If there was ever a movie that truly captured the essence of the digital generation, Scott Pilgrim vs. The World is the pinnacle of it all. Movies that have targeted this generation include Superbad, Juno, Pineapple Express, Knocked Up, The Hangover, The 40-year-old Virgin, Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy, Garden State, Forgetting Sarah Marshall, (500) Days of Summer, Shrek – these comedy films collectively broke away from ’80s archetypes of macho-nacho Arnolds and sexy-smexy Sharons. At the core, these films aimed to create more honest, more vulnerable characters on screen, presented either naturalistically, stylistically, or slang-slinging snarkily – regardless, they are all hilarious in their own right. Most of these films’ soundtracks are compilations of songs, each a flavorful (and invariably) pop culture tribute that listeners will catch here and there, further adding to the slice-of-life, down-to-earth susceptibility (or diabolically manic attitude) that these likewise movies try to depict. However,Scott Pilgrim goes where no movie of late has successfully gone before: to take every aspect of arcades, video games, internet memes, hackers and trolls alike, and throw it up on the big screen for everyone to see it in its ultimate glory. This is a movie that celebrates the digital generation.

What do I mean by the digital generation? I believe it to be inclusive of the generation that grew up with the early and current development of the world wide web and video games – essentially the generation that saw the transition from VCRs to DVDs, CDs to mp3s, newspapers to times online, and so on. Individuals of this generation don’t necessarily have to be involved with video games or the internet; rather, what I mean is that the digitalization of technology – of games and information – allowed this generation to research and look up infinite amounts of information at their very fingertips, and that this availability has, in a sense, caused an acceleration of intellect and A.D.D.-like symptoms – there’s just too much information to learn.

This acceleration of intellect and A.D.D. compounds into an interesting mix: there’s almost a manic desire to prove oneself on the net, where your physical identity dilutes down into the avatar you choose, the style and language with which you write, and the subjects and discussions that you habitually gravitate towards. There’s snark, there’s trolling, there’s administration, there’s moderating, there’s polemic-ing, there’s wit, there’s extremism, there’s thoughtfulness, there’s intellect, there’s meme-ing – essentially anything is possible on the net, and you can define a anonymous identity simply by choosing which characteristics of the net to display, ignore, or engage in.

If there’s one thing Scott Pilgrim does right, it’s paying tribute to the genesis of the digital generation: all the way back from SkiFree to Super Nintendo NES to Arcades to the manic identities of the internet,Scott Pilgrim is a celebration of all these qualities which define this particular generation – everything that makes the internet and video games awesome and stupid at the same time.

Scott Pilgrim is jumpy, bouncy, shiny, punchy, quirky – all in a glorious bundle of gaming honor and back-and-forth internet-style quips that critics bemoan as the downfall of intelligent and meaningful discussion. It’s like 4chan come to life, barfing up Pedobear and Philosoraptor into the vein of these characters as they duke it out in arcade-style arenas and consequences (in fact, some of the aesthetic reminded me of the glory days of Street Fighter and more recently Tatsunoko vs. Capcom). Vegans have psychic powers, music creates ferocious beasts, defeated opponents give you tokens, girls pull giant hammers out of their teeny-tiny purses, swords pop out of your chest – none of this makes sense, and trying to decipher their symbolic meanings is as pointless as a snuggie. You simply have to let everything explode around you in its fireworks display of green hair and ninjas, absorbing and digesting it all into a chyme of caramel popcorn and deep-fried twinkles.

The film makes no attempt to argue whether or not video games are art (this is a wise choice, given how much flack Ebert received for claiming they are not). Instead, the film is a grand celebration of the frenetic energy that compels players to participate in the fun, the vigor and enthusiasm that results in rapid-fire remarks that can be uncannily hilarious or sarcastic or both. Scott Pilgrimcelebrates everything that makes the internet great and terrible, intelligent and dumb, moralizing and demoralizing, and everything in between. Moreover, director Edgar Wright makes an effort to depict these gamer and snark characteristics in the positive – that while these characters are engaging in what judgmental critics deem as immature, insubstantial and trivial, they are still very much human and transitioning from the limbo of adolescence into something less immature, less insubstantial, and less trivial – or at least trying to.

I don’t know how to explain this film except to say it truly is a great tribute to the digital generation, and that trying to understand the film logically is utterly useless. It’s a fervent display of colors and emotions, magnificently game-like and A.D.D. in its aesthetic. It’s an incredibly inventive film on multiple levels, and has established Edgar Wright as a favorite director of mine (his credits include Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz). Michael Cera plays Michael Cera again, but at this point his less of an actor and more of a presence on screen that will either draw us to or drive us away from the film itself. Regardless, I enjoyed it thoroughly and was able to ignore Michael Cera being Michael Cera (reportedly he was portraying Scott Pilgrim; now I have not read the original comic books, but there’s a sneaking suspicion that this Scott Pilgrim is incredibly similar to George Michael from Arrested Development, Evan from Superbad, and Paulie Bleeker from Juno – but I may be projecting in this case).

Don’t try to make sense of anything. This is movie that celebrates cheesecake goodness to the max, unashamed to portray a incompetent, insecure, immature idiot who we can all relate to on one level or the other. Scott is unlikeable in his very distinct way, and makes no excuses for himself; in a sense, we shouldn’t be making excuses for ourselves too whenever the trolling temptation comes up or the snark spews out uncontrollably onto the anonymous net. This is how the digital generation works – shamelessly and awesomely so – and this is what Scott Pilgrim takes pains to fulfill and display in full color, surround sound, and explosive goodness worthy of epic scales of epic epicness.

For the full commentary on Scott Pilgrim vs. The World, click here.

Link to my companion piece, “Broken Bitterness”.

There’s something visceral about Spike Jonze’s adaptation of “Where the Wild Things Are.” Expanding the famous children’s book into a full-length film, Jonze creates a darker tale that explores the deeper, sadder parts of childhood that so many of us forget or refuse to remember.

The story begins with Max (Max Records), a lonely boy who feels rejected by his sister and neglected by his divorced and overworked mother, Connie (Catherine Keener). He builds a igloo which is smashed his sister’s friends; he retaliates by smushing and smashing up her room. He creates a fort in his room to play with his mother but is ignored while she is preoccupied with her boyfriend (Mark Ruffalo); he responds by jumping up on the kitchen counter, biting Connie and running away, away until he finds a little boat and sails off into the night to an island where the Wild Things reside.

The Wild Things are fearsome creatures, towering with might and more than willing to devour little Max. He convinces them that he is, in fact, a Great King with incredible powers capable of bringing utter destruction or peace and prosperity. The Wild Things – which consist of the charismatic but hot-tempered Carol (James Gandolfini), the calm and morose KW (Lauren Ambrose), the soft-spoken Ira (Forest Whitaker), the aggressive Judith (Catherine O’Hara), the peacekeeper Douglas (Chris Cooper), the frequently ignored Alexander (Paul Dano), and the introverted Bull (Michael Berry Jr.) – are astounded by his presumed prowess, and accept him into their clan as King.

The movie unfolds with Max bidding the Wild Things into his plans of grandeur, adventures of greatness, games of excitement and company of reassurance. They venture to build a great fort, engage in dirt ball warfare, and wander across the terrain waiting on for impulsive whims to take hold and cascade into full effect.

So what is this movie about? How does one turn a 48 page children’s book into a full-length, 101 minute and $100,000,000 budget film? Accordingly, Spike Jonze’s reinterpretation of Maurice Sendak’s beloved book is far less direct and much more pensive. This is a movie that doesn’t fear to dive into an angry boy’s psychology, to engage in emotions so utterly instinctual, raw and sad that they echo from the deepest subconscious of adolescence.

Max is angry. His teenager sister is preoccupied in her own world and his mother is preoccupied with her job and romantic life. Understandably he feels unwanted, unnoticed, unneeded – a existence without meaning, at least in his mind. This leads to frustration: try harder he must, to rouse some reciprocation, to know that he simply isn’t a mistake, that he is loved. When the response isn’t positive, he feels betrayed and lashes out. Why oh why must he continuously try to no avail?

So he runs away. To find justification, solace, afresh from the chains of a family seemingly unsympathetic to his frustration and hurt. He sails away until he encounters an island and its inhabitants, the Wild Things. The Wild Things – despite their intimidating appearance – are a welcomed presence to Max, who finds their unusual, majestical aura incredibly appealing. He joins them willingly to escape and dispel of his previous life. Whether the Wild Things are of his construction is beyond the point: this is his domain, his cavern away from everything too familiar and too disappointing.

He roams the island with the Wild Things. Free of household control and smothering dissatisfaction, he is unhampered from his inhibitions and impulses. Soon, however, he realizes that this newfound autonomy is anything but blissfully happy, that the Wild Things – for all their power and myth – are just as vulnerable as he is, with perhaps even more dangerous repercussions. Carol, for all his charm and enthusiasm, is dangerously volatile, and on more than one occasion hints and threatens Max and several other creatures when he feels wronged. The morose KW, fed up with general lack of structure and emotional control, finds comfort in bouts of isolation. Judith, for all her spunk and snark, easily succumbs to shock and hurt when unexpectedly confronted.

