"Django Unchained" and "Rust and Bone" and "Zero Dark Thirty" and "The Perks of Being A Wallflower"

A very linear picture for Quentin Tarantino after his diffuse "Inglourious Basterds," "Django Unchained" finds the esteemed director looking into provocative subjects such as racial dynamics and the limits of humanitarianism for what is his most sophisticated film yet. What seems to be a piece of getting-the-better-of-slavery fulfillment in the way that "Basterds" was a WWII redo turns out to be far more complicated. It's not his sturdiest ("Pulp Fiction") or most aesthetically pleasing ("Kill Bill: Volume 1"), but it should work to convince skeptics that Tarantino is working with more than simply dialogue and violence (which, with his consistent use of the "N-word," he perhaps purposefully intertwines).

"Unchained" works superbly in those areas as well. The ebb and flow between them is quite dramatic, as the film gives way from long periods of discussion to explosive action. Assisted by excellent performances by everyone in the cast (from the extraordinarily Oscar-worthy Christoph Waltz to the cocky born action-hero Jamie Foxx to the maddeningly antagonistic Samuel L. Jackson to the callous and surprisingly well-cast Leonardo DiCaprio), who draw from meticulously-crafted and thorny characters, Tarantino is able to make his statements palatable and effective. The most devastating to me was how tricky morality is. Every man is essentially for himself in a system like this, and those who are saved from it are only able to look out for themselves and a couple others.

Something about the film, perhaps the length or  the way that the film at times seems to forget what it's trying to say in favor of badassery (which is, admittedly, striking), prevents it from going all the way and being a Tarantino masterwork for me. Maybe I'll need another viewing, which I'd be happy to grant it. For now, I can accept it as a flawed and bizarrely conceived film (in the way of "The Confessions of Nat Turner") that is also both exhilarating and hilarious. The audience I saw it with was totally into it, laughing and cheering as much as Tarantino could have intended. One even went as far as to say, in maybe the filmgoing quote of the year, that it was "better than Roots."

"Rust and Bone," by the great Jacques Audiard (known for "The Beat That My Heart Skipped" and "A Prophet"), is also a film that defies its appearances. I hate to break it to those expecting a movie about whale training, or a movie where Audiard softened up for once, but Marion Cotillard's character is shown in her workspace all of 5 minutes, and there are hallmarks of his muscular-cum-moving style everywhere. That whole world is brought into the action only to provide a subtext for the rest of this wrenching work. About the various powers that particular individuals wield over others, it follows a number of people who could do much better with their lives but who are on a current path for destruction.

As the movie winds its way towards a potentially saccharine ending, Audiard knows how to make things matter. Matthias Schoenaerts' brutal boxer/lothario/tough guy Alain should earn little to no sympathy for how he treats his accommodating sister and young son, but in his treatment of the disabled Stephanie (Cotillard), we come to see him as a man with a willingness to help. The last 20 minutes of the film are also incredibly potent, featuring the most powerful declarations of love I've seen on screen this year. There are moments when Audiard seems to be making a Dardennes film, but every time that happens, he makes it all his own (from the superb, Bon Iver heavy music selections to the dramatic frankness). The way he binds everything together, adding many layers and circling back to details from near the start of the film, shows all of the three years he put into since "A Prophet." Like that film, I wasn't entirely satisfied the first time, but I feel like my admiration of this stirring Audiard variation will continue to grow.

A film that's fallen in my opinion since I first saw it a week ago, Kathryn Bigelow's admirably ambitious "Zero Dark Thirty" feels like a case of reach exceeding grasp. Whereas "The Hurt Locker" was a remarkably cinematic allegory due to its focus more on people than events, "Zero" is pitched in the opposite direction. In Mark Boal's astoundingly deficient script, the characters never really convinced me that they were more than figures to move things along. Maybe that doesn't seem particularly relevant in a movie like this one, but I felt emotionally shut out and only on board when Bigelow let involving spectacle take over. When she does, it's extraordinary.

But when she lifts tropes wholesale from other movies (like Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu's segment from the "9/11" omnibus, and pretty much every behind-closed-doors film ever made), it doesn't work.
In these moments (essentially the middle hour and a half of the movie), "Zero Dark Thirty" is painfully weighed down and makes one wish they were reading about the proceedings instead.  (I don't really think Jessica Chastain carries these duller moments too well.)  Spiced throughout are various headline-making instances of terrorism that are carried off in a rushed, unmemorable way. If slightly sensational, Spielburg's "Munich" was much more gut-punching when moving through violent historical injustices.

In my dislike, I exclude the opening and the ending. The opening depicts the Abu Ghraib torture of a man named Ammar (Reda Kateb) by an essentially sociopathic, horrifically insensitive, buddy-buddy CIA man named Dan (Jason Clarke). It's fascinating to see how callous such people can be, and the casting of the genial Clarke is successful in show the divide between a person's "usual" personality and their unforgivable actions. This section is also shot with visual prowess by Greig Fraser, who uses many a wide shot that gives an interesting sense of space to the miserable room. The big qualm I have and share with others, though, is the veiled implication that these torture sessions did in some way help the operation along. What comes later somewhat downplays this, but I'm still not entirely satisfied with Bigelow's approach towards it.

The ending shows the killing of Osama bin Laden. Meticulously portrayed, with every single maneuver documented, this section rivals (in its fascination, candor, and craftsmanship) any historical representation in cinema (including the most shattering moments of "Munich"). It made the film for me, and convinced me to look more into the workings of the rest of it. Especially the ending, which isn't done particularly well, but has a lot of unsettling things to say that I missed until discussion brought me to them.

The most enjoyable movie of this group of four was definitely "The Perks of Being a Wallflower." Very touching and compelling, it's also a film of effortless humor, and insight that seems truistic until you really look into it and find what depths it has. Why it truly succeeds, though, is due to the ensemble of Logan Lerman, Emma Watson, and, in his strongest and least constrained performance to date, Ezra Miller. (Paul Rudd also appears in a small but comforting role.) Their chemistry feels so precious, and writer/director/original author Stephen Chbosky makes as much as he can of it.

We are presented with many damaged people who look for something more in others. Charlie (Lerman)   is the most sought after, but he's searching too, still suffering from childhood trauma and heading into rough high school years where solid footing is absolutely necessary to keep from falling into sadness. He finds some stability in friendship with Patrick (Miller) and Sam (Watson), a droll step-brother and step-sister with a wild side and good taste. They've got issues of their own, though, and reasons to depend on Charlie as much he does on them.

The film shows the high school experience as a blur with moments of emotional salvation, which may seem like Chbosky is cutting corners but, with more consideration, this is probably the most accurate and interesting way the plot could have been portrayed. What's in focus is poignant, inventive, and spilling with awareness of the moment. Most importantly, there's an enduring quality to it that could make it something of a minor classic. I could watch this movie again right now, even though I just saw it for the first time two hours ago.

Django Unchained: B+, Rust and Bone: B+, Zero Dark Thirty: B-, The Perks of Being a Wallflower: B+

I have a feeling all of those ratings could rise with more study, though.

