horse track during a race, in front of thousands of spectators, in a myriad of positions. There’s method acting. Welcome to “meth” directing.

Statham is treated well though by the directing duo as his killer is vivified with more humor and presence than he’s bestowed with in the “Transporter“ series. An Olympic diving hopeful in his youth, Statham, with sandpaper stubble and a South London rasp, has the body of a top-level middleweight, and the face of a slightly less successful one. “High Voltage” is well served by his insistence on doing the vast majority of his own stunts. Amy Smart is plucky in the relatively thankless role of Eve. As El Huron, a vengeful gangster who wishes Chev dead, Clifton Collins Jr., so memorable as the vulnerable Perry Smith in “Capote,“ struts with an outlandish manner that an actor of his pedigree can handle. The likable Efren Ramirez, who played Pedro in “Napoleon Dynamite,” returns as the full-bodied twin brother of his deceased character in the first film. Two other roles are just disconcerting. Geri Halliwell appears in a cameo as Chev’s mother but her part is stuck by Neveldine and Taylor in a completely jarring daytime talk show segue. And David Carradine pops up as an insufferably stereotypical gang warlord.

The film ends with a severely burned Chev receiving a heart transplant from Doc Miles, his dubious delicensed surgeon, played with droll insouciance by Dwight Yoakam. After Miles and Eve leave the converted apartment operating theater believing the surgery was not successful, the camera pans closer to Chev’s bandaged face, only a swath across his eyes visible, and his hand rises and he flips the bird at the camera. Right back at ya.

Beyond the Reel 3

The talented Kelly Macdonald riffs on Marge Simpson, T. Rex and “Back to the Future.”

Ben Walters of The Guardian tags along “When John Waters met the art grannies.”

One Film Wonder: In 1984, John Hughes introduced the first of his series of smart, enduring teen comedies and Michael Schoeffling, a physical ringer for James Dean and Matt Dillon, seemed destined for stardom after his buzzworthy turn as Jake Ryan in “Sixteen Candles.” Seven years later he was out of the industry and now reportedly runs a hand-crafted furniture business in Pennsylvania. Coincidentally, the heartthrob’s most iconic scene involves a table.

The clip is dubbed in Spanish, and an English language version can be found here. But you really can’t disagree that it isn’t el final perfecto.

“Sugar” is the newly released, acclaimed baseball feature from Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck, the directing tandem behnd 2006′s superlative “Half Nelson.” Scott Foundas of LA Weekly takes them out to the ball game while Justine Ciarrocchi at Screencrave chats with the directors and lead actor Algenis Perez Soto.

Thanks to “The Soup” for championing the ingenious and audacious Green Porno shorts devised by Isabella Rossellini and co-director Jody Shapiro for the Sundance Channel. The entire stunning catalogue is located at the network’s site.

“Waltz with Bashir”: Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark

From the opening moments of marauding, snarling dogs to the final harrowing wails of widows, the animated documentary “Waltz with Bashir” is a thunderbolt, visually and emotionally provocative, arresting and riveting.

Director Ari Folman was a 19-year-old solider in the Israeli Defense Forces which invaded Lebanon in the summer of 1982. More than 20 years later, the unsettling dreams of Boaz Rein Buskila, a close friend and fellow solider, prompted the filmmaker to delve into his own murky memories of his war experience, and Folman quickly finds himself especially hounded by one particular, recurring dreamt moment. Told through the recollections of Folman, his military comrades, and the noted Israeli journalist, Ron Ben Yisahi, “Waltz with Bashir” is an eyewitness account of the Lebanese War and the army’s heedless complicity as the Lebanese Christian Phalangists massacred as many as 3,000 defenseless people in the Sabra and Shatila refugee camps. It is a gripping view into the psychology of the after effects of the war experience. Concrete memory and hallucination coalesce, often tormentingly; and dreams stir before consciousness admits. All the soldiers seem shadowed by the Michel de Montaigne axiom that “nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it.”

