"The Whistleblower"

Runtime:1 hr. 52 min.

Rated R for disturbing violent content including a brutal sexual assault, graphic nudity and language

Cast: Rachel Weisz, Vanessa Redgrave, Monica Bellucci, David Strathairn, Nikolaj Lie Kaas, Roxana Condurache

Director: Larysa Kondracki

At the end of "The Whistleblower," just prior to the credits, a graphic appears on screen telling us that Kathryn Bolkovac, the woman at the center of the film, has been unable to find work in the international community. Unable to. She's obviously tried, is passionate about her work, and strives to combat injustice wherever it lies. But I guess when billions of dollars of contract revenue are at stake, it's better to be monetarily safe than morally just.

The film is inspired by true events and involves incidents of human trafficking in Bosnia, a place sadly ideal for such atrocities to go unnoticed. The billion dollar corporate structure behind private contractor-involved peacekeeping efforts in torn countries like Bosnia seems systematically designed to minimize ripples in the establishment. Low-level workers with minimal qualifications are paid handsomely to perform thankless, dangerous, and unglamorous work with the perceived assurance that they'll silently bank their tax-free earnings and perform the necessary duties during their quick period of employment.

As the story opens, Kathryn Bolkovac (Rachel Weisz), a divorced Nebraska patrol officer has just been turned down for a transfer that would put her closer to her children. She needs money to finance a possible relocation, and is called into her superior's office one day and told about an opportunity that could net as much as a six-figure salary. "Is it legal?" she asks half-jokingly. A peacekeeping job in Bosnia does seem the quickest route to earning said money while maintaining a job in the field of law enforcement. (Part of the reason for her divorce, we learn, is her love for her work kept interfering with family time.) She takes the job.

Upon arriving in the war-torn country, Kathryn throws herself into her work. This catches the attention of high-minded UN executive Madeleine Rees (Vanessa Redgrave). Soon after, Kathryn stumbles upon a prostitution and trafficking ring run out of a seedy taproom called the Florida Bar. She investigates further, but her efforts are blocked. Everyone seems to be looking the other way. Even as she strives independently to reunite one of the victims with her family, the endeavor is hampered by a corporate executive (Monica Bellucci) who tells her, "we already have a system in place that works," though we don't sense a whole lot of conviction in her tone. Only Madeleine Rees supports Kathryn, and enlists the help of a former internal affairs agent (David Strathairn). But this concealment stretches high up the corporate ladder; a scandal cannot be afforded.  Kathryn is relieved of her duties and discovers that not only is her credibility on the line, but her life as well.

Rachel Weisz is every bit as effective here as she was in her Oscar-winning role in "The Constant Gardener." Kathryn is a decent, strong woman who wisely doesn't wear her nobility on the sleeve; she has obviously experienced scores of testosterone-laden verbal exchanges in her time as a patrol officer, and cleverly handles the attitudes of her male counterparts as she investigates. It's only when the extreme higher-ups turn their heads does frustration mount. Her finest scene comes as she is seconds from freeing a young woman too scared to free herself. We never lose sight of the fact that Kathryn is more than a narrative catalyst; she is a woman wounded by her own personal experiences. As she pleads for the girl to free herself and a tear falls from her eye, we sense Kathryn's own estranged daughter is somewhere in the forefront of her mind.

The film is an exercise in minimalist filmmaking. Director Larysa Kondracki doesn't shoot or edit anything for phony cinematic effect. The story is presented like a docudrama. The cinematography by Kieran McGuigan is fittingly gray, forbidding, and conveys the hopelessness of the situation. This is not an easy movie to watch. The most violent acts occur off-screen, but the innuendo is no less brutal. (In one scene, a young girl is viciously raped with a pipe while others are forced to watch as a lesson. The act is off-screen, but the cries of anguish rattle the nerves.)