Django, Rust and Bone, and Perks would have all been in my top ten list had I seen them earlier. A revised edition of that list would be:

1. Queen of Versailles
2. Moonrise Kingdom
3. Leviathan
4. Django Unchained
5. Rust and Bone
6. The Perks of Being a Wallflower
7. Alps
8. No
9. Damsels in Distress
10. Reality

Top Ten Films and Albums of 2012

Here goes. I've seen a lot less movies this year than I have in previous years due to feelings that this site is not of a primary significance to my life or to the lives of readers. But anyways, out of tradition, here are my favorite films (and also albums, since I listened to some music this year, too) of a disappointing year. Keep in mind that I have not yet seen (for various reasons): "Argo," "Amour," "Lincoln," "Life of Pi," "The Silver Linings Playbook," "Rust and Bone," "Zero Dark Thirty," "Killer Joe," "Elena," and "Django Unchained." I just wanted to put this list out before it would be obsolete to do so.

Best Films

1. The Queen of Versailles (dir. Lauren Greenfield)

An incredibly in-depth study of the extremes of wealth, a great highlight of contemporary non-fiction cinema, and the only film this year that blew my mind completely.

2. Moonrise Kingdom (dir. Wes Anderson)

A customary Andersonian vacuum, which is something I've usually been into, but, for the nonbelievers, "Moonrise Kingdom" is filled crucially with sweet tenderness and inspired insanity. The year's most enjoyable.

3. Leviathan (dir. Verena Paravel and Lucien Castiang-Taylor)

I saw this at the New York Film Festival, so it's technically not a 2012 release. But it left a sizable impact on me, showing how very (even sickeningly) effective pure cinema can be. Though it may be hard for some to take, here's a movie that can be viewed on the most basic level, sound and image.

4. Alps (dir. Yorgos Lanthimos)

As baffling and frustrating after seeing it as before, "Alps" is a film that contains worlds and that is utterly lost in itself. Brutal and harrowing, it's cut of the same cloth as "Dogtooth" but offers different (and equally satisfying) sorts of cerebral pleasures.

5. No (dir. Pablo Larrain)

A paean to the power of persuasion, and a point in history when advertising did more good than bad. This is one historical film where I was entirely invested in the conclusive victory, most likely due to the fact that it's incredibly fair in its view of all sides involved.

6. Damsels in Distress (dir. Whit Stillman)

Funny and silly in the way of Stillman, but with a totally unexpected and arresting undertone of true wonder and emotion that holds things together beautifully.

7. Reality (dir. Matteo Garrone)

I feel that with repeated viewings this audaciously conceptual movie (a deserved winner at Cannes) could reveal its shriller moments to be less of an issue. The ending, which many will despise, may be the finest this year had to offer. If the Oscars meant anything, Ariello Arena (in likely his only performance ever) would be decorated.

8. Neil Young Journeys (dir. Jonathan Demme)

I didn't see the first two films that Demme made with Young, but this one struck me, full of brilliant decisions in filming a Toronto concert and moments where Young to me sounds better than ever. I could take or leave the weird and inconsistent interjections, though.

9. The Color Wheel (dir. Alex Ross Perry)

This movie wore me down, sometimes badly and gratingly, but mostly in the way of working its way past my defenses and making me laugh. Then the unbearably tense climactic sequence came, and it became clear Ross had entire layers (cinematically and, of course, thematically) concealed.

10. The Master (dir. Paul Thomas Anderson)

I found myself defending this movie much more than I originally thought I would have. But I feel like a second viewing could really boost my opinion of this deeply flawed but extraordinarily ambitious technical masterpiece. Joaquin Phoenix is my man for every award in his line, as is Hoffman. It is about something, I can say that. 

Honorable mentions: This Must Be the Place (Paolo Sorrentino) was ultimately attempting too many different things to stick its landing, but it's still uproariously funny and random. It's easy to see why Dark Horse (Todd Solondz) threw people off, with its overtly abrasive lead performance by Abe Gelber and dejected mood, but there's a lot going on there (long held sadness and longing). Safety Not Guaranteed (Colin Trevorrow) was one of the year's most satisfying little movies (commanded by Mark Duplass' excellent work), despite its use of a basketload of Sundance tropes. Then there was Simon Killer (Antonio Campos), which I both loved and loathed, and which requires much more study, since Campos rightfully demands it. The scene with the miscommunication is one of the saddest I've ever seen. To round out 5, Oslo, August 31st (Joachim Trier) seemed for a while to be heading for film-of-the-year status (with its piercing and complex human observation, and literary qualities), but it unfortunately peaked somewhere. Still worth a look, though. 

Deserving films I included last year: "Attenberg," "The Kid With a Bike," "The Turin Horse"

Best Albums of the Year (loosely ranked, I could go up and down with these albums all the time; I've only heard bits and pieces of some of these also, but I feel like their quality is deserving)

1. Centipede HZ (Animal Collective) < give this album more than one chance, people

2. The Money Store (Death Grips)

3. Lonerism (Tame Impala)

4. good kid m.A.A.d city (Kendrick Lamar)

5. Shrines (Purity Ring)

6. channel ORANGE (Frank Ocean)

7. Swing Lo Magellan (Dirty Projectors)

8. The Idler Wheel... (Fiona Apple)

9. Silent Hour/Golden Mile EP (Daniel Rossen)

All of these could be 10: Attack  on Memory (Cloud Nothings), Bloom (Beach House), Luxury Problems (Andy Stott), Pink (Four Tet), Shields (Grizzly Bear), Duality (Captain Murphy), Until the Quiet Comes (Flying Lotus), Four (Bloc Party)

Comment with your faves if you want to discuss. Maybe I'll do performances if it seems like there's the need for that. 

The Loneliest Planet (and The Comedy)

Julia Loktev's favorite storytelling device is ambiguity, which was clear from her last effort, the disappointingly vague if at times gripping "Day Night Day Night," about a fledgling terrorist. "The Loneliest Planet" expands her visual palette exponentially, and, though she seems to still believe less is more thematically, Loktev works this idea much more smoothly into this narrative. Following a fateful hiking expedition in the country of Georgia, she explores how quickly trust can dissolve and how terrifying such a loss can be.

Gael Garcia Bernal and Hani Furstenberg (who bears strong resemblance to Julie Delpy) are cast well as the central couple, Alex and Nica, who seem to be happy, carefree, in love, and in sync. They acquire a guide, Dato (Bidzina Gujabidze), who's prone to rambling monologues but pretty knowledgeable. It seems like all is set for a couple fun days in the Caucasus Mountains, but it turns sour when Alex makes an alienating move. After that, everything feels undone, and the two have an entirely different relationship. It's debatable whether the event at the film's center is quite as significant as all make it out to be, but it's not that implausible, and the implications it arouses are thought-provoking.

But the primary reason this all works is the fascinating style that Loktev employs, which is heavy on depth-of-field experimentation and spatial awareness. Aside from a grating motif that pairs wide landscape shots with a heavy-handed cello track, the film achieves a striking look and feel, both laid-back and intense when it wishes to be. Pitching the dialogue down in the sound mix, this is a film that relies more on the noises of nature and the expanse of the terrain. These things make it well worth seeing, even if Loktev isn't quite as ambitious with where she takes her plot. B

And then there's Rick Alverson's abysmal "The Comedy." Which I couldn't find any discernable reason to watch more than 40 minutes of. It bears no resemblance to the "Tim and Eric" brand it seems from a glance to to be cut from, featuring Tim Heidecker in an incredibly unlikeable role. I tried in vain to find it funny, but the only original, not entirely abrasive element was the inspired use of William Basinski's "The Disintegration Loops" in a scene undeserving of its grandeur. But this movie is terrible, and made me unhappy. I would probably have headed for D-/F territory had I finished watching it.