Each of the colleagues that Folman visits conveys a remarkable story of their war remembrances, from his buddy, Carmi Cnaa‘n, who moved to Holland and found untold wealth as a falafel distributor to Shmuel Frenkel, the patchouli-soaked martial arts devotee. But the episode chronicling the experience of Roni Dayg deserves special praise. Combining artistry and pathos in a soldier’s incredible story of survival and then massive survivor’s guilt, the scene begins in daylight as Roni escapes from his flaming tank in a hostile village battlefield until he musters an ingenious getaway by water at nightfall, only to subsequently become consumed by a pall of shame as the sole member of his unit spared. His story is dramatized seamlessly between the moods of the harrowing, in-your-face action and the serene, lovely underwater animation. There is a soulful, evocative air to much of the movie, which is ably accentuated by a luminous score from Max Richter.

The imagery created by the team led by director of animation Yoni Goodman is superlative; at times, the animation carries an almost 3-D intensity. In a scene illustrating exquisite detail, the camera moves through a lush grove as cautious soldiers, slivered with sunlight, scan for combatants who have just attacked their convoy, until, through a raft of thin trunks, they lock onto their attacker. Enhanced by a realistic quality and style, “Waltz with Bashir” is coated with a smoky, dusty, earthy viscosity.

“Waltz with Bashir” ends with a jarring, searing sequence — an indelible memory — and enters the pantheon of the most profound war films.

More BTR

In Vanity Fair, Mark Seal chronicles the byzantine backstory of the greatest crime film of all in The Godfather Wars. Warren Beatty as Michael Corleone?

One Scene Wonder: As the crew of the Erebus journey deeper up the Nung River, “Apocalypse Now” becomes more harrowing, trippy and surreal; when they reach the Do Long bridge, they encounter crystalline anarchy.

Herb Rice — who has only one other role in his entire resume, as a “pool player” in “Rumble Fish” — is the intensely tranquilized and badass Roach who lets Captain Willard know exactly who’s in command.

“Gomorra” director Matteo Garrone delves Inside “The System” with Cineaste’s Richard Porton.

Pedro Almodovar’s latest work, “Broken Embraces,” starring Penelope Cruz, has just opened in Spain, will reportedly compete at Cannes in May, and then appear on U.S. screens much later in the year. The director kept a fascinating and fun multilingual blog during the making of the film.

Alec Baldwin chats about 30 Rock, evangelical brother Stephen and his roles as star and producer in the independent “Lymelife,” first-time director Derick Martini’s suburban drama set in 1979 Long Island which opens this month across the country.

“The Great Buck Howard”: What the World Needs Now

The illusionist Buck Howard, played with relish by John Malkovich and inspired by The Amazing Kreskin, scaled to the summit of his career during the age when ventriloquists and plate spinners had a prominent place on prime-time television. In the 1970s, talk shows were still synonymous with variety shows and the last vestiges of vaudeville and cabaret found a spot on the bill. Presently, he boasts loudly that he was a guest 61 times on “The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson,” eager to add that he never graced the telecast when the inferior Jay Leno hosted; the irascible Buck, who won’t deign to call himself a “magician,” conveniently conceals that his last appearance on Carson’s couch was a decade before Jay debuted.

In this winning comedy from director and screenwriter Sean McGinly, Buck once again undertakes his mammoth, perpetual touring schedule into the overlooked markets in the unburnished venues where the entertainment of Ed Sullivan and Dinah Shore telecasts still captivates. In a one-man show he performs sleight of hand illusions, group hypnosis and even a lounge act interlude with piano key tinkling while sing whispering Jackie De Shannon’s classic, “What the World Needs Now.” To each audience, even in the most modest of theaters in the most drab of burgs, he gushes, “I love this town.”

Malkovich inhabits the character with great physical zeal with moppish hair, Allen Ludden’s sports coat collection, and enthusiastic, rotator cuff dislocating handshakes. Genial to his fans, his offstage viper delivery underscores a sneery, leery sensibility and a constant befuddlement with modern entertainment tastes. Like his turn in “Burn After Reading” there’s always the hint of menace in Malkovich’s comic characterizations.