As we become more and more acquainted with each creature, it becomes clear that Max is dealing with a new set of problems that are beyond his full understanding and control: regardless of his best wishes, each Wild Thing reacts differently to his actions. Eventually it escalates into something that is too much for him to handle, and he realizes that perhaps these creatures are reflections of his own inner turmoils. Hideaway from family he can, but not from his own emotional discontent, and without this grounding Max knows that he cannot pursue a new life without the same problems he has run away from. He eventually leaves the Wild Things and returns to his home, where he reconciles with his mother and with himself.

“Where the Wild Things Are” is not a movie for instant understanding and gratification. It is emotional, immaterial, deeply contemplative and above all, a harrowingly haunting film. Great self-reflection is necessary to fully appreciate the vision and depth Spike Jonze paints, and to simply dismiss it as simple bout of childish temper and imagination is unfairly lackluster and fallow. Beyond every outer shell are layers upon layers of emotional complexities, complexities that “Where the Wild Things” fully immerses in without fear of reviving memories of childhood that many have simply shut out from our minds.

Written by legendary director and animator Hayao Miyazaki and animated by Studio Ghibli, “Ponyo on a Cliff by the Sea” (abbreviated to “Ponyo” in the English release) is a heartwarming film that backs away from the current frenetic, frantic trend that many modern animated movies indulge in. Simple in conception, the story is wonderfully magical and captivating with its stunningly detailed landscapes and lovable characters.

The story begins with the little Ponyo (Yuria Nara, dubbed by Noah Cyrus) swimming away from her father, Fujimoto (George Tokoro, dubbed by Liam Neeson), who has decided to take her and his daughters on a oceanic stroll. Of course, Ponyo isn’t satisfied with being confined to the safety of his bubble domain and swims away, off on her own little adventure atop a jellyfish. She is content and happy until a garbage-collecting ship inadvertently forces off her voyage and she finds herself stuck in a glass jar.

Luckily, a boy named Sousuke (Hiroki Doi, dubbed by Frankie Jonas) finds her stranded in the shallow ends of the tide beneath the cliff of his home and befriends her. He discovers that she is magical and can speak – babyishly so, but able to nonetheless, and this utterly delights him. He promises to protect her, and she gleefully responds with playful water squirts and ecstatic flips and turns. Unfortunately, their little extravaganza is cut off when Ponyo’s protective father sweeps her away back to safety, away from the confines of Sousuke’s green little bucket and back into the embrace of watery depths.

The rest of the story details Ponyo’s efforts to return to Sousuke as a human, the consequences of her joyous actions notwithstanding their misfortunate yet unmistakably wondrous effects. It is a wonderful adventure involving Sousuke’s strong-willed mother, Lisa (Tomoko Yamaguchi, dubbed by Tina Fey), and the two children finding their way through nautical obstacles for various reasons that I shall not reveal here. There is a little mix of Hans Christen Anderson’s “The Little Mermaid” and a little dash of Steven Spieldeberg’s “E.T.” reflected in the story, but “Ponyo” is as original as it can get.

Director and writer Hayao Miyazaki is known for writing strong female characters and his strong stance on environmental issues, and “Ponyo” is no exception to his trademarks. The greatest example of his deep felt respect for women is Lisa, who is loving, daring and incredibly brave; nonsensical and pragmatic, Lisa responds to Sousuke’s concerns and excitement with sincere intrigue, never once brushing him off with disinterest or disregard. This is a significant difference between Miyazaki’s depiction of parent-child relationships which, in contrast to many American characterizations, is filled with trust and mutual respect: both Sousuke and Lisa depend on one another, he as her child and her as his mother. They both know their limitations in perceptions and capabilities, and understand that they each compensate for the other’s shortcomings. This depiction is likely a major discrepancy between Eastern and Western cultures, in where the former emphasizes collective relationships while the latter emphasizes individual strive and achievement.

Additionally, Miyazaki’s depiction of the ocean is simultaneously phantasmic and ghastly. While magical entities like Fujimoto and Ponyo’s mother Granmanmale (Yuki Amami, dubbed by Cate Blanchett) exist, the ocean if riddled with mounds of trash: from empty soda bottles to car tires, Ponyo’s ocean is anything but pristinely untouched. When Ponyo is separated from her jellyfish escort in the beginning, she and other fishes frantically swim away from a monstrous looking garbage-collecting boat that gathers mounds and mounds of accumulated junk in a mechanically beast-like manner. At another point Fujimoto, searching desperately for his daughter, disparages the filth and gunk he must travel through in order to reach the shore. Despite the heaps of garbage seen on screen, the environmental message is subtle and effective in itself: the characters are accustomed to this as are we, and it is this familiarity that is inherently disturbing. The film makes it very clear, however, that environmental extremism is not the solution to humanities destructive habits. Regardless, the scenery and landscapes are ominously magnificent, a clear reflection of Eastern mythos in which there is a profound, deep respect with nature and a desire to coexist harmoniously with natural elements rather than conquer them.

There is a fantastical scene where, upon releasing her father’s powerful magic, Ponyo skips and runs upon waves and waves in a stormy sea, chasing Sousuke and Lisa as they daringly drive up the steep cliffs back to their home. It’s amazing to see the depth of imagination and visual representation of each individual wave: without a relative scale, each wave looks like a great blue fish with flowing, watery scales and fins, and with each wave crash each great blue fish disintegrates into millions of watery droplets scattered back to the ocean. This scene is a definite highlight of the movie amongst many others for which any viewer will be more than pleased with.

The soundtrack is beautifully composed by veteran Ghibli composer Joe Hisaishi and coincides marvelously with the super animation of Studio Ghibli, which once again demonstrates it’s amazing attention to the smallest of details. With “Ponyo,” Studio Ghibli experimented with color pencils and watercolor-like palettes and styles – all much to great success and originality. Reportedly, Miyazaki was heavily involved with the animation of Ponyo and preferred drawing the sea and waves by himself rather than depend on a computer. His fervent devotion to detail resulted in a Miyazaki-record 170,000 images and the Japan Academy Prize for Animation of the Year in 2008.

After my initial viewing, my only complaint was that the ending felt slightly abrupt. However, upon further contemplating I feel that it is an appropriate conclusion, and heartwarmingly so. “Ponyo” is a gorgeous film with some of the most beautiful animation in recent cinema, and it is a fantastical highlight in the prestigious history of Hayao Miyazaki and Studio Ghibli. Full of masterful storytelling, sweetness and love, the film is a definite remedy for anyone feeling a slightly blue and down, guaranteed.

“Inglourious Basterds” is a celebration of sweet revenge and the glorious carnage entailed. Directed by Quentin Tarantino, the 2009 late-summer bloomer is simultaneously moving, gripping, dynamic and hilarious. Split into five chapters, “Inglourious Basterds” involves three story threads that ultimately interweave into the grand and epic finale.

Thread one involves Shosanna Dreyfus (Mélanie Laurent): a Jewish-French girl in Nazi-occupied France, Shosanna is on the run and hell-bent on revenge after surviving the brutal massacre of her family. Thread two involves the Basterds led by 1st Lieutenant Aldo Raine, or “Aldo the Apache” (Brad Pitt); their goal is summed by the very worlds of Lt. Raine: “As a bushwhackin’ guerrilla army, we’re gonna be doin’ one thing and one thing only… killin’ Nazis.” Thread three involves “The Jew Hunter” Standartenführer Hans Landa (Christoph Waltz): a man who lives up to his nickname, Hans Landa is merciless in his ambition and profession. Other characters intertwined with these threads include the smitten war hero Oberschütze Fredrick Zoller played by Daniel Brühl and the charismatic German actress Bridget von Hammersmark played by Diane Krüger.

All of this takes place in “WWII.” The players set and the motivations primed, Tarantino unleashes a suspenseful play that is ruthless in its pursuit and relentless in its closure. The dialogue is top-notch superb, gripping in its intent while stylishly adorned. Chapter 1 is a fantastic demonstration of Tarantino’s prose: riff with subtle gestures and biting remarks, the scene is probably one of the most terrifying and unforgiving parts of the movie.

That said, the movie is not without its moments of comedy. Educational subtitles and narrative interjections are seamlessly written in. Despite whatever mood previous the humor always seems appropriate; never once does it seem strange that a second ago the audience that had just stared agape at a massacre would suddenly giggle incessantly at Samuel L. Jackson’s booming voice overhauling the scene.

The film employs incredible acting talent that drives “Inglourious Basterds” in a nonstop campaign – “Basterd” stand outs include Christoph Waltz, Mélanie Laurent, and Brad Pitt who all create memorable and poignant characters. Waltz employs an alluring charm to Hans Landa’s sadism and bloodthirsty intents; he plays the part of a villain majestically well, defined by the archetype yet utterly original in delivery and quirks. Laurent performs cooly, maintaining a enigmatic demeanor that is not without wrought. Her eyes say it all: determined and endearing, she commands the screen with resolve, dignified in delivery and cold with vengeance. Pitt is utterly serious in character, which only adds to the hilarity when he nonchalantly vocalizes his concerns and plans for killin’ more Nazis. He wants ‘em good and dead with bloody scalps to prove it, and boy does he mean it.