After Lucia (Philadelphia Film Festival)

Michel Franco's "After Lucia" is too insular for its own good, not bringing enough to the table thematically to attempt a small-scale analysis of bullying, or really anything in particular. The perpetrators seem pulled from a PSA. Alejandra, the victim of the harassment, is just as underwritten, and credit should go to Tessa Ia for gleaning any sort of emotional response from the audience. Everything is pared down to fit Franco's static style, which occasionally allows bits of tailored emotion, most of them courtesy of Hernan Mendoza as Alejandro's father Roberto ("a disgruntled chef," as the problem says, pretty hilariously). Mendoza gives the film some of the spark it needs, but all the same, even his characterization feels familiar. Franco goes for a mix of subdued and unhinged, but it all feels poured on, tired, and not really justified, including the apathetic and abrupt last scene. The film's aesthetic is predominantly trashy and repetitive, with a couple of nice compositions sprinkled in due to luck or motives unknown.  How this movie has gotten so much attention (the Un Certain Regard prize at Cannes, Mexico's cosign for Best Foreign Film) baffles me, and the more I think about it, the less sympathy I'm willing to give it. C-

Reality (Philadelphia Film Festival)

Having seen Matteo Garrone's "Gomorrah" will not prepare you for his new film, this year's Cannes Gran Prix winner "Reality." It's pretty much an 180* turn from that grounded, despairing work. Garrone her shifts to a much lighter and brasher tone and a flashier style, drawing from Fellini and Max Ophuls to craft a sendup of trivial ambition and religious devotion. His greatest asset comes in the form of Aniello Arena, apparently an imprisoned member of the Mafia (whom Garrone may have found while doing research for his previous film). This may be the only film he's ever in, and he surely gives the performance of a lifetime, playing his Luciano as vivacious and awed and out of his mind. Uniformly strong, he helps the film through its bland setup and patchier sections to help Garrone bring his emblematic story to good fruition.

We first see Luciano in his favored habitat, entertaining at a wedding. He hams it up as a drag queen alongside Enzo (Raffaele Ferrante), a vapid celebrity who got pretty far on "Big Brother." Much praised for his amusing antics, Luciano wants the stardom and admiration Enzo has. His current life as a seller of fish and cooking robots lacks those things, but it takes the incessant pressuring of his daughters and the support of his large family to get him to try and audition for the show. 

Now, obviously, men in their 30s and 40s are unlikely to compete against hot and fit people a decade or so younger than they are. Nor should they: at that point in one's life, the time for lazing around in pools and fucking everyone in sight is most likely diminishing. But, for whatever reason, Luciano gets incredibly into the idea of being on this empty show. Following an audition where he said he gave his all, he starts thinking his behavior is constantly monitored. Previously focused on making every dollar he could, Luciano starts being more charitable, to the delight of his Catholic assistant Michele (Nando Paone). At this point, the film begins making clearer analogies to the pursuit of salvation. It follows this trajectory all the way to the final sequence, which I thought was transcendent but which will annoy or turn many off. 

The last shot (rhyming with the first) is a work of genius. Throughout the film, Garrone shows his range, carefully composing certain shots and letting the camera run often for minutes on end. He lets himself loose, showing a side that was unseen in at least "Gomorrah" (though I know he's made crazier films in the past). The music, too, is also key in determining the mood, and though it cloys at the start, it helps things literally soar by the end. Maybe it's a little dated (though it's kinda beside the point), and maybe it won't leave a totally lasting imprint, but "Reality" is worth taking in. Arena's acting alone totally validates seeing it. B

"Caesar Must Die" and "Simon Killer" (Philadelphia Film Festival)

The Taviani Brothers' "Caesar Must Die" and Antonio Campos' "Simon Killer" are two films about bad communication, hopelessness, and predestination. However, in how they examine physical and mental prisons, the movies differ drastically. The Tavianis possess a sentimentality and belief in transformations that Campos almost completely veers away from. The Italians also maintain a distracting artifice that ultimately undermines their film's strengths, while the American largely strives for verisimilitude in depicting boredom, sexuality, violence, and heartache.

Berlin Golden Bear winner "Caesar" follows prisoners putting on "Julius Caesar" in Italian, which means that Shakespeare's language has been translated into a different tongue and (for our English-speaking benefit) back through the subtitles. This essentially turns the brilliant dialogue of this great play into bad, blunt screenwriting. Sure, certain sections are preserved, but for the most part it feels watered down. This diminishes the experience of watching the play, which is a shame, since the production itself is well-done and strongly acted. 

Another huge thorn in my side was the bothersome use of what appeared to be staged docudrama. A raw documentary style, though perhaps impossible, would have suited this film much better, as moments of transcendence are made trivial by their probable fabrication. The whole film would have felt like more of a revelation if it didn't feel scripted; this is especially true for the bits that are compelling nonetheless, such as Salvatore Striano's devotion to his role as Brutus and the grandeur of Giovanni Arcuri as Caesar. But unfortunately the Tavianis pour this artifice on, in hopes of hammering their thesis into place. The film peddles some interesting ideas and stunning images (courtesy of Simone  Zampagni's incredible B&W cinematography), but the whole is repetitive and scattershot, if enjoyable in certain moments. 

"Simon Killer," Campos' similarly cerebral follow-up to his haunting and successful "Afterschool," was a real handful while I was watching it, but after the final monologue ended, it came together to hit me, and hard. Simon (Brady Corbet), its main character (read: definitely not a hero, more of a total asshole), doesn't deserve any of what he stumbles upon, but due to his charms, he continues to end up in potentially worthwhile situations that he continues to squander. He's on a self-imposed exile outside of the US following the dissolution of a stable relationship. He starts out pathetically lonely, aimlessly wandering to Parisian museums, listening to the same few songs, writing notes to his ex, hitting on random French women, and videochatting with his mother. 

He ends up finding a beautiful and hopeful prostitute (Mati Diop) with whom he starts to spend his days. Though their first meetings seem full of good (intensely sexual) chemistry, one can sense a rift due to their disparity in terms of French. One scene, where "Victoria" (her real name isn't listed online) tries to share a horrible memory from her past and Simon (out of ignorance most likely) doesn't understand, is devastating, and kept me in the theater when I was close to walking out. The film often doesn't seem to be going anywhere, but on closer study it definitely is, and it eventually comes into the clear as a work of repetition. 

The setbacks are technical mostly, as Campos is too reliant on empty, common Dardennes-esque formalism when he's capable of much more (take the long take of the opening monologue, the stationary camera during the first sexual encounter between Simon and "Victoria," and the shooting of a disturbingly callous scene in a club set to "Dance Yrself Clean"). However, I really liked the "Enter the Void"-esque psychedelic transitions. The whole film feels pretty empty at points. But I give Campos credit ultimately, as he pushes all the way to a dispiriting, wrenching finish where a stuttering letter motif is repeated for a final time. I can see why this film has only played sparingly since its Sundance premiere, since it angers you, bores you, and eats at you in an uncommonly unsettling way. Yet I see those things as more valuable than most of what "Caesar" had to offer. 

"Simon Killer" is ingenious in its slow playing out of a previously doomed relationship in microcosms for all to see and gasp in horror at. Campos, in his provocative way, stresses how important good communication of various sorts is (stranger/stranger, lover/lover, mother/son, brain/eye), especially in this increasingly disjointed age. It's the kind of film that you might have to see again, even if you can't really muster up the courage to do that. 