Into this seeming time warp enters Troy Gable (Colin Hanks), a young man fleeing mid-semester from law school who answers a print ad and, as someone who’s just absconded from the future his father so carefully planned for him, readily takes up the challenge to circumnavigate the country serving as Buck’s personal assistant. Instead of a predictable generation gap tussle arising between the two, Troy quietly observes the prickly, particular eccentricity of the late middle aged performer on the road.

They are joined by a strong collective of supporting actors with Ricky Jay as Buck’s empathic manager, Emily Blunt as a bemused public relations hack, Griffin Dunne as a curious television star and Steve Zahn as an overzealous, sycophantic fan; no one plays the friendly doofus with as much earnest sincerity as Zahn. Tom Hanks, who served as a producer on the film, fumes, coincidentally, as Troy’s father. The likable and well-cast Colin Hanks comes in a clear second though to his Pops in their on-screen debates.

McGinly keeps “The Great Buck Howard” ticking along with the breezy, finger-snapping tempo of a variety show as an extraordinary stunt catapults Buck back into mainstream consciousness. The film mines several hysterical moments from awkward television appearances with Regis, Kelly, Conan and Jon Stewart. The new found fame leads the itinerant performer to a permanent room in Vegas. But Buck quickly finds that his magical inspiration doesn’t work in Vegas. (Not necessarily such a bad thing.)

But then something quite endearing happens. Buck returns to his exhaustive touring of the hinterlands, Troy leaves Buck’s employ to become a writer, and the irony evaporates. Buck truly appreciates his audience. He doesn’t begrudge or loathe them. They adore him and he reciprocates the ardor. When Troy comes back as an audience member, he finds himself engrossed by Buck’s performance, and rooting for the curmudgeon in a vulnerable career moment. There’s a sweetness to these final scenes; it’s a robust reminder that talent is nestled even in the chintzy, that there’s skill in the schmaltz, and being sappy isn’t necessarily the same thing as being a sap.

Despite a marquee name as a producer and performer, a cast of household faves and a charming story, “The Great Buck Howard” has opened in minuscule fashion, playing to at most 64 theaters during its three weeks in release, with only a modest number to be added in the next month or so. It seems that the film will vanish without much notice; it will be one of the more wistful disappearing acts this year.

New Friday Feature

If James Bond’s erection lasts more than four hours, should he consult Dr. No? Scott Murray takes readers In Bed With Bond in his heartily researched examination of 007′s sexual proclivities and conquests in the online film journal, Senses of Cinema.

Ricky Gervais and Elmo: Together at Last

Magnolia Pictures will release Sundance Film Festival fave “Humpday” this summer. Karina Longworth of SpoutBlog chatted with writer/director Lynn Shelton about the “bromantic comedy” with the tantalizing tagline that “Sometimes male bonding can be taken a little too far.”

The world’s most delicious comic provocateur will arrive in theaters in July. Behold the Bruno trailer, from the folks at Trailer Addict.

One Film Wonder: And one of the most auspicious first film cameos in Hollywood history. A 17-year-old Joy Page, the step-daughter of Warner Bros. chief Jack Warner, shimmers with earnest intensity as Annina Brandel, a newlywed with a most bedeviling dilemma in “Casablanca.” The quality of the clip improves quickly, highlighting both Page’s mature portrayal and Humphrey Bogart’s beautiful subtlety.

“Che”: Guerilla in the Midst

If only every movie had the director delivering his DVD commentary once the house lights come up.

The “Che” roadshow arrived in Portland with Steven Soderbergh in attendance. And after 257 minutes split by just a single quarter-hour intermission, an honest and affable Soderbergh, looking sharp in a black leather jacket, black jeans with Chelsea boots and resembling a Joe Jackson inspiration, offered a glimpse into the filmmaking saga of “Che” and the massive obstacles even an Academy Award winning director with an Oscar winning leading man faces in getting a project greenlighted. At ease, sitting on the edge of the Cinema 21 stage, he was engaging and frank as he recounted a “brutal” shoot which was the most difficult of his career.