History purists may complain that Tarantino has inappropriately rewritten WWII (hence the quotations). I argue otherwise: authors “rewrite” history all the time with fictional characters in historical settings. Tarantino decided to hell with just fictional characters and wrote a fictional WWII as well. This “direct violation of historical accuracy” is a fresh breath of storytelling air; in fact I quite like seeing Hitler getting blown to smithereens in a fiery pit of bullets and flaming silver nitrate. It all boils down to story, story, and story – and that’s more than enough for establishing the ingenuity of Tarantino’s Basterds.

“Inglourious Basterds” is a movie done right on so many levels, I’d be unsurprised to see it to at least receive a nod for “Best Original Screenplay” at the 2010 Oscars. Quentin Tarantino once again demonstrates style and substance, his signature over-the-top battle royal aesthetic of course evident throughout. Novel in conceit, “Inglourious Basterds” is a masterfully crafted film that is incredibly dramatic with its fantastic writing, amazing acting cast and ingenious directing.

Zombies.

Definition: undead beings that arise by some bewitching biological mechanism and, in happenstance, brainlessly romp around with the sole purpose of devouring the living [humans]. Circa 2009 A.D., common modern usages include video games, pop culture references, witty t-shirts, and comedic addendum.

“Zombieland” exploits the undead for all their comedic worth. It’s doubtful anyone will cry political correctness because let’s face it – zombies are fun. Their existence rests solely devouring brains* and wandering aimlessly, dropped jaws drooling lamely like real-life imitations of Picasso. They are disgusting, disheveled, disembodied, dysenteric – prime targets for good old fashioned head bludgeoning, gold clubbing, saw slashing, double-tapping head shots.

The film is horrifically entertaining, splattered intestines decorating the screen like christmas lights in December. The gawky narrator Columbus (Jesse Einsenberg) vouches by a set of nonsensical rules that could easily be compiled into a book called “How to Survive a Zombie Society for Neurotics.” He meets Tallahassee (Woody Harrelson) who is hell bent on finding Twinkies. Columbus and Tallahassee team up, and after some traveling meet up with the two sisters Wichita (Emma Stone) and Little Rock (Abigail Breslin) on their way to Pacific Playland in California.

Why anyone with common sense would venture to an amusement park and activate it in a zombie-infested society is beyond me; but hell if you’re going to kill zombies, you might as well kill them in a carnival. What better way to compliment blood splatter and shotgun pops than with a backdrop of roller coasters, shiny rainbow lights and candy?

But I digress with such rhetorical questions. “Zombieland” is a glorious celebration of gore-riffic comedy, displaying great directing skill by Ruben Fleischer and wit by screenwriters Paul Wernick and Rhett Reese. Graphical annotations are clever and well-timed for irony; the acting team of Einsenberg, Harrelson, Stone and Breslin make for a terrific and solid ensemble; and the special effects team go far and beyond to make bloody good use of their ingenuity and create one of the best cameos in recent movies.

Far from perfect though, the movie lacks in characterization. In lieu of their talent and skill, the actors are given little to work with and are simply caricatures, token individuals with set quirks expressed and explored skin-deep. Some may draw comparisons to “Shaun of the Dead,” though personally I find Simon Pegg’s 2004 zombie-comedy distinctly different and better laid out in story and characterization; regardless, “Zombieland” is a zombie movie, fluff and guts and all, and the most fun is seeing plenty of good ol’ fashioned zombie killing, shoot ‘em in the head jamboree. It’s a popcorn movie, a fun ride with an invariably plot-holed filled story and characters we laugh with along the way. Zombie fans will be pleased by this original take on the undead, and everyone gets to enjoy nice sets of bloody fireworks splashing the screen.

*Question: would the last living flesh-being devoured, would there be a mass-zombie suicide that resulted in the reintroduction of the living, or possibly even a new species of the un-living?

Tom and Summer: as charming as it gets.

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Especially you Jenny Beckman.

Bitch.

So opens “(500) Days of Summer,” one of the most bitter lovesick comedy-dramas I’ve ever seen. Directed by Marc Webb and starring Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Zooey Deschanel, the film is somewhat of a gem for its (un)chronologic originality and take of romance and heart break.

Tom Hanson (Gordon-Levitt) is a miserable mess. Breaking one ceramic dish after another, he is reconciled by his much younger sister Rachel, to whom he recaps his inevitable break-up with the love of his life Summer Finn (Deschanel), the one woman he believed to be his one key to happiness.

From here on, everything is a series of flashbacks and flash forwards, with scenes pitted against one another in irony and comedic timing. To Summer’s angelic entrance to Tom’s gustling bouts of vigor and zeal, the movie is a bustling bundle of bliss and blunder, thrills and trepidations. Most importantly, this is a story about how Tom comes to terms with a woman who likes him but will never truly love him.

Screenwriters Scott Neustadter and Michael H. Weber have created two of the most likable-unlikable characters I’ve ever seen. Upon closer revelation I realized that Tom and Summer are, indeed, very much flawed: Tom is a lovesick puppy who acts on emotion and never quite grasps who Summer truly is; Summer is a aloof individual who acts on impulse and never quite lets Tom – or the audience even – in on who she truly feels. Such is the fault of both characters, and depending on where you’re coming from you may feel more empathy for one character than the other.

But I’m not here to argue who is more to blame, nor to point a finger of contempt at one or the other. I will, however, infer that the character Tom is a narrative function of the screenwriter(s) residual feelings, for there is not one scene where we actually get a real glimpse of the real Summer Finn. Maybe that’s just the point though – we’re watching a story through Tom’s eyes, not Summer’s. By day 500, we are just as perplexed by Summer’s seemingly airy approaches because we are never given a chance to see past the signs of her indignation with Tom.

Some may complain of the anachronistic approach director Marc Webb chooses to present “(500) Days of Summer.” I wholeheartedly embrace this approach: it is fun and fresh, the same approach Kurt Vonnegut chose in writing Slaughterhouse-Five, and it tickles our minds into piecing together the fragments of memories into one cohesive chain.

There are whimsical elements that remind the television series “Pushing Daisies,” accomplished much in thanks to a upbeat soundtrack, imaginative editing from Alan Edward Bell, and creative cinematography from Eric Steelberg. The acting is, of course, topnotch from Deschanel and Gordon-Levitt, with whom the story could not function without otherwise.

“(500) Days of Summer” is far from a low-budget film, especially since there are so many elements that suggest otherwise (a full-blown musical number and nifty use of graphics come to mind). It is, however, a film full of double folds and double meanings – in the sense, the essence of a true relationship.

This is a story of boy meets girl. But you should know up front, this is not a love story.

Indeed, this is probably the most charmingly morose movie you will ever come across.

“Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince” is a dark and foreboding film that boldly treads forward to the deeper depths of a magical realm. Gone are the days when we glisten with glee at the site of bursting bubblegum and exotically (and erroneously) flavored jellybean candy. Now enters the cold realization of sorcery’s unmagical fold, and the even colder ramifications which entail.

I will not indulge in describing the film’s exact plot, for most viewers are likely to have read the book at this point. All I will say is that it involves the venomous Lord Voldemort, who you will not see but will inexplicably sense and feel throughout the movie, and Harry Potter, who’s ongoing quest is further littered with obstacles, epiphanies, and grief.

If you are unfamiliar with the story, I advise you to not become disenchanted or disgruntled by director David Yates’ and screenwriter Steve Kloves’ storytelling: very soon, all events having taken place will be thoroughly explained in the upcoming two-part film, and it is perhaps best to enjoy the precarious cliffhanger we are placed upon while waiting for the finale. Author J.K. Rowling impaled and tortured our imaginations when she ended the sixth installment with this anticipation, and I am pleased to say that indeed, despite a seemingly bumpy retell of Rowling’s world, Yates builds up to this expectation, and very well indeed.

The film’s visuals are beautifully executed and the music, while far from surpassing the original John Williams’ score, is ambient and beautifully melancholic. Cinematographer Bruno Delbonnel creates a striking palette that feasts upon the world we have grown to love, and composer Nicholas Hooper returns from his musical debut since “Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix” with an even more moving composition. And of course, actors Daniel Radcliffe, Emma Watson, and Rupert Grint splash the screen with their famous portrayals of Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ron Weasley respectively.

I’ll take a moment to commend Tom Felton for his portrayal of Draco Malfoy, the notorious antithesis of Harry. I’ve always been fond of Felton ever since his first introduction in Christopher Columbus’s “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone”: he has always been the strongest actor amongst his acting peers in the films, and here he shoots forward with a caliber that is both striking and moving. Despite his relatively brief screen time, Felton’s moments were gripping and when the film’s climax came about, I found myself incredibly sympathetic with his character – that, and during another moment beforehand when he slumps into the lonely confines of a school lavatory.