Caesar Must Die: C+

Simon Killer: B

"No" and "Leviathan" (New York Film Festival)

I've never seen Pablo Larrain's dour-sounding "Tony Manero" or "Post Mortem," but it seems as if his new film "No" is something of a departure. Both of the other films, I read, were set in the 70's, in Pinochet's rule and at the transition into it, respectively. "No" tells of how Chile took up the dictator's offer to overthrow him and ended up doing so with the help of some well-thought-out advertising. It's a fascinating subject that offers Larrain the chance to examine both the creative process (especially under pressure) and the idea of how to sell something in a respectable way. But "No" would be a much weaker film if it allotted screen time only to the side opposing Pinochet. Its greatest strength is a willingness to look at all sides of situation, and to see that these advertising opponents were much more connected than one would've liked to believe.

Gael Garcia Bernal's Rene Saavedra, the man whose audience-friendly ideas ultimately fueled the NO campaign, is also valuably not portrayed as a beacon. He's a cool, careful, cynical man whose family life is a bit of a shambles and who is nervous about risking his job to work with "Communists," especially when his boss Lucho Guzman (Alfredo Castro) is big-time Pinochet supporter. The relationship between these characters epitomizes the film's evenhandedness, and Bernal and Castro both deliver strong, complex performances. The film itself is an intricate venture, that looks honestly at motives (Saavedra wants to win this particular standoff, not necessary completely change Chile) and what it takes to appeal to everyone. Most importantly, this is a film that earns its celebratory close by looking at the pain that's been born and how much of a relief it is to try something different. Larrain's idiosyncratic choice to shoot the film on U-matic video (the same format as the ads Saavedra worked on) and edit as if he's directing one of those commercials is both inspired and a distraction, but it ends up feeling like a good move once the film settles in. B+

"Leviathan" by Lucien Castaing-Taylor and Verena Paravel (two highly-regarded young documentarians) is not a film you can describe easily. It's a movie that must be watched to be understood. That's not necessarily true of the talky and historic "No," or seemingly many of the other films at this festival ("Life of Pi" seems to be an exception, despite it being an adaptation). "Leviathan" is magnificent and monotonous, a focused work of sound and image that makes you aware of the fisherman, the fish, the boat, the bird, and the sea. It's so good, it may make you seasick. It contains some remarkable footage, both above and underwater, of the systematic catching, cutting, and disposing of various types of sea life off New Bedford, MA. There's also a focus on the wear that such a job puts on the fishermen, manifested in an unrelentingly long take of the captain slowly falling asleep. 

I can see why this film only was scheduled one time in the festival. It's more hardcore and stripped-down than even Frederick Wiseman would usually go (to be sure, he usually shot on land and in workspaces). The only audible speech is an Ancestry.com ad played on the radio. As I mentioned before, it possibly could cause motion sickness. And it's as devoted to its style as Bela Tarr was on his similarly textured "Turin Horse." But I feel, even if it could have been slightly cut down from its sparing 87 minute runtime, that "Leviathan" is an example of true, pure cinema: an experience that can't be reproduced in any way other than actually going out on a boat. A-

Oslo, August 31st

There are two elements that elevate Joachim Trier's "Oslo, August 31st" beyond the normal crop of well-made, faceless festival films in the grim style of the rightfully sainted Dardennes brothers. The first and most important is the exceptional lead performance by Anders Danielsen Lie, previously seen (by people other than me) in Trier's first film "Reprise." He plays a rehabbing drug addict named Anders, and though it's probably a coincidence in casting/naming, Lie burrows in and does everything he can to make us feel for a self-destructive man whose potentially fruitful life has been rewritten by abuse. We pick up certain details about the past along the way, but credit to Lie for radiating the burnt out and cautiously optimistic demeanor  such a character would. The second factor that distinguishes this film is the flawed but fitfully extraordinary screenplay by Trier, who works from a novel by Pierre Drieu La Rochelle. The film's use of monologues/narration and observation of the random people around Anders shows its origins in the literary, but these techniques end up feeling wonderfully evocative instead of turgid and flat. However, these bursts of unlikely invention are ultimately unable to lift "Oslo" to a higher cinematic tier due to Trier's overall blank and restrained style that works extremely well in certain instances but leaves little imprint on the viewer when all's said and done.

My feelings about this film feel bizarre to me, considering how much I appreciated the way Trier told his story and how well I responded to the attention paid to the subtle dynamics between characters. The pinnacle of the film (outside of the aforementioned narration) is a 20 minute portion dedicated to a long conversation between Anders and his friend Thomas (Hans Olav Brenner, who reminds me a lot of Michael Shannon). Though Thomas cares deeply for Anders, he also seems to have been consistently hurt by him in the past. This is conveyed through Thomas' sporadic conversational arrogance and offering a recovering alcoholic and druggie a beer with his meal. It's a complicated relationship, and Trier steers it in interestingly conflicting directions. Outside of early scenes depicting a suicide attempt and a (close-up heavy) drug-abuse meeting, his style best suits this scenario. His oft-used slow dolly-ins build tension and beauty, drawing attention to his dialogue. And in this case it's devastating. I was somewhat disappointed with the rest of the film for never reaching the emotional clarity of this section. That's not to say it isn't depressing (read: it is). But it's not quite as heartrending, which is what I think is what's missing. B

Looper

"Looper" starts as an arresting, hilarious, intense, brainy, and disturbing look at a futuristic killing profession, but then is unable to muster the imagination and/or courage to follow through on the level it started at. It buckles under its own weight and feels all too rote as it reaches its conclusion. If you are to suspend your disbelief, the first half of this film is some of the most all-around appealing filmmaking to be had this year. Starting with a bang of a first shot, we are thrust (with a great deal of exposition) into 2044, where drug-addicted hitmen (the main one being a strangely mime-looking Joseph Gordon-Levitt) kill targets sent back in time from 30 years into the future. It's a profitable trade, but also one that's bound to do you in. People have been avoiding spoiling why, so I'll continue the trend, but its a profound and very unsettling conundrum. Moral stakes help flesh the film out from its high concept roots.

Barring the very problematic second half, where things slow basically to a crawl and everything gets pretty boring and nothing comes of anything ultimately, writer/director Rian Johnson's script is a joy. The small details he embeds in the environment of the future make a huge difference in endearing/intriguing the audience. And the dialogue that he gives to his actors (Paul Dano, Jeff Daniels, and Bruce Wills especially, all great and all squandered to some degree) works to the same degree, at least until his uber-conventional characterizations of a mother (Emily Blunt) and son on a farm.