The genesis of the project goes as far back as “Traffic.“ Eight years from conception to screen, “Che” was first developed with Soderbergh at the helm, then Terrence Malick, who alighted to the New World after several years work, and finally back to Soderbergh, who shot the two halves consecutively in the summer of 2007. He admitted that once they decided to make the film in the Spanish language, there’d be no money from the U.S. So they relied on European sources. He mused that perhaps they should have made “Che” as a multi-episode miniseries for HBO; the cable network would have provided a bigger budget. Cutting edge digital cameras arrived with just days to spare and still needed tweaking as the production commenced.

Besides the logistical obstacles, it must have been a daunting task deciding how to transfer a biography of Ernesto “Che” Guevara to the screen. Plunked on a pedestal of mythology, the divisive Che was a solider and an academic, a revolutionary with the word and a weapon. But he‘s morphed into the Marxist as marketing tool. He’s a T-shirt icon with a Chris Cornell-like Rock God vibe. Upon the release of “The Motorcycle Diaries,“ Larry Rohter penned a May 2004 New York Times article titled “Che Today? More Easy Rider Than Revolutionary,” which examined Che‘s dichotomous cultural legacy. Jon Lee Anderson, the author of the seminal work, “Che Guevara: A Revolutionary Life,” and a chief consultant on Soderbergh‘s film, described Che as “a figure who can constantly be examined and re-examined. To the younger, post-cold-war generation of Latin Americans, Che stands up as the perennial Icarus, a self-immolating figure who represents the romantic tragedy of youth. Their Che is not just a potent figure of protest but the idealistic, questioning kid who exists in every society and every time.” But Mario O’Donnell, a biographer of Guevara as well, noted in the same article that these types of allusions to Greek mythology could reduce Che to a deified stereotype. “The Cubans have excluded everything about Che that is not heroic, including that which is most deliciously human about him. The personal doubts, the sexual escapades, the moments when he and [his traveling motorcycling companion Alberto] Granado are drunk, none of that fits with the immortal warrior they want to project.”

It is this warrior that Soderbergh focuses on. Part One of “Che” is stellar biographical storytelling. It intercuts expeditiously between Guevara‘s first meetings in 1955 with Fidel Castro in Mexico City to the rebel surge across Cuba in the late 1950′s and his defiant appearance in December 1964 before the United Nations. “Che” moves quickly but precisely, steadied by a filmmaker never dawdling but patiently laying out the intertwining elements. It’s methodical and engrossing. The interspersed storylines crafted by screenwriter Peter Buchman make sense and there‘s a keen understanding of Che‘s revolutionary ethos. The story was ably assisted by a quietly clever device at the beginning of the film. Soderbergh opens with a slowly exposed map of Cuba, with regions and cities clearly illuminated in succession as a respectful way to familiarize the audience with the locale and points of interest.

The second part of “Che” centers exclusively on his 1967 quest to foment revolution in Bolivia. Filmed with harsh white sunlight hue and a purposefully muted color palette, Soderbergh said that this part has a purposeful “jagged” feel. The appearance in Part Two of commendable performances from easily recognizable actors — Lou Diamond Phillips, Franka Potente and Matt Damon — doesn’t mean there’s a Hollywood gloss on this portion of the film. It’s a decidedly grittier film than its predecessor. Utilizing the Red One digital camera — a camera that not only afforded Soderbergh more maneuverability but meant that only six shots in the entire film used artificial light — Soderbergh captures a barren landscape of both geographic and political isolation. Where Che was feted as a liberating hero by village after village in Cuba, in Bolivia, he is met by local indifference (and an American presence). His revolution was vaguely organized, with less money and, most crucially, scant indigenous support. So, in Bolivia, where locals seemed hesitant, Che feels like a Marxist imperialist, exporting revolution to folks who aren’t clamoring for it. He comes across as a bit of a policy wonk as well (and this section also highlights that there’s barely an acknowledgement of a personal life in either film).