The film franchise has grown up. As all things go, with teenagers we are doomed to deal with a world of love and misunderstanding. These moments of infatuation were, in fact, quite entertaining, and not at all annoyingly drawn out; there were also moments of touching sweetness that do not necessarily draw upon a kiss. But more importantly, we are presented with empathetic unfolding of characters we are so very familiar with, a precedent that was set five years before with director Alfonso Cuaron’s aesthetic revamp in “Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.”

“Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince” is not the strongest movie on its own, but it is a powerful foundation for truly appreciating Rowling’s narrative power. There are great moments of humor, gripping scenes of terror, and spectacular shots worthy of artistic merit. If you have been waiting for a summer film this year beyond Pixar’s “Up,” here is one you will most definitely enjoy. And if not for the story, then at least for the visual and bewitching ride.

“Virtuosity” came in a COSTCO three-pack special that included “Into the Wild” and “The Manchurian Candidate” remake, and I watched director Brett Leonard’s film without any prior knowledge of the plot, premise, or people involved – I didn’t even have a commercial in mind. This is the first time I can recall having viewed a movie like this, so it was certainly an interesting experience.

“Virtuosity” begins with what seems like a dystopian future: everyone is the same, clad in uniform clothes and moving about without a hint of emotion or personality as two cops chase down a criminal. However, it becomes apparent that this is not reality, but a virtual reality system created to simulate police situations, aimed to training cops for dangerous situations minus the physical risks. However, the system malfunctions as the main criminal program, SID 6.7 (Russell Crowe), has exponentially updated himself and causes excessive neural stimulation to both “cops” (actually two prisoners used as the programs guinea pigs), resulting in the death of one and the trauma of another. The surviving inmate, Parker Barnes (Denzel Washington), leaves the facility suspicious of the system’s programmer Dr. Darrel Lindenmeyer (Stephen Spinella) and catches the attention of psychologist Dr. Madison Carter (Kelly Lynch).

As it becomes obvious that SID 6.7 is far too dangerous for safe virtual training, Lindenmeyer sets him loose with the help of nanotechnology for reasons I am not too sure of. Regardless, this sets off a chain of events leading to the release of Parker, a previous police lieutenant who is the man to have demonstrated his capability of tracking down SID 6.7. For public relations purposes, Dr. Carter follows Parker to make sure he does not go berserk on the job. And for good reasons too.

For a movie that was made about fourteen years ago, the science fiction aspects of “Virtuosity” are surprisingly undistracting. The reason is simple: a good story, solid acting, and you’ve got a engaging film that transcends any cliche pumped out during its decade. I have no knowledge regarding virtual reality or nanotechnology, but I am rest assured that the whole smeal of science spewing throughout was gibberish; nonetheless, I didn’t mind this little bit. In fact I enjoyed listening to the characters gravely deliver their lines: it wasn’t about the technology, but what others were using the technology for. The script focuses on the characters, and the sci-fi elements serve as a garnish to their surroundings.

I was reminded of “Minority Report” while watching “Virtuosity.” The detective story, the unveiling of motives, the revelation – all in the scheme of science fiction. “Virtuosity” focuses more on its serial killer, who Russell Crowe depicts with an insane glee that is just sadistic yet believable enough to be viewed as an engrossing threat to the protagonist, who is played sharply by Denzel Washington. I enjoyed the movie and left with little food for thought. When it comes down to it, there is little my mind can ponder upon from what is presented, even with the hints of humanity’s dark nature seaming throughout SID 6.7. Still, I enjoyed it, and that’s enough for me.

Group therapy from hell.

What do you get when you put a grumpy British bumpkin in the heart of New York City? Out comes “Ghost Town” starring Ricky Gervais, famous for mastering-minding the BBC series “The Office (UK)” and “Extras.” Here is his first Hollywood debut as the unlikely lead of a romantic comedy, and it was certainly a pleasure watching him on screen (or in my case, laptop).

Ricky Gervais is the forever and most endearingly misanthropic dentist, Bertram Pincus (If your dear mother named you Bertram to be paired with Pincus, I suppose that would punt you off to the wrong side of the bed from the very start). He avoids idealists like the plague, closes elevators on apartment neighbors, and stuffs his patients mouths’ with enough gauge to eliminate chitter-chatter but prevent asphyxiation amongst other antisocial behavior any psychology student would eagerly diagnose.

Pincus’s cinematic journey begins when he goes in for a colonoscopy. However, he later learns that he died for seven minutes, having unfortunately opted for unnecessary anesthesia that was administered by the most incompetent anesthesiologist in the hospital which, in the most unfortunate of events, all leads to his current state: Mr. Bertram Pincus, dentist, can now see ghosts.

As if the living weren’t bad enough, he now must deal with the dead – which, after a series of sleepless nights and cumbersome run-ins, turns out to be even worse. Then, through a stroke of luck, Bertram encounters Frank (Greg Kinnear), who informs the disgruntled doctor that all ghosts exist because of unfinished business, mostly regret. However, follows Frank, if Bertram will aid him in preventing his wife Gwen (Téa Leoni) from marrying her “bad egg” fiance Richard (Billy Campbell), he will help Bertram be rid of all other ghostly annoyances since, given their ephemeral nature, they can easily rouse him in the middle night with probing questions; if not, well, bye bye spirit security, and hello customer service hell.

What makes this movie click? Certainly not the story, which despite having an interesting premise, boils down to a another well-done derivative of the successful romantic comedy formula (though I have yet to see anything significantly or radically weave a story not using this formula and still be considered a “romantic comedy”). Instead, the movie employs two fine leads, Gervais and Leoni, to create a dynamic, unusual couple. No roses, no chocolates, no kissing – it’s all banter, and it’s damn good too.

The first half of the movie suffers slightly from a odd discord of two different comedy styles being mixed together – American and British. American comedy tends to be bombastic, creating a in-your-face gut reaction; British comedy tends to be subtle, creating a delayed response from the irony subsequently realized. In the case of “Ghost Town,” Gervais, British to the core, delivers snark and sarcasm tirelessly while his American co-actors react dubiously to what they seemingly are unfamiliar with. The exceptions to this are, of course, Téa Leoni and Kirten Wiig, who plays a convincingly self-absorbed surgeon responsible for overseeing Bertram’s colon cleaning.

I found Frank to be the weakest character in the whole movie. He is neither likable or empathetic, and his eventual self-reflection seemed unrealistic and forced. However, I commend screenwriters David Koepp and John Kamps for portraying one of my favorite romantic comedy couples to date: the pairing between Bertram and Gwen relies solely on verbal chemistry, nothing more. This is certainly a feat when so many romantic comedies rely on tired gimmicks like over-the-top/more-than-unlikely situations to land their lovely leads into each others lips.

“Ghost Town” is demonstration of dialogue and intrigue between two characters at its best. It’s fun and full of chuckles, and something of a gem for not adhering to typical romantic comedy techniques. So if you’re in the mood for something charming and quirky, you may be piqued to see this one.

Motivation at its best.

The first time I watched “Kung Fu Panda” was in the New York Hotel via On-Demand; almost six weeks before I’d seen Pixar’s “Wall•E,” and I held the expectation that Dreamworks’ computer-animated feature would be a average comedic romp filled with an array of celebrity voices. Ah, but thee have little faith for the surprise which was in store.

Pudgy Panda Po (Jack Black) is the hapless offspring (?) of Mr. Ping (James Hong), a chinese goose (how it is biologically possible for a goose to germinate a panda, I will never know). Po, bless his heart, adores Kung Fu – the opening sequence, beautifully animated in the traditional style, pays homage to his martial arts aspirations – but alas, his father believes he is destined to become a great noodle master.

Joining the pot of characters are Shifu (Dustin Hoffman), a troubled red panda; the Five Masters, respectively Tigress (Angelina Jolie), Monkey (Jackie Chan), Mantis (Seth Rogen), Viper (Lucy Liu), and Crane (David Cross); the enigmatic Galapagos Tortoise Master Oogway (Randall Duk Kim), mentor of Shifu and infamous of dialogue delay; and the bitter, revenge-filled Tai Lung (Ian McShane), a vicious Snow Leopard. The plot revolves a destined Dragon Warrior (who is unfortunately rather easy to guess*) who, in an epic battle, is fated to stop Tai Lung and his rampage against the valley creatures and training temple.

What “Kung Fu Panda” does well is not so much the story – which is a predictable zero-to-hero parable – but the direction and animation, both which are beautifully and masterfully done throughout the entire film. The fight sequences are spiraling close-up shots, zooming in and out, around and about the participants as they engage in physical feats only imaginable in the world of animation; the film is a visual palette of exotic colors, filled with beautiful shots of peach blossoms flowing to gold and jade reflecting upon crystal clear water; it was during these particular still shots that I found myself second-guessing whether or not “Wall•E” was a clear shoe-in for “Best Animated Picture” at the Golden Globes and Oscars this year.