Ultimately, it seems like Johnson expertly faked his way through a lot of the movie (a 2-minute montage of 30 years being the prime example), since he seems at a loss to back things up when the time comes for it. And, while a scene of Willis escaping from confines and blowing a bunch of people away is appropriately badass for such a celebrated action star, Johnson uses it also to avoid going down certain paths. While I can excuse not everything making sense, a lack of ambition for a filmmaker who wants to transcend his current crowd is disappointing. B-

Capsules: Arbitrage and The Master

"Arbitrage" is a little more interesting than you would have expected from the trailer. But ultimately Nicholas Jarecki doesn't do too much out of the ordinary, only letting in little bursts of interest and letting his hand get weaker and weaker as the film goes on. Richard Gere's billionaire honcho Robert Miller is ostensibly the film's center, running from the scene of his own car crash and thoroughly screwing up his already frantic lifestyle. Yet he fades into the background for much of the middle, while the moral stakes between a teenager seen as an accomplice (Nate Parker) and a detective who's trying to get to the bottom of things (Tim Roth) take up large amounts of the film. Supposedly peripheral characters (Susan Sarandon and Brit Marling as Miller's wife and daughter, respectively) get more screen time than they should, and nothing in the plot feels developed enough. Parker and Roth make the film watchable, but Jarecki's gaze wanders too much to give them what they deserve. The issue of race crops up way too much too, and between the African-American Jimmy and Miller's Asian butler Jarecki definitely seems to be laying it on thick that Miller is a hardcore exploiter. When it all comes to a head, it's hard to really care about anything. C

Paul Thomas Anderson's "The Master" combines his previous two films, the sublime "Punch-Drunk Love" and the shrill and unbearable "There Will Be Blood" into an excessively handsome package. Freddie Quell is another example of PTA's favorite character type, the self-destructive charmer. Joaquin Phoenix plays him scarily, and it's for the most part a remarkable performance, to match the exceptional work of Philip Seymour Hoffman and a strong but mis/underused Amy Adams. Though Quell seems to be so off-kilter due to a mishandled romance with a girl back in Massachusetts, it's really hard to say what drives him to bizarre behaviors and an inability to fit in on the sea, in the city, in the fields, or ultimately in Hoffman's Master's Scientology-esque cult. Quell succeeds most prominently in the final place, becoming the group's enforcer and a specimen of its success, but he soon falls apart and can't take it too much longer. The film's central idea (how can you live without a master?) is extremely interesting, and many scenes are brilliantly executed (including a stare-down, a prison shouting match, and a montage of religious conditioning). The film is also often strikingly composed (by Francis Ford Coppola regular Mihai Malaimare Jr.), with a couple of indelible shots and camera placements. But everything feels a little too studied, and though I think I'll need to see it again, I don't think there's enough blood here to make this the masterpiece that many have heralded it as. B

Compliance

Here's a movie that upset me. That was trying to upset me, but more enraged me due to its poor handling of the material at hand than due to what it was going for. "Compliance" by Craig Zobel, a man making a career based around films about lying to and humiliating people, is a misfire, a film that's way too quick to vilify and build up disturbing incident. It makes many problematic decisions that derail it from being a meaningful provocation.

Even if events like the one portrayed here have taken place, Zobel nonetheless crudely fashions the situation in an implausible way and hammers hard at his message with contemptuously drawn, stereotyped characters and setting. He removes the audience from sympathizing with the characters (either mistakenly or because he wants us really to hate humanity) by making all the details of the situation, most importantly ones unknown to the central players, known to us from early on. And, with a crappy film-school aesthetic designed to try to dramatize a scenario lacking in cinematic appeal and a score that tries to force you into anger, "Compliance" seethes.

There's nothing wrong with a filmmaker being angry at people. Lars von Trier, most prominently with "Dogville," does this sort of thing all the time, but he knows how and picks his subjects well. Zobel clearly has ire towards the myriad of sexually abusive fast-food prank calls that have sprouted up recently. That these things happened is terrible. But you or I know that just by reading about them. Making a whole film whose core thesis is "strip-searching dehumanizes" or "fast-food working conditions suck" is a waste of time. There has to be more. Zobel scores few points for essentially documenting an inherently appalling spectacle. It's how he treats it, and earns it (or, in this case, doesn't), that really proves what he's all about. And he's done a shitty job of validating it, much like Ben Wheatley ("Kill List") and Lynne Ramsay ("We Need to Talk About Kevin") have recently. The emotions shown by the actors I guess are worth something, but even they seem somewhat calculated and slapdash. I admit that I was held by "Compliance" for much of its running time. But I would have been whatever way this story had been told, and I wish it had been under the control of someone much more capable, someone who could have seen the potential depths. D

The Queen of Versailles and Neil Young Journeys

A strong frontrunner for documentary of the year-and the film of the year, for that matter-is Lauren Greenfield's sprawling, exceptionally observed "The Queen of Versailles." Greenfield looks at flawed systems, unruly ambitions, and devastating collapses. Of all films that I've seen so far about the 2008 Economic Crisis, this one struck the deepest chord with me. Working with about as much access as a documentarian can have with her subjects, she doesn't have to take as broad of a viewpoint in her editing and presentation that a less-privy filmmaker would have. I'm sure there's footage we didn't see, but what's captured here seems to show a family on the breaking point who essentially lets everything (their money, dignity, community) start to fall apart.

The film, based around two sets of interviews two or so years apart, seems to have originally intended to be a monument to the continuing success and megalomania of David Siegel and his titular wife Jackie. David was "smitten" with Jackie, and plucked her out of her Miss America stardom to fall into a loveless union. The two had seven children, but David, when asked if he "gets strength from his marriage," bluntly says no. He's way too absorbed in his work, at the top of the largest timeshare company in the world, which shoots too far even if its not-entirely-fair way of conducting business seems like it could never fall apart. Everyone seems pretty oblivious to the idea that building a super-mega-mansion based on a French palace that's destined to be the biggest in the United States might not be the most sensible thing to do. But these people are seriously deluded, shaken by their upbringings, and it may take a few generations for this line to normalize.

Like all great documentaries and films, "The Queen of Versailles" has startling implications. Greenfield doesn't stop at just looking at these two people (who are among the most interesting figures in non-fiction filmmaking in some time), she looks at all the people who they touched over time and finds some fascinating ironies at both ends of the wealth spectrum. I don't really know what more one could want from an investigative documentary. A

In terms of documentary technique, Jonathan Demme's third Neil Young film (after "Neil Young: Heart of Gold" and "Neil Young Trunk Show," neither of which I've seen) is much less accomplished than Greenfield's. That being said, "Neil Young Journeys" is a great time and provides an opportunity for reflection on the new works of the aging (and, to me, better now) Young. Drawing primarily from the 2010 album "Le Noise" (though fans of his old material will be at least partially appeased), Young gives a strong 2011 show at Massey Hall in Toronto. And, though Demme at times seems to be running out of ideas and drifting into inconsistency, the camera placement and cinematography for the most part helps create the right, often hypnotic, moods for the songs. Spliced in are weird anecdotes from Young following his brother Bob drive around through towns in Ontario. Juvenile stuff, which strikes a sharp contrast against the grace and maturity of many of Young's songs. I'm a casual Young fan, at times annoyed by his voice, but I was drawn in and continually arrested by his greatness as a guitarist and songwriter. He has his stumbles, but he's remarkable, and an uncommon force even without a backing band. Now Jeff Tweedy's current tour wardrobe seems more decipherable. B+

21 Jump Street

"21 Jump Street" reaps the benefits of having a stocked comedic cast, which helps it succeed despite the overall inclination towards being a slightly altered version of the typical high-school film. The gangbusters pairing of Channing Tatum and Jonah Hill is the most prominently ingenious decision, but having a mix of famous and more indie types (taken from Youtube, "Scott Pilgrim," and NBC alike), all exceptionally compelling performers, draws the audience in even further. Add to that an above-average sense of humor that slants into the meta- and into surrealism at times, and you have a comedy that will appeal to all sorts of viewers.