While imposing, imperious and full blooded, Benicio del Toro doesn’t overwhelm the films in the title role. He is compelling without becoming overpowering. Yet, his Guevara is indefatigable. This unceasing desire mimics the uncompromising arrogance of a demagogue. In his August 1960 speech, “On Revolutionary Medicine,” Che rallied the Cuban Militia with his oft-repeated theme of the Cuban revolution forging a “new man.”

“Then I realized a fundamental thing: For one to be a revolutionary doctor or to be a revolutionary at all, there must first be a revolution. Isolated individual endeavor, for all its purity of ideals, is of no use, and the desire to sacrifice an entire lifetime to the nobles of ideals serves no purpose if one works along, solitarily, in some corner of America, fighting against adverse governments and social conditions which prevent progress. To create a revolution, one must have what there is in Cuba — the mobilization of a whole people, who learn by the use of arms and exercise of militant unity to understand the value of arms and the value of unity.”

He underscores this belief in the subjugation of the individual impulse with a veiled sense that his means to a revolutionary end are something more menacing than a recommendation — indeed, a threat to civil liberties.

“Individualism, in the form of the individual action of a person alone in a social milieu, must disappear in Cuba. In the future individualism ought to be the efficient utilization of the whole individual for the absolute benefit of a collective. It is not enough that this idea is understood today, that you all comprehend the things I am saying and are ready to think a little about the present and the past and what the future out to be. In order to change a way of thinking, it is necessary to undergo profound internal changes and to witness profound external changes, especially in the performance of our duties and obligations to society.”

The Che of this speech is the Che of this epic film; unflinching, charismatic, and persuasive but peremptory; unfailingly dressed in fatigues, draped in ambivalent heroism. Soderbergh described the making of the films as “kind of like a slow motion car accident.” In Che, he’s got one hell of a back seat driver

“Watchmen” & “Coraline”: All Hands on the Bad One

I haven’t read a word or leafed a page of “Watchmen.“ This isn’t out of any contrarian strop. I can understand why folks become fervently obsessive with these works; I’m just not into the genre. But I don’t think it matters that I had no background with the books when I chose to see the ubiquitously hyped flick. Regardless of how lauded or important the source, a film exists as a completely separate artistic entity. One can argue that an acquaintance with the original inspiration helps with context but even this position is immaterial because a film must be viewed on its own merits. So I saw “Watchmen” with no preconceived notion and no specific expectation. But what is still surprising about the film based on the reverentially adored DC comic book series is how the transfer to the screen feels so pedestrian.

After a vibrantly choreographed fight sequence which culminates in the death of one of the Watchmen in 1985 and a vivid, slow-motion opening title sequence of flashbulbed World War II era photograph stills, the film settles into standard fare. The gist of the plot centers on a collection of formerly publicly vilified superheroes regrouping to solve the murder of their cohort, The Comedian (played by Robert Downey Jr. look-a-like Jeffrey Dean Morgan). There are themes aplenty; from the Cold War to imperialist capitalism to vigilantism, that a film with a more confident script and assured hand would have feasted on. But too often these critiques seem more like a suggestion than an examination.

The film carries a refreshing R rating, and it is admittedly a welcome change to view a multiplex cartoon blockbuster chockfull of cursing and nudity. But then, director Zack Snyder helmed “300,” a film which resembled an International Male catalogue with Tom of Finland serving as a wardrobe consultant. His 2006 box-office bonanza was asinine twaddle but its unflinching visual style was arresting and hardly spartan. “Watchmen” lacks the cohesive tone and the consistent visual dynamism of his predecessor. Too often, it takes a smoke (and mirrors) break. This is especially evident in a prison scene which is small, ordinary and unconvincing. If one was hoping to be swept into another world, then “Watchmen” disappoints.