Perhaps the biggest surprise was the amazing voice acting of Dustin Hoffman. Here, he created an incredibly empathetic Shifu with a hint of full-dimensional pottage of emotional disturb, wit and wisdom; arguably, he created an even more colorful character than that of the larger-than-life Jack Black, who felt subdued and controlled from his usual shenanigans while he vocally puppeteered Po. Angelina Jolie’s Tigress, albeit strong and serious, is given too little script and screen time for her character to become fully fleshed out; the other Masters, however quirky and fun, are given even less dialogue, consequently reduced to sound bites and bantering addendum.

Though the title hints a potential parody, “Kung Fu Panda” directors John Stevenson and Mark Osborne pay loving homage to Asian cinema and martial arts. The music, composed by Hans Zimmer and James Powell, echoes of the Chinese National Symphony while juxtaposing the sweeping action Zimmer (The Last Samurai, Nolan’s Batman series) and Powell (Mr. and Mrs. Smith, the Bourne Series) are well-known for; the landscape and art direction draw inspiration from classical Chinese paintings; and the fight sequences resonate of famous films like “Hero,” “House of Flyings Daggers,” and “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon” while improvising new tricks and flairs. It’s a beautiful film overall, and though the jokes may seem a bit rehash here and there, “Kung Fu Panda” is well done and just short enough for a enjoyable cinematic ride.

*It is obviously the rock.

“Enchanted” could’ve easily been one of the most annoying movies to date, and I am thoroughly pleased to say it is far from such. Far, far from it.

The premise: Giselle, a young maiden from the kingdom Andalasia, (literally) falls head over heels for the handsome Prince Edward, much to the chagrin of Edward’s jealous stepmother Queen Narissa. As Giselle happily bounces to her wedding day, a disguised Narissa tricks and sends the hapless bride-to-be into a dimension where “there are no happy endings” – a.k.a. real New York City, circa 2007.

The movie unfolds into Giselle’s journey to return to Andalasia, all with the help of bubbly 6-year-old Morgan (Rachel Covey) and her jaded (lawyer) father Robert (Patrick Dempsey) much to the chagrin of Robert’s fiance-to-be Nancy (Idina Menzel). Of course, Prince Edward (James Marsden), in an act of royal chivalry, rushes in after Giselle while Queen Narissa’s devoted admirer Nathaniel (Timothy Spall) accompanies with less noble intentions.

The movie works well because it’s smart, period. Giselle is ungodly naive, and it is with sheer luck that she runs into the better fold of New York’s inhabitants. Far from a gritty and grimy depiction of the modern metropolitan, “Enchanted” does not shy from subtly adult indications, which are especially explicit with how Robert and others deal with Giselle’s antics with first-hand skepticism.

A lesser actress would’ve drowned the story into mediocrity and the audience into disgruntlement, but Amy Adams does wonders as the plucky and upbeat Giselle. She is so enthusiastic, so well-meaning and so good-natured that it is near impossible to not smile whenever she graces the screen. To watch Ms. Adams is to watch a Disney princess come to life, and I’m unabashed to say that it the magic was overcoming, nostalgic, and enjoyable.

“Enchanted” is, of course, a self-parody and satire of (in)famous Disney archetypes. The most obvious reference is to the famous “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs” design and characterization, most especially true with Queen Narissa (Susan Sarandon) and her three poisoned apples. However, the self-parody is not so much in self-deprecation or spite, but a gentle tap-slap reminder from the “real” world: total naivety won’t last a second in a bustling society, but that doesn’t mean we should shell into jadedness and fatalism.

To be honest, I was disappointed when only the first few minutes were traditionally animated. It’s been so long that Disney has put forth a fully 2D movie that when I first saw Giselle live, I was initially – yes, I’ll say it – disenchanted. But reader, trust me when I say that the initial disappointment dissipated quite quickly, and on the given mood I’d gladly sit down again to watch this movie again. Alan Menken and Stephen Sschartz’s songs, though pale in comparison to Alan Menken and Howard Ashman’s collaboration for “The Little Mermaid” and “Beauty and the Beast,” are nonetheless upbeat and fanciful, and the real-life Disneyesque musical numbers is far from gaudy and overdone. And most importantly, it is a thoroughly enjoyable film that I recommend with a zest and smile from the confines of my childish heart.

“I Heart Huckabees” is a perplexing film about the meaning of life. It is quirky and odd, funny and tragic, and all around its own world of existential psychobabble. I watched it yesterday for the “second time,” for during the “first viewing” I was inattentive and barely listening, with my back turned to the screen and playing around on my MacBook. Admittedly, it was difficult to retain my attention for the entire time, but with the miracle of note-taking on a yellow legal pad am I able to write this as you read.

“Mother-fucking, cocksucker, mother-fucking, shit-fucker, what am I doing?” So begins the film with Albert Markovski’s stream thought, hot and angry and unadulterated. Albert (Jason Schwartzman) is the head of the “Open Spaces Coalition,” a group of well-meaning individuals who want to save natural surroundings of marshes and woods – a coalition that, coincidentally, matches the feel of “Save the Oaks” group on my school campus which recently dismantled after 21 months of tree-sitting.

Albert is not doing too well. His coalition has only been able to save a rock from the demolition of corporate “I ♥ Huckabees” (the film’s equivalent of “Wall-Mart”) after a botched meeting with friend-and-corporate-enemy Brad (Jude Law), and he is deeply bothered by the coincidence of seeing a tall black African man on three separate occasions. To top it off, he has no idea where his life is going, or what it even means for the matter. So when one is as confused as Albert Markovski, you do what he does: you go to the existential detectives Bernard and Vivian Jaffe (Dustin Hoffman and Lily Tomlin). The film unwinds thereafter with a few subplots and supporting characters to add the colorful palette of caricatures and idiosyncrasies: firefighter Tommy Corn (Mark Wahlberg), another client of the Jaffe team, is in the midst of a nervous breakdown while attributing all of the world’s pain to petroleum; Dawn Campbell (Naomi Watts), Brad’s girlfriend, is the supermodel and face of Huckabees corporation and feels empty lately; and Caterine Vauban (Isabelle Hupert) is the Darth Vader to Bernard and Vivian Jaffe’s method of existential detective work.

The film begins with a interesting premise then head dives into a modley mosh pot of conundrums and whim, comedy, and dramas; yet, the ending is so cleanly cut that I dare proclaim a deus ex machina. There’s too much talking, too much philosophical babbling that everything seems to mush into a battle of who can spew the most confusing symbolism on screen – and ironically, all of it only barely skims the surface of existentialism. I would argue that true existentialism is individualized, and that only the individual in question can really assess the roots, cause, and meaning in their life rather than reach out to others for more psychobabbling befuddlement.

So perhaps “I Heart Huckabees” isn’t so much about existentialism than it is about the adolescent anxiety of coming to terms with life. It’s a sentiment shared commonly amongst college students, who are limbo between finals/freedom and future job prospects. College is a environment in which you are free to explore possibilities, to pursue ideals that are otherwise inapplicable or impractical to “real life.” College is its own little bubble of growth and uncertainty, something the film chooses to focus on, especially since the main character is Albert Markovski (“What am I doing? I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m doing the best that I can. I know that’s all I can ask of myself. Is that good enough? Is my work doing any good? Is anybody paying attention? Is it hopeless to try and change things?”…)

I think a more compelling, poignant and darker film would have resulted had director David O. Russell and writer Jeff Baena chose to focus on Jude Law’s character. There is a scene where, after hiring the existential detectives, Brad is confronted with his deepest set insecurities via tape player. It’s the most effective scene because little and everything is said. Alas, such is not the film’s focus, and we are soon chucked back into the caprice of silliness and incomprehensible ultimatums. It’s a bubbly film, fun loving in conceit with a upbeat soundtrack by Jon Brion. In the end, nothing much has been resolved save a few characters coming to peace and the latter going to pieces; even the existential trio of Bernard, Vivian, and Caterine couldn’t have seen it coming. Perhaps the true God behind the film’s deus ex machina is the screenplay, and we are simple observers watching the dramedy unwind and refold, messily and neatly.

I watched “The Machinist” a little over three weeks ago, and it was perhaps one of the grittiest, most disturbing independent films to date. The most jarring aspect is Christian Bale’s emaciated appearance, and it is his appearance and acting which drive the film into hellish atmospheres of trauma.

The film opens with Trevor Reznik (Christian Bale), an industrial machinist who works in a place Upton Sinclair would otherwise condemn as hell’s kitchen. He lives a simple life, dividing his time between work, sleeping regularly with a prostitute named Stevie (Jennifer Jason Leigh), and chatting with a waitress at a airplane terminal diner named Maria (Aitana Sanchez-Gijon). He is obsessed with his weight and records his continuous weight loss weekly on post-its; his appearance and mannerism only compound to his increasing alienation from his co-workers. Trevor’s routine is one day disrupted by a smug, smirking Ivan (John Sharian), who comes to Trevor’s work place, invariably setting off a chain of events that result Trevor’s mechanic partner Miller (Michael Ironside) losing a arm. The movie’s drama unfolds afterward, and I am unwilling to reveal it for fear of ruining an engaging psychological thriller.