I know only enough about the television source material to have gotten the big climactic in-joke. I don't think that really mattered. What's here is a twist on the classic tropes of the jock and the nerd, which comments on how times can change very quickly and how social strata evolve accordingly. Tatum and Hill start playing exactly the roles you would think (the former popular but unsuccessful, the latter shunned but perennially on the honor role), but slowly and believably (after bizarrely becoming best buds at a police academy and getting an undercover assignment at a high school) move into acting against type.

I'm not really into revealing too much about movies I find funny, since I think even more than being blindsided by a twist in a thriller I like being surprised by laugh-out-loud moments. What I can say is that the first half is much more successful than the last one (largely due to the presence of an excessively profane Ice Cube as well as some off-the-wall drug humor). But "21 Jump Street" manages to stay at least moderately cohesive wall-to-wall and expertly retains interest all the way through the wacky credits. Apparently directors Phil Lord and Chris Miller (previously known for "Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs") are following up this work with a picture about Legos. I wouldn't have given it a second thought before, but maybe I'll give it a whirl now having seen what they're capable of. B

Beasts of the Southern Wild

Unfortunately for a film whose title features the words "Beasts," "Southern," and "Wild," Benh Zeitlin's debut doesn't very much truly capture the spirit any of those things. It hits all the marks it has to in order to be a mass-appeal success. Employing starkly enervating vibraphone music and the occasional jittery camera on the technical end, it trusts most of its responsibilities to Quvenzhané Wallis and Dwight Henry (who will appear in Steve McQueen's "Twelve Years a Slave"). These are (previously non-)actors who at times are capable of excellent things but at times are given things to do that really exasperated me as a filmgoer. For me, this is a largely unnecessary work that provides some minute perspective but for the most part stirs up a bunch of clatter while trying to pull the occasional heartstring.

It takes place apparently during Hurricane Katrina, on an intensely communal island called The Bathtub off the Louisiana mainland. Hushpuppy (Wallis) and her father Wink (Henry) live in a couple of dilapidated dwellings with a lot of animals and have great kinship with their neighbors. Most people would call this squalor or poverty, but the two relish it and sense of place and community that these people have far surpasses many of those with a more conventional upbringing. The film seems too anxious to get moving, though, and I for one didn't get enough of this environment (save one sequence towards the start, one of only a few, that lives up to the title's promise of craziness) to feel ingrained in the movie. But Zeitlin doesn't seem too concerned with fleshing things out, and thus he lost me pretty early on. The rest of the film concerns their weathering of the extreme storm, and how they stay, and how it's frowned upon to stay. Also the human world (including health) intruding upon their seclusion. This could have been very interesting and engaging, but instead it feels flat and offhand (even if these are people who throw crabs on the table and say "pussy" and are in general "colorful").

Zeitlin and his screenwriting partner Lucy Alibar are pretty dramatically lazy all around, giving his heroine an absent mother and lines of "charming," essentially obvious narration to string things together. He also throws in some legendary creatures that seem to have no effect on the film other than to bloat the budget and to give some weight to Hushpuppy's bouts of stoicism. Sure, there is some real tenderness here at times, but that's largely due to Wallis and Henry (though there are some good lines at times). Nowhere near as restless as it should be, "Beasts of the Southern Wild" is problematic and ultimately fits right into the tradition of mediocre Sundance pictures. To say it's a major highlight of the independent festival's history is to discredit works like Shane Carruth's "Primer." (Even more outrageous may be the fact that it won the Camera d'Or for Best First Film at Cannes.) C

Magic Mike

I am the target audience for "Magic Mike" only in the sense that I follow the work of its director Steven Soderbergh and was interested in seeing what his newest effort would look like. Honestly, though, this man's oeuvre has only become distinguished by its unique visual style (designed, impressively, by he himself), still one of the best in the business but not enough to sustain film after lackluster film. Part of the reason for the inconsistency in his films must be his outsourcing the script to a different screenwriter each time around. This time, Reid Carolin (who also appears in the film) takes up the reins, and what results is extremely lazy and patchy, especially in key moments. Of course, the writing was never supposed to be good enough to distract the target audience from what they came for, but at times here it's a little bit below serviceable. It also distracts from all the supposed allegorical stuff, which is dangerous because it ruins the film's appeal as commercial art and instead makes it seem more just like a doodle Soderbergh made to pay the bills.

That isn't to say that the appeal of the film to others isn't understandable. As the titular main attraction and partial owner of a male strip club, Channing Tatum is, when he isn't failed by the dialogue, as much the likable presence as the film's champions have called him. He wants more and sort of gets the audience involved in his quest, even if it is a little hard feeling for someone who feels like they should be able to get whatever they want when they want it. And, playing the intensely devoted coordinator and owner of the joint, Matthew McConaughey's got a magnetism that he knows how to use and play with, edging at times into insane zeal with the knowledge that everyone else will follow along. He's by far the most interesting figure on-screen throughout the entire film.

But I can't see how people could buy Alex Pettyfer's Adam (a.k.a. The Kid), who, in a very pivotal role, shades cartoonishly from mild-mannered leech into insensitive male stripper prodigy over the course of a couple weeks. Cody Horn as the sister he continues to impose upon (and whom Mike develops a thing for) is just as inconsistent, if somewhat affecting in some bits.

Praising Soderbergh for his direction seems kind of a rash thing to do. His only significant contribution to the film is the light-drenched, somewhat '70s-esque cinematography, which is to rank among the year's strongest achievements. Though it makes the film watchable on a moment to moment basis, in certain instances (such as an impromptu visit to a beach off Tampa), it rises to the level of magnificence.   Since he's his own editor too, he knows how long to keep a take going and utilizes this command well. All that being said, he hasn't made a film in a while (ever?) that's truly won me over. C

Your Sister's Sister

One of my biggest indie blind spots in recent years has been Lynn Shelton's "Humpday," which is supposed to be the more exemplary package of her style. I can at least tell from her new film, "Your Sister's Sister," that she has a good working relationship with Mark Duplass. He, along with co-stars Emily Blunt and Rosmarie DeWitt, was said to have a lot of input on the film's flow and dialogue, and I think such an arrangement suits this exceptional, winning funnyman. He is the engine behind this film, lending its shakier moments his humor and gravitas. He's a bit over-the-top at times, but I think that maybe the film would descend into the amiable-sitcom vibe it threatens to were it not for his presence. Blunt is very important as well, as she (though she seems to be pushing the edges of her comfort zone) has a real way with eliciting sympathy. DeWitt, such a great force in "Rachel Getting Married" (why is that film not more loved and discussed?!), is the weakest link here, but she still brings tenuous and at times explosive emotion to the situation (even if she's a bit of an outsider when it comes to the passions of the group). Unfortunately for all of them, Shelton, who seems to be keeping a good eye on the proceedings, slackens her grip in the film's final 15 minutes and seems to misunderstand what the film's really about.