One aspect of “Watchmen” that is most perturbing is the trite use of music. It‘s a soundtrack too familiar and too obvious. The decision to score a Vietnam battle scene with Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries or play Simon and Garfunkel‘s “Sounds of Silence“ over a funeral falls flat, even if used ironically or plucked from the novel.

The cast delivers performances of variant quality. Patrick Wilson, a burgeoning notable American actor, plays Dan Dreiberg, the most contemplative and openly vulnerable of the superheroes, with a believable poignancy while he exudes a Batman-like swagger as his alter ego, Nite Owl. Rorschach, played earnestly by Jackie Earle Haley as though Danny Bonaduce was a member of Gwar, needs a chill pill or, at the very least, a Ricola.

But a few of the main characterizations are less convincing. As Silk Spectre, Malin Akerman looks like Xena’s little sister, with limbs like an Incredible, but her acting is hardly malleable. Topped by a Spandau Ballet haircut, Matthew Goode, so brooding in “The Lookout,” is a stilted Adrian Veidt, the former superhero Ozymandias who has become the wealthiest man. And Billy Crudup’s Dr. Manhattan is annoyingly omniscient as he delivers every line like a stilted pontification. It doesn‘t help that in his CGI’d getup he regularly plods around with his tadger out so that he looks like a particularly horny Blue Man Groupie.

So, “Watchmen” is not a terrible film but perhaps in its own way this is a worse fate: not kitschy enough to merit midnight madness and not poor enough to be hokum; it’s just ho-hum.

As uninspiring as “Watchmen” is, with a budget that exceeds its grasp of magical moviemaking, it’s a treat to behold the vision of Henry Selick in “Coraline.” The director of stop-motion animation gems such as “The Nightmare Before Christmas” and “James and the Giant Peach,” Selick and his hearty crew have fashioned a meticulous work drawn from the Neil Gaiman novella, which I haven‘t read either.

The tale of Coraline, an intrepid young girl, voiced by Dakota Fanning, who discovers an alternate universe within the walls of her new home, is a precise, precious and ornate 3-D feast. She has moved with her family from Pontiac, Michigan to the remote Northwest so that her author parents can write untroubled by distractions. But even in these secluded surroundings, her mother and father (Teri Hatcher and John Hodgman) indelicately indicate that their only child, who is simply a kid being an inquisitive kid, is a bit of a bother. Sporting a look that suggests she started listening to Sleater-Kinney at a precociously young age, Coraline discovers a nook in a wall of their Victorian rental which leads to a passageway where her “other” parents, now doting and not distracted, lavish her with fanciful foods and presents. Their buttons for eyes are the first, most visible sign that their devotion may come with a price.

In her new environs, Coraline lives amongst notably surreal characters, especially the neighbors who live in the adjacent apartments of the massive house. Two eccentric actresses, Miss Spink and Miss Forcible, bursting out from the top of their corsets and fawning over their pampered Scotties, entertain her with their almost indecipherable bickering, the interplay enhanced by the vocals of comedy duo Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders. In the alternate universe, they are transformed into cheeky mermaids in an uproarious scene perhaps more readily relished by adults. She also encounters Mister Bobinsky, a gymnastics performer of mind-boggling dexterity voiced with gusto by the mellifluously throated Ian McShane. Bobinsky is the ringmaster for a mice circus which performs a rousingly choreographed drill team song for the young girl. Coraline is befriended in both worlds by a wise black cat voiced by the honey dripped tone of Keith David.

The film is a stunning and exceedingly attractive achievement, enhanced by 3-D but not beholden to it. A kooky kaleidoscope of a garden is a shimmering blancmange of reds, oranges and blues. It’s also filled with beautiful, simple touches — the crystalline texture of snow, a shifting rug under Coraline‘s feet or tea leaves swishing in a cup are visual delights made all the more wondrous by the knowledge that these moments were created by the patient, hands-on care of artisans minutely shifting figures. Buoyed by Bruno Coulais’ soundtrack of jaunty harp music, the film is steadfastly clever while alternately and, in many instances, simultaneously creepy and funny. “Coraline” is an enchanting triumph.