“The Machinist” works because of its atmosphere, which is disturbing and gripping until the very end. The story, which could have easily been hacked and butchered into a inexplicable mess, is carried well by Christian Bale, who creates a intense, compelling, and nerve stricken Trevor Reznik throughout the entire film. It’s his appearance which catches our attention, yes, but Bale does well to carry the weight of character, and effectively so.

“The Machinist” is a movie of immersion into the realms of insanity, for both character and audience. We watch Trevor because we are Trevor: the film is from his perspective, and we are also perceiving what he sees – the movie wouldn’t work otherwise. But, like “A Beautiful Mind,” the line between reality and insanity soon becomes clear as “The Machinist” unfolds, and one may even be tempted to predict the ending – that is, until the ending actually unfolds, which involves great twist that a first-time viewer may not even foresee.

The movie is done well overall. Though not spectacular, it is at least effective in detailing one man’s touch with insanity from psychological trauma. “The Machinist” is not the best character study film, but it is an intriguingly disturbing one.

I first saw “Iron Man” some weeks after it had been released, and had heard raving reviews regarding Downey Jr.’s performance: consequently, my first viewing was not as anticipated as I would’ve liked, and I paid little heed to a majority of the film. It was a sham, and I knew it – I’d done Favreau and Downey Jr. no justice, and there was no way I could even write a decent review without sounding repetitive, rehashed, or idiotic. That said, I’m confident enough that in writing this review, I will be at least much more objective and prolific since two weeks ago, I saw Tony Stark snark the screen. It was my second viewing of Jon Favreu’s film and this time, I paid much more attention the story and nuances. And what a delight it was.

The movie opens with Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) in a car with three soldiers, his bodyguards respectively. They are traveling the dangerous trails of war-torn Afghanistan, and sure enough they are ambushed and Stark is taken hostage.

Cut to 36 hours earlier: Tony Stark is the man of the year. He is smart, handsome, suave, charming, rich – it’s the American dream in human form, plus snark and bite. Having inherited his father’s company, Stark continues the family legacy by designing and selling deadly weapons, all respectively to the U.S. military. His loyal assistant Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow), company partner Obadiah Stane (Jeff Bridges), and close friend Lt. Colonel James “Rhodey” Rhodes (Terrence Howard) are his three closest colleagues, the only three who slightly grasp Stark’s zero accountability attitude.

Cut back to present time. Stark is mortally injured, and is only saved from shrapnel by the help of Dr. Yinsen (Shaun Toub), who has inserted a electromagnet inside Stark’s chest cavity to keep the deadly metal shards from reaching the heart. Both are hostage of the Ten Rings terrorist group, who coerce them into building a Jericho missle Stark has recently designed, demonstrated, and sold to the military. But, through bravery and ingenuity, the men create a metal armor suit and plan an escape, and escape that only Tony comes from alive. When he’s rescued and brought back to the states, he is a changed man: three months in a cave have significantly altered his philosophy and priorities. It is a transformation which catalyzes the rest of the film and the creation of Iron Man, version 2.

“Iron Man” works for two reasons: Robert Downey Jr.’s Tony Stark and Jon Favreau’s direction. Downey Jr. creates such a character that he essentially dominates the screen all the time. He is dynamic, fluctuating between inane immaturity and unsettling vulnerability. The supporting cast of Pepper, Rhodey, and Obadiah add to the dynamic, but never come close to matching Stark’s screen power. We watch, laugh, and sympathize with him the entire time because, in spite of all his antics and quirks, Tony Stark is a child at heart. He is “a man with everything, yet nothing.”

Tony Stark is so intriguing that, at any given time, you could easily dedicate an entire character study on him alone. The movie has three major arcs that deal with his personal growth: before, during, and after the cave. The cave is a critical climax: in traditional mythological archetypes, the cave symbolizes a critical time in which a individual is torn away from comfort and forced to contemplate before escaping back to the world – the ultimate consequence is growth and maturity. After he comes home, Stark tries to redeem himself and announces the end of Stark Co.’s military research, a decision that isn’t too hotly received by anyone, and especially Obadiah. It’s a important scene because it is indicative of how credulous Tony Stark is: his entire life has been heavily cushioned by prestige, comfort and luxury that he is, in fact, a child breezing through a adult world; he still believes that everything works on his accord, and only realizes the contrary when Pepper, Rhodey, and Obadiah quietly advise him of the repercussions. And when he becomes aware of such, he spends his free time trying to compensate in the only way he knows – by creating Iron Man version 2, and going vigilante.

Ironically, it’s Tony Stark’s childishness that catalyzes his more mature motives hence forth. Since he cannot deal with the adult world of stocks, bureaucracy and paperwork, he finds an alternative that is free of such restrictions, an alternative that fancies our childish fancies of infinite freedom. Even more ironic is that his childishness maturity creates a rather interesting relationship with Pepper Potts, who is his potential lover and essential babysitter, and he as her love interest and impulsive boss. The dynamic between Downey Jr. and Paltrow is phenomenal in its charm, wit, and warmth, a dynamic which is reminiscent of the late Christopher Reeve and Margot Kidder from the original 1978 “Superman.” It’s a pleasure seeing the two on screen together, hilarious and touching even.

“Iron Man” is fantastic in its direction and presentation, and even more so by Downey Jr.’s show stopping performance. The second viewing was definitely worth the watch, and I’m glad to have finally gotten to writing this long-delayed review.

1.5 years ago, I remember seeing commercial advertising “Music and Lyrics” ‘round Valentine’s Day season; I also remember not caring one bit, and only came to watch it yesterday when my roommate inserted a library borrowed copy and pressed “play.” Given my inability to simultaneously read about blackface minstrelry while watching and taking notes, I choose to focus on the latter. Thus stems this review.

Alex Fletcher (Hugh Grant) was, and is, a (former?) member of the hit ‘80s group, PoP. Having never composed another successful album since his writing partner went single, Alex now occupies the lower rungs of music society, taking gigs from high school reunions to Knotts Berry Farm entourages. His manager, Chris (Brad Garrett) networks him to current pop star Cora (Haley Bennett), who wants him to compose and co-perform her new hit song. Alex has not composed a song in some years, and as you can guess (or already know), lands himself a new co-writer in the form of Sophie Fisher (Drew Barrymore).

The plot is doomed to predictability and cliches in which both Alex and Sophie fall for one another. While what I’ve just written may seem rather off-putting, I was pleased that, in spite of its formulaic story, “Music and Lyrics” is a good example of witty, airy dialogue in practice, something reminiscent of Amy Sherman-Palladino’s “Gilmore Girls.” Together, Hugh Grant and Drew Barrymore are about as charming as an on-screen couple can get: Grant’s Alex is self-deprecating and ironic, and Barrymore’s Sophie is bubbly and lyrical. The supporting characters are a colorful and comedic array of caricatures, in which their antics are so exaggerating or idiosyncratic that they cement Alex and Sophie as the only relatively sane couple within the movie’s universe; though not particularly believable in their antics, the most of supporting cast is nonetheless charming and exuberant.

The movie, as a whole, leaves no room for darkness or emotional turmoil: the atmosphere is so light, so cheerful, and so charming that any dramatically dark episode that arises is quickly undercut by a scene of ludicrous and irony – it is more or less a “happily ending fairy tale.” On a few occasions, the film is borderline offensive (Cora takes a Buddhist symbol and revolves her entire tour around finding Zen and being “Buddha”-licious), but those instances are so ridiculous that one can only watch, sigh from exasperation, and move on. The two instances of genuine reality are when Alex and Sophie first make love and first bicker about each other’s personalities; it is during these two episodes that the movie’s atmosphere halts and levels to something far more realistic than what has been presented thus far. But, as such movies go, these instances are finely mended and masterly resolved, for the canon in which “Music and Lyrics” occupies is so benign and lighthearted that every character is damned to their good nature and helpful disposition.

Did I like the movie? Just enough, but only for one library-borrowed viewing. I would’ve liked to watch something else, but my sentiment did not cause me to cringe or shudder throughout the viewing like I did during “Spider-man 3” or “Fantastic Four 2: Rise of the Silver Surfer.” Would I recommend it? Again, only for one rented, borrowed, or downloaded viewing, and most definitely with a group of friends and/or your spouse. After all, it was made for the Valentine’s Day season crowd.

Note: School started for me on August 27th last week, and I’ve only just got my footing with my schedule and such. So here’s the delayed weekly movie review that I owe to this blog.

So many things went wrong for this movie, and for that reason I feel compelled to write about them. Otherwise, I would find it rather difficult to extricate the awful, lingering thoughts that came about while finally watching 2007’s infamous “Spider-Man 3.” Here goes.