The film does do a very good job exploring sensitive bonds between siblings and close friends. It looks first briefly at the depressed Jack (Duplass), who views his recently deceased brother Tom as a flawed figure and gives a typically-indie-awkward speech at a remembrance party that he feels is verging on hagiography. It then pries at the damaged yet still extremely tender relations between Jack's best friend Iris (Blunt) and her sister Hannah (DeWitt). This all is revealed at a cabin outside Seattle, where Iris suggests Jack goes for a head-clearing weekend. Hannah happens to be there doing the same thing, and soon Iris arrives even though she says she isn't going to be able to come. Since this is a romantic modern independent movie, there of course are things had between them that Jack sets off. And they're adeptly orchestrated by Shelton in ways both humorous and tragic, as many confrontations are to be had and sleep is to be lost and stuff like that. It never really goes beyond its parameters, though it would be foolish to expect anything like that. Maybe "Your Sister's Sister" would be stronger if they'd taken more than a handful of days to put it together. It's decent, a little disappointing, but still pretty funny, as uncomfortable as you'd probably want, and with a lot of beautiful nature (though the number of establishing shots validates the "sitcom" label). B-

Safety Not Guaranteed (and Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter)

I'm huge into cinematic greatness and perfection, but there's an obvious limit on these two quantities when it comes to certain types of films. Sundance indies, that much-derided sub-genre that's become so clear in the past couple decades, is probably the most prominent example of this, along with Hollywood blockbusters. "Safety Not Guaranteed" is in many ways a textbook example of a cliched low-budget film. But even though it has a flawed framework, it comes to work marvelously in spite of itself, and though many of its sins can be pardoned, I wish it had gone the extra mile and done all of the work for us. Alas, neither Colin Trevorrow as director nor Derek Connolly as writer has the chops to make a film like that at this point in their careers, as they're still cutting corners with bright montages and jokes about nerds. But they do provide some surprisingly provocative insights under the playfulness. Most of all, though, they have a remarkable cast of actors, each at the top of their game, who make this a movie worth taking the time to see.

The chemistry achieved by Audrey Plaza and Mark Duplass (also individually outstanding) is an amazing thing, harkening back to the work done by Britt Marling and William Mapother in last year's "Another Earth" but flowering more because this is a stronger film. Both play people on the societal fringes who are looking for happiness in  what appear to be wrongheaded ways. Darius (Plaza), working on a potentially illuminating magazine story with Jeff (Jake M. Johnson) and Arnau (Karan Soni), hasn't been happy since her childhood, and looks dubiously on this assignment to try and find out about Kenneth (Duplass). Kenneth posted a very unspecific classified ad asking for a time-traveling partner, and after Jeff tries to be his man (failing as no doubt many others have in Kenneth's eyes), Darius steps in with the right amount of confidence to satisfy the role. Kenneth has extremely high standards and at first seemingly warped ones; he's a longtime social reject who is routinely considered crazy and whom fears rejection and scorn. In Darius, he finds someone willing to take him seriously and who's actually serious about something herself. 

The film feels the need to take some detours since it apparently can't be only about the relationship of these two. Thus, there is a subplot involving the other two members of the team, most prominently Jeff. Jeff wants to rekindle a long-gone relationship with a girl he used to know in high school (because, weirdly enough, Kenneth is set up in the same Washington town where Jeff went to high school). This could have been a significant misstep, as could have Jeff's attempts to get the shy and conventionally nerdy Arnau laid. But these scenes are played very right, with perfectly chosen details (the aviator sunglasses), and at certain points reach a beauty that really floored me. (They also fit into the film's perceptive overall message about revision and regaining a lost feeling.) I was also impressed with Johnson, whom I remember as being incredibly annoying in the not-often-discussed indie "Paper Heart" with Charlyne Yi and and Michael Cera. Here he's certainly abrasive but much more bearable. 

You have to meet this film halfway. No doubt about it. Perfectionists stay away. It's not incredibly polished, and you might not be happy with the directions it goes in (and avoids). But if you're willing to accept it for what it is, it's quite a pleasure, and certain moments and performances (Duplass' most especially; a heartbreaking and very intense contender for best male acting of the year) are to be savored. B

Abraham Lincoln was already a badass. Okay, maybe not as much as George Washington, but surely, freeing slaves and helping end the Civil War count for something. Add to that an unknown history of vampire hunting, and man, this guy's the real deal. This could have provided for an outlandish, campy, schlocktastic blast, but somewhere along the way, the fun stopped. Was it the studio head, the screenwriter (Seth Grahame-Smith, who also wrote the book), or the director (Timur Bekmambetov, who made the plenty insane "Wanted")? My guess is some combination of the first two (as Bekmambetov has run wild in the past), but there's no way to know why "Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter" failed to be a transcendent B-movie diversion. Sure, it has some slaying and historical inconsistency, but all the same, this is nowhere near as hilarious and irreverent as it should have been. I did read in an in-flight magazine interview something that may indicate Grahame-Smith was trying to please historical scholars along with regular filmgoers, but that honestly shouldn't have been a factor in the slightest. If only it had been scarier, wackier, or funnier. Only one scene (a completely left field chase sequence through a stampede of horses) shows the kind of tone the film should have had.

Dominic Cooper was the absolute right actor to cast as Henry Sturgess (who teaches Honest Abe in the vampire-hunting arts), and Anthony Mackie is good to have on hand as a freed slave, but having the stolid and too rigidly Lincoln-like Benjamin Walker as the great man was a huge mistake. A better or more game actor could have saved the film from becoming too polite, but Walker seems caught in the middle. The film can be dismissed on these grounds alone, so I suppose it's not particularly worth it to comb through the film's ridiculously-PC racial politics or lack of coherent follow-through. It all feels so tasteful, when very little of it should have been. It does look good, though: Caleb Deschanel (who shot the gorgeous "Natural" way back when), lends allure to mundane moments. C

Moonrise Kingdom

It was already a good year for erudite, mannered white filmmakers, with Whit Stillman's strong and sometimes very deeply felt "Damsels in Distress." But Stillman's protege Wes Anderson, following up his excellent "Fantastic Mr. Fox," has made 2012 a great year for the privileged. "Moonrise Kingdom" is a wonderful, tonally adept, beautifully crafted, and near impeccably acted film that dodges most of the traps that its familiar and too-quirky-on-paper scenario sets up. The way "Moonrise" is marketed suggests a film very easy to get on your nerves; in actuality, the complete opposite (at least for me) is true. Once the film finds its footing after a red herring of a precious opening sequence, it's essentially all uphill, a masterful ride of a childish adventure.

The film equally divides itself between the efforts to search for two runaway kids and what the kids are doing while they're being looked for. This could have been an iffy proposition if the "fugitives" in question weren't such strong screen presences. Jared Gilman and Kara Hayward as Sam and Suzy are given a remarkable amount of time and they, under the calculated direction of Anderson, elevate their material to the stars. They make their story of two emotionally disturbed types (one a neglected, orphaned Khaki Scout; the other a troubled iconoclast) true and relatable, two words that aren't always the most prominent in describing a Wes Anderson film. All of their scenes, from their first meeting, to a clipped montage of letter-writing, to their adolescent courtship and views of love, are pitch-perfect. The rest of the child actors are also superb.

The bit with the adults comes through, too, and I think that Anderson did himself good by working with a lot of new actors. I'd never thought I'd see such gravitas from Bruce Willis, playing a sympathetic cop (Captain Sharp) in the middle of a declining affair with Suzy's mother (an exceptional Frances McDormand). And I'd never thought I'd see such comic chops from Edward Norton, who does a great turn as Khaki Scout Master Ward, a man who takes his job very seriously (to the point of intense depressions while journaling it). The only actor I was really disappointed in was Bill Murray, cuckolded once again by Anderson and not given too much to work with. He has some good moments, but his performance doesn't pop in the same way that fellow regulars' Bob Balaban's or Jason Schwarzman's do (hilarious in only about 5 or so minutes as Cousin Ben).