Peter Parker (Tobey Maguire) is having the time of his life. Spider-Man is New York City’s mascot hero, an icon to which little kids look up to and go “ooh!” and “ahh!” and “cool!” whenever his image projects on a Times Square screen. Icing on the cake, Peter is in what would supposedly be a stellar relationship with Mary Jane Watson, aka MJ (Kirsten Dunst). All of this good-feel happiness goes straight to hell when a meteorite crashes to earth, a convict gets caught in a science experiment, and Harry Osborn (James Franco) dons on the New Goblin mechanics.

If all this sounds awfully convoluted, you’re right. The movie begins promisingly with some splatters of mediocrity here and there, but it’s just enough that I was willing to accept those mistakes if the movie redeemed itself in the end. Unfortunately, the movie failed to do so and to rub salt in the wound, the screenplay throws in countless subplots, plot devices, and contrivances to a similar level of soap operas. There were too many villains, too many supporting characters, and too little character development to do anyone any justice throughout the film.

I’ll begin with Mr. Peter Parker. Though I’m not much a comic book reader, I was always fond of Peter’s sarcastic, tongue-in-cheek antics – he was such a nice guy, it was hard to not like him. Unfortunately, while watching “Spider-Man 3,” such sentiment was not the case: for one, I’ve never dropped so many “awwws” for one character in one movie sitting – and not the “awww that’s too bad,” but the sort of “awwwwww-my god I can’t believe they wrote that in.” Peter is so utterly hapless, clueless, and idiotic that one goes to question just how emotionally oblivious anyone can be. Not only does he disregard MJ’s feelings with blatant dickishness, but he even goes so far as to perform a musical number as revenge after they’ve rightly broken up. As far as characterizing the “darkness” influenced by the symbiote (that black alien thing from the trailers that crawls and lurches and whatnot), I have never laughed aloud and cried inside so much: the depiction was so shallow and silly that it boiled down to image change alone, which nonetheless was an image change to the “emo” look that angsty high schooler’s sport. What I’ve just described is only a fraction of how unlikable Peter Parker has diminished into since the far more superior “Spider-Man 2” back in 2004. And what should have been a visually fantastic depiction of symbiote Spider-Man has been butchered into a mere black and white copy of his normal spidey suit – it is by far one of the most uninspiring, uninteresting and lackadaisical costume designing I’ve seen in recent years.

Next is MJ, the one character that has been rehashed, abused, and misused so badly that I felt genuinely sorry for her the entire time. How many times has she been taken hostage, blackmailed, and emotionally neglected the entire movie, I cannot say: the only certainty is that MJ is now the perpetual damsel in distress, and it saddens me to see such character butchering on screen, and especially a character that we could easily grow fond of. I even felt ashamed at some points as I watched Kirsten Dunst grace the scene, especially when she is forced to do the twist with James Franco: it was so unfair that this actress’ character is nothing more than a mere plot device, a contrivance of sorts to keep the franchise rolling. We can only pity her, especially given how she is a mere shadow of more authoritative, self-respecting female characters like Maggie Gyllenhaal’s Rachel Dawes from “The Dark Knight.”

The rest of the cast is so shallowly conceived that no one, not even the talented James Franco, Thomas Haden Church, and Topher Grance – all who respectively portray the New Goblin, Sandman, and Venom – is done justice, and that saddens me greatly. Harry Osborn, who could easily be one of the most conflicted and psychologically interesting characters around, is reduced to contraptions of amnesia; Eddie Brock is given so little screen time – and Venom less so (who’s appearance is more or less a carbon copy of symbiote spidey save the teeth, fangs, and tongue) – that it is utter folly and farce to even consider the symbiote as anything more than another ruse for marketing purposes and swiping down Tobey Maguire’s hair; and Sandman, who was easily the best actor on screen and could have been easily been the most sympathetic villain to date, is recklessly scribbled into the story as another plot device connected to Ben Parker’s death, a contrivance that serves nothing more than to vapidly enforce Peter’s “angst.” And please don’t ask me to describe Gwen Stacy (Bryce Dallas Howard) – one of the sweetest and most tragic figureheads in the Spider-Man canon – who is nothing more than the cute on-screen blond, diminished and forced into to a unnecessary and ill-conceived love triangle.

The whole production is a mess. The fights are poorly executed and uninventive, the special effects are unsophisticated and mingering, the costume and set designs are haphazard and lazy, and the music is disjointed and lacking – nothing fits together. It’s almost as if a group of pre-pubescent boys gathered round, brainstormed as many “cool” characters possible to throw together, and hackneyed a fallow script as an afterthought for continuity’s sake. It’s like fan fiction gone wrong, and funded nonetheless. For all sakes and purposes, “Spider-Man 3” falls incredibly short of the promising precedent “Spider-man 2” set up beforehand: some of the greatest Spider-Man villains and characters were squandered and wasted into a slipshod story and substandard production team. While other films like “Fantastic Four” and “Catwoman” were just plain bad, “Spider-Man 3” is particularly bad because it fails to live up to anyone’s expectations. It’s a complete mess, and disappointingly so.

I was unsurprised to learn that composer Danny Elfman left the project due to director Sam Raimi’s utter unprofessionalism, a unprofessionalism that reeks throughout the entire film like a bad fart in the mouth. I also hear that Sony is looking to make another two movies, and I can only hope that the franchise does not impale itself more than it already has. Then again, there’s only hoping. And sadly, that’s what it’s all come down to – hoping.

~80 minutes writing, ~20 minutes editing, ~100 minutes overall

Note: In cases where I have too many thoughts about a movie, “30 Minute Reviews” is not applicable, but hopefully that won’t be so much the case since I won’t have much time once school starts.

I might have not reacted as badly to “Wanted” had I not seen “Wall•E” just a few moments before; even so, my reception of the comic-based movie would have been as unfavorable, since there were so many issues at hand that I found distasteful and draining.

Let’s start with the plot: it involves Wesley Gibson (James McAvoy) who hates his life. He lives in a rundown apartment – likely somewhere in New York – that is situated right next to a railroad; he drags himself to a lifeless corporate job with a horrid boss every day; he knows his girlfriend cheats with his “best friend” on a weekly basis, if not daily, but does nothing about the subject matter; and to top it all off, he is medicated on pills for frequent panic attacks. In short, Wesley Gibson is living the American nightmare.

Of course, all this changes one day (how else could the story exist otherwise?). While in a store for more pills, Wesley encounters the femme fatale Fox (Angelina Jolie), who saves him from an in-store gunfight between a man after Wesley’s life for yet-to-be-revealed reasons. She drives him to a unknown area where he meets Sloan (Morgan Freeman), who reveals that they are currently at the headquarters of the Fraternity, a group of hyper-trained assassins who have kept the world in check for thousands of years (goes to question how they prevented dictators like Hitler and Stalin from going about their business). And as you can guess from the trailers, Wesley, who is initially disgruntled by the situation, accepts Sloan’s offer to become an assassin after reevaluating his life.

After reading the Wikipedia article, I learned that “Wanted” was based off a comic book of the same name, written by Mark Millar; I then discovered that the comic frequently broke the fourth wall with the characters berating the readers, saying things in the line of “What the fuck have you done with your life lately?” The movie does this only once at the end, but that doesn’t help you from feeling ridiculed and slapped around dismissively throughout the entire film. Millar has so much hate and disgust for his audience that it bleeds through the pages and scenes of “Wanted” in a self-indulgent, performance art scream.

I don’t have a problem with excessive violence and swearing so long as there is a point to such. But unlike the stylized blood bath in “Kill Bill” or naturalistic, comedic profanity demonstrated in the opening scene of “In Bruges,” “Wanted” indulges in both elements without so much a purpose except for sake of simply being present. There is no style, no purpose, no meaning to any of the dialogue or action sequences than to inject our peripheries with unnecessary piss and anger, something which became transparently clear after I watched fifteen minutes of footage. I felt nothing for the characters, cared little for the story, and wondered how much testosterone the editing department was feeling when they pieced together footage in post-production.

I only managed to keep my mind from exploding by accepting the film as moving pictures and remembering the happiness I felt from watching “Wall•E” beforehand. And after leaving the theatre, the only thing I took from “Wanted” was that it was the perfect example of over-the-top action without heart or mind, and how I would do my best to avoid creating such material in future creative endeavors. It’s just a shame that a talented cast was subjected to the merciless writings of Millar and aggressive post-production editing of director Timur Bekamambetov. It really, really is.

~33 minutes writing, ~20 minutes editing, ~53 minutes overall

Note: This is my first attempt at “30 minute reviews,” in which I write the entire review at around 30 minutes (editing and proof-reading are separate from this time frame). I’ll be trying more of these for the future since it’s great fun.

“Wall•E” opens with Michael Crawford singing “Put On Your Sunday Clothes” from the 1969 musical “Hello Dolly!” Upbeat and optimistic, the song is a striking contrast to the barren landscape of decaying skyscrapers and metropolis of trash projected in the first minute of footage. This is earth circa 2815 A.D., devoid of people, animals, and anything green. What remains are dusty skeletons of hyper consumerism, and one robot named Wall•E.

Wall•E has one task: get garbage, compress it, and stack it. This is what he has been doing for the past 700 years, completely alone as the “Clean-Up Earth” operation failed shortly after humans left for space in something that resembles an oversized yacht. But something curious and unexpected has happened: after centuries of isolation and loneliness, Wall•E developed a personality.

So everyday, he hangs an old lunch box from his hook (in similar fashion as to how one wears a backpack) and scrounges for interesting knick-knacks while digging through mountains of garbage; he brings the day’s findings home and organizes them into appropriate compartments at home. His precious collection includes a rubix cube, bubble wrap, a pea plant in a shoe, and yes, a VHS tape of “Hello Dolly!” that he plays fervently and imitates likewise.

And so, Wall•E goes about his everyday routine until an unexpected visit disrupts it all. Enter EVE, the trigger-friendly, chic robot that Wall•E falls in love with at first sight. While EVE is initially unreceptive to Wall•E’s approaches, the undaunted robot nonetheless pursues and vies for her affections, for she is the one robot he has seen after centuries of loneliness, and he treasures her companionship above everything else. Through a series of mishaps involving a cockroach, the pea plant, a date, and a ship that I shall not detail, Wall•E ends up leaving earth and arriving at the Axiom, the aforementioned yacht-cruise spaceship that humans now inhabit.

The visual presentation of the movie is beautifully quiet and unimposing. Even more astonishing is that for the first 45 minutes, there is no spoken dialogue: we observe “conversations” through a series of actions and baby-like whistles and sounds between Wall•E, his environment, and other characters. While Dreamworks’ “Kung Fu Panda” was visually spectacularly and lush, I felt at times overwhelmed by the presentation, and even grew unresponsive to the movie’s ongoing hustle and bustle of animated extravaganza. With “Wall•E,” Stanton and Pixar create a mesmerizing and balanced visual experience, which otherwise serves to support and enhance, rather than overshadow, the overarching narrative.

What makes Wall•E so outstanding and noteworthy is its warm and wholehearted story. Andrew Stanton, who previously wrote and directed “Finding Nemo,” once again demonstrates his mastery of elegant simplicity: the story is a simple premise that stems complex themes, and consequently appeals to both children and adult audiences. Perhaps the best summation of Wall•E is in the words of the director himself: “Irrational love defeats life’s programming.”

This is, perhaps, the greatest essence and genius of “Wall•E.” Modern consumerist society has programmed us to be perpetually dissatisfied with ourselves and our lives – in short, we are brainwashed to believe in the worth of worthless materialism. There is one scene where, upon discovering a diamond ring and its box, Wall•E tosses away the former and keeps the latter without so much a blink of hesitation (or closure of his binocular eyes). I laughed with glee as the woman sitting behind me went “ooooh!” at the diamond and Wall•E excitedly opened and closed the box with childish intrigue. Nothing, yet everything, is said.

Wall•E is one of the most endearing characters to ever grace the movie screen in a long time. He is plucky, lovable, and – dare I say it? – human. He befriends a cockroach, cherishes EVE’s companionship, and happily introduces himself to two people aboard the Axiom: in short, he is reconnecting humanity, which has slowly dissipated and separated after centuries of alienating technology and apathetic consumerism. His actions are a subtle message that resonates with us even more so, for in this day and age we grow increasingly listless, sedentary, and disconnected from one another: while we can easily look up Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt’s baby pictures via Google, we are often perplexed and ignorant of our own neighbors’ well being.

Though the premise of “Wall•E” may seem depressing and dystopian at first glance, the movie is anything but so. It may share the say apocalyptic situation of movies like “A.I.: Artificial Intelligence,” but “Wall•E” is noteworthy in its unfaltering optimism. Humanity, while diminished and diluted, it is not foresaken or lost; rather, it is embodied by one robot, who ultimately reinvigorates and saves it from extinction. So while things may seem bleak, there is still hope to change our predicament if we so choose to. And perhaps the greatest message we can take away from Stanton’s masterpiece is to simply live and love, and irrationally so.

*note* There is a short film called “Presto” right before the main feature. I highly recommend you get an early seat to see the spectacularly hilarious tribute to old-school “Looney Tunes” from the Golden Age of animation. That, or you can download it from iTunes for $2 or so. Still, it’s best if you see it on cinema screen – it’s that much better than watching it on your laptop with a blanket over yourself.

Oftentimes, I find myself questioning whether or not a movie is good or not, whether personal bias or academia is determining how I receive it. However, I can truly say that with “The Dark Knight,” there is no such issue – both my heart and mind wholeheartedly receive its ingenuity to the fullest extent.

So begins Christopher Nolan’s follow-up to his promising remake of the Batman series, which took off and never stopped running since the debut of “Batman Begins” in 2005. However, expectations are not simply met with the promising precedent, but are exceeded far and beyond. Here is a film so filled with empathy and sympathy, with complexities and morality, with human interplay and choices that to simply label it as a “comic book movie” does it no justice.

The film opens with Gotham City as grim as ever. While miscreants and mobsters shy from the night in fear of the dark overseer, political upheaval storms the streets as district attorney Harvey Dent (Aaron Eckhart) fearlessly convicts rulers of the past. He is wholeheartedly supported by the plucky Rachel Dawes (Maggie Gyllenhaal), much to the chagrin of the billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne, alias Batman (Christian Bale). While his batsuit is much more advanced and resilient (with the help of Lucius Fox, cooly played by Morgan Freeman), Bruce is far from unwavering or unfeeling: it has been a year since he began his double-life, and as every day passes by, he becomes increasingly more and more desperate to return to his normal life, in which he need not become the outcast to maintain Gotham’s criminals at bay; and while Alfred (Sir Michael Caine) continues to aide him, Bruce is very much close to reigning in, as the new White Knight of Gotham has come in the form of Dent, the only legitimate figurehead to take action against crime since anyone can remember.

However, the love triangle between the two men vying for Rachel’s affection is not the movie’s central conflict, nor is the true tension the continuous clashes between the Joker and Batman: rather, it is the how the choices characters make consequently affect one another. This is most defined in one shot when Batman, Harvey Dent, and Lieutenant Jim Gordon (Gary Oldman) meet on the MCU headquarter rooftops, the camera circling all three as they heatedly discuss who can be trusted and what must be done. This is key: between the men, their trust is what binds them to one another, causing one man’s actions to affect the other. It is this relationship that the Joker manipulates throughout the movie to accomplish his reign of pure, unadulterated anarchy.

Ledger’s Joker will inevitably become a movie villain icon for decades to come. The best actors will submerge themselves into character at least ninety to ninety-five percent, and Mr. Ledger is nowhere seen throughout the movie – it is one hundred percent Joker, and nothing more. While Jack Nicholson portrayed the slapstick, pun swinging Joker that comic purists and Adam West fans swarmed to, Ledger creates a Joker so disturbed, so gritty and so maniacal that his antics are unpredictable “like a dog chasing cars.” And between the two, Ledger’s is by far the more sadistic yet sympathetic persona.

Likewise, the Joker aims to destroy any hope Gotham has towards a better future: it will not only prove that people are inherently selfish and corrupt, but will also justify his own anarchical, twisted existence, a feat that only Batman, Dent, and Gordon obstruct him from doing so easily. Consequently, the Joker goes after all three men, ripping and tearing at their psych and emotions to the brink of insanity for one (whom I shall not reveal here). It is this tragedy which befalls upon the character that also rips at our heartstrings thereafter, for we come to sympathize and empathize with him – and most of all, it is the haunting message of human vulnerability into the realms of darkness, for “madness is like gravity: all it needs is a little push.”

While less talented actors would be completely overshadowed by Ledger’s craze and deviance, “The Dark Knight” ensemble cast is so seamless that they essentially occupy two universes – ours as actors, and Batman’s as citizens. Maggie Gyllenhaal effortlessly fills Katie Holmes’ previous spot, bringing charm and warmth to Rachel Dawes as she pulls at the hearts of Harvey Dent, Bruce Wayne, and ours. With a slight nod to his charismatic, two-faced persona from “Thank You for Smoking,” Aaron Eckhart portrays a convincing, empathic, and visionary Harvey Dent, a man who we all know is doomed to become the depraved Two-Face – how he becomes the villain is what the film has in store for us, and what a store it is indeed.

When Mr. Nolan first released “Batman Begins” three years ago, he created a bold, brooding beginning for the franchise, previously established by the visually delightful but dull-witted popcorn films directed by Tim Burton and Joel Schumacher. While the previous films captured the comic look, Nolan’s captured the darkness and maturity in the Bruce Wayne reestablished by Frank Miller’s “The Dark Knight Returns.” Christopher and Jonathan Nolan – who co-wrote the screenplay – understand that like all storytelling mediums, there is a balance between the heart and mind that distinguishes distancing intellect from insufferable fluff; together, they not only created a complex morality play of the adult mind, but also maintained the mysterious Gotham universe and feel that tickles at our childish imaginations.

It is this balanced, perfect chord that Nolan and his cast and crew have struck, a chord that few have touched or even come close to. “The Dark Knight” will be legendary by its own respect to the comic and movie medium, and moreover, by its respect for the general audience.