Another thing I was very impressed with here was Anderson's clearly developed filmmaking technique. He's always been known for his style, but here he creates truly astonishing imagery, playing with light and playfully mimicking '60s and awkward childhood filmmaking devices as well as terrible special effects. He's made quite the film, both human and aesthetically pleasing, and one that continues the run that began with "The Darjeeling Limited" (which I love unabashedly) in very good fashion. A-

Goodbye First Love (and Corpo Celeste)

"Goodbye First Love" represents somewhat of a narrative growth for its director Mia Hansen-Løve, whom last time out made an almost entirely front-loaded picture in "The Father of My Children." This new work is just as mannered (sometimes for better, sometimes for worse), but it does tell a story from beginning to end, settling on a slow burning release of its emotional power instead of putting everything out there in a jolting wallop and not having anything to show for it by the end. Hansen-Løve still has the knack for finding and isolating small moments of intensely specific human nature, and certain scenes in this film are as moving as the memorable shot of the producer's look of abyss before suicide in "Father."  But, despite these poignant touches, I could never truly give myself over, feeling emotionally cut off by the polite, distanced style; the pleasing but misplaced soundtrack cues; and the (probably intentionally) lack of thematic rhythm or discipline (way too many alienating perspective changes, though it is good that we get to meet some interesting background characters).

I found the film to be most successful in its observation of the romantic behavior of Camille (Lola Creton), and how her gradual overall changes and coming of age can be reflected in her subtle moving away from dependence. We enter into her life when she's 15, entering as an audience via her beloved older boyfriend (and "first love" of the title) Sullivan (Sebastian Urzendowsky), who seems to care a lot about her (and enjoys the sex for sure) but still wants his own life separate from her. The idea of life without Sullivan is impossible to think of for Camille at this point, who doesn't have much of a developed social life outside of her tenuous relationship with him. This makes his decision to take a long trip to South America all the more devastating. The film's strongest section involves the two's final trip to the countryside, which proves erratic and summarizes both why they're perfect and wrong for each other. The moment where Camille, sitting opposite Sullivan at the end of a long table, crawls down a bench to meet him is remarkably tender and touching, and some of most life and reality that Hansen-Løve has ever put into a scene.

The rest of "Goodbye First Love" chronicles Camille's attempts to get over Sullivan and to start anew years later in a May-December romance with her divorced architecture teacher Lorenz (the excellent Magne-Havard Brekke), with some flare-ups of the past. But, as critic Mike D'Angelo observed, the lack of age difference between the 15 year old Camille and the college-age Camille is startling nearly to the point of distraction. The film looks like it was shot terribly out of sequence, as in certain moments the older Camille looks younger than the younger one. I guess it would have been an even poorer choice to cast a different actress in a slightly older role, but I'm not totally sure. Anyways, the film feels less in control here than before, sometimes trying to mimic the repetitive lifestyle of a girl whose life is consumed by an unreachable love, but also just feeling like it's just standing around, padding on (it's too long a film for sure).

A minor subject of the film is light and how spaces capture it. Lighting is the strength of Stephane Fontaine's cinematography, which is sometimes transcendent (examples include the image of the Camille and Sullivan lying in a luminous, subtly shifting forest, as well as the two providing a fading light to a Parisian darkness). It adds greatly to a familiar and uneven work from a filmmaker who's figuring out how to push herself, and who needs to change certain tendencies (like the bluntness of the extremely disappointing cop-out of an ending) before she can truly deserve the festival acclaim that she's gotten. B-

I have very little to say about Alice Rohrwacher's "Corpo Celeste," which hasn't really left a dent since the time I saw it a few weeks back, other than that it's trying too hard in its studied disapproval of the church. A lot of mileage is gotten out of the idea that the sacred is now profane, as if that wasn't obvious enough. There's some interesting imagery, and a somewhat involving lead in Marta (Yle Vianello), but the film overall is a bland time-waster, not worth devoting time to in this world where there's much more stimulating cinema to be taken in. C

Oscar Nominated Animated Short Films 2011/2012

There was a packed house for this one, just as there was for last year's edition. A disappointment and comedown from the works of 2010, the bunch of shorts (5 nominees, 4 highly commended) one gets in this package is largely joyless and unsatisfying. No worthwhile entertainments or advances in animation abound. I'm overly tough on these, perhaps, but all the same, I can be utterly receptive when one of these knocks me back.

The only time that I was ever surprised and invigorated in this whole program came at the end of the bizarre, interestingly structured "A Morning Stroll" by Grant Orchard and Sue Goffe, which has to be the strangest short nominated for an Oscar this year. It shows an event in three different time periods, 1959, 2009, and 2059: a chicken walking past a man, knocking on a door, and entering into the blackness of a safe apartment. Apparently drawn from some New York Times story, the film appears to be a lame-ass "oddity," but, over its seven minutes, it charts the fall of man and the rise of zombification. There will be blood. I'm not sure I totally bought the thin plot or the trite vision of the future, but I was surely jarred in a way unlike anything else in either program. B

Some nice animation was put on display in Amanda Forbis' and Wendy Tilby's "Wild Life," which undermines its amusing yet somewhat aimless story with frequent and completely unnecessary messages about what comets are and how they behave. Apparently this is done to establish a metaphor that's finally carried out at the end, but it's so weakly pulled off that the film suffers mightily for it. An Englishman moves to Canada and deceives his folks back home by saying he's a cowboy. Instead, he sits around, progressively drinking more and more and falling into decay as the winter draws nearer. The voice acting is a pleasure here, and the brush-stroke quality to the film's look is splendid, but things never really feel together. I suppose that's the point, but the lack of overall cohesion (despite intense and annoying repetition) doesn't bode well. B-

I saw it at Telluride in 3-D last year, and thus I suppose some of the magic had worn off. But I wasn't that enthusiastic about Enrico Casarosa's people-who-talk-in-guttural-noises Pixar flick "La Luna" in this environment. Not only that, but the troubling phallic symbolism I saw the first time was all the more flagrant this time around. I may have a dirty mind, but it can't be just me who's noticed this (hint for those who end up seeing this program: it involves the point of a star and a hammer). We get the initiation of a kid into a timeless ritual that involves humans at play in the celestial realm. Just like every other Pixar film ever made. You'll enjoy it, probably. I'm downplaying it for sure. I'm just not that big on it anymore. B-

"The Fantastic Flying Books of Mr. Morris Lessmore" by William Joyce and Brandon Oldenberg is just as annoying as its character's ridiculous name, supposedly about what reading can do. Ultimately, though, it's really just a stream of images that have been drained of meaning. Dude in New Orleans who bears a striking resemblance to Buster Keaton gets displaced in Hurricane Katrina and finds a library out in the country somewhere where books fly and come alive and communicate by flipping pages. Certain scenes completely throw out meaning for the sake of a gag. I can sense there's some sort of passion here, possibly fueled by the disaster that happened, probably trying to show how people got through the aftermath by turning to the written word. That's all fine and good, but I'm not sure what it really says about that tragedy. C

At the back of the pack is "Dimanche," Patrick Doyon's child-POV tale of a Sunday with the most typically rough-hewn animation you can imagine. The gags, if charming, feel entirely secondhand, and, dreadfully enough, people talk in the blabbers which lazily depict the adult as seen from a kid's eye. The less said about this one, the better, though people seemed to like it a lot in the theater. C-

I don't really feel like writing up the four "Highly Commended" films, but suffice it to say, aside from "The Hybrid Combo", none seemed to be anywhere near worthy of a nomination. I was annoyed, baffled, and nonplussed by the other three.