"The Whistleblower" is a cold, stark, unforgiving look at the various degrees of corruption, from those who commit vicious acts themselves to those who dismiss it with indolent rationale ("we're in Bosnia... this place specializes in fucked up!" one character proclaims) to those who shamelessly find it more convenient to turn a blind eye. The movie doesn't grandstand, but nor is it shy about using anger as a weapon... anything to keep us from looking the other way.

* * * 1/2  out of  * * * *  stars

"Conan the Barbarian"

Runtime:2 hr. 9 min.

Rated R for strong bloody violence, some sexuality and nudity

Cast: Jason Momoa, Rachel Nichols, Stephen Lang

Director: Marcus Nispel

It's hard to appreciate a movie that takes pride in its decibel level.  "Conan the Barbarian" spares no effort in obliterating viewer senses to keep them awake, but apparently couldn't give a rat's ass about entertaining them in the process.  I think I would have preferred the nap.

"Re-boots" are the hot thing in mainstream Hollywood these days.  The successful ones involve adding something new or a fresh perspective to the original.  Christopher Nolan altered the whole atmosphere in his "Batman" reinvention while Matthew Vaughn achieved modest success in streamlining the various plotlines and cutting back on the multifarious collection of mutants to create a more cohesive story in "X-Men: First Class."  Director Marcus Nispel's update of the 1982 original "Conan" brings nothing remotely fresh... just a ho-hum third dimension, an added $3 surcharge per moviegoer, and a thunderous din for good measure.  Personally, I think they would have been better served by attempting to restore and re-release the original in theatres, and save the cast and crew (not to mention the moviegoing public) a lot of time and trouble.

I admit, sword-and-sorcery films have never resonated with me as much as some other genres.  I am no aficionado of such material and don't have any desire to engage in debates with those who are, though I respect their interest.  I don't consider John Milius' original version classic filmmaking, but at least it displayed a desire to offer up a skillful film adaptation for the hordes of fans of Robert E. Howard's stories involving the Cimmerian hero.  It benefited from a superior production design and a terrific musical score from Basil Poledouris. 

This supposed re-boot offers up about 90% action, but only 50% of it is effective.  (And I'm being generous in that estimation.)  The climactic fight scenes are poorly-lit, shoddily-edited and feel rushed; it seems as though the filmmakers threw in the towel about halfway into the production.  (Making a scene "atmospheric" and making it just plain dark are not necessarily the same thing.)  I know fanboys will want to spear me with questions like "why can't you just accept the movie for what it is?"  For the same reason I don't eat shit, I suppose.

The story involves the quest for revenge of Cimmerian warrior Conan (Jason Momoa) against the nefarious Khalar Zym (Stephen Lang) and his devilishly sordid daughter, Marique (Rose McGowan) after his village was burned to the ground at their hands.  They were seeking the missing piece to a mask, you see, that would enable Khalar Zym to procure ultimate power while resurrecting his murdered wife to rule at his side.  The other requirement for this task is the pureblood of a descendant from necromancers.  The only scion of necromancy in the vicinity is Tamara (Rachel Nichols), who has already crossed paths with Conan and reluctantly joined his quest.  Each side possesses something the other wants to gut. 

At the absolute minimum, the movie may appeal to viewers with a high tolerance for bloodlust.  There are hacked limbs, decapitations, and torture throughout.  The film gets a surprising amount of mileage from a severed nose, and there's a certain aberrant appeal to a scene where Conan forces a slave driver to swallow a key to his captives' shackles, then allows the thralls to slice him open to secure their freedom.  Depends on where your tastes lie.

The cast actually isn't half bad.  Jason Momoa is credible in the lead role; he's certainly no worse an actor than Schwarzenegger was when he burst onto the scene.  Stephen Lang and Rose McGowan are both doyens in the art of scenery-chewing.  Rachel Nichols is less interesting, but acceptable enough.  Playing Conan's father, Ron Perlman is always a welcome sight, even if the movie surrounding him isn't.

To call this movie a "re-boot" is misrepresentative of the term.  There's nothing fresh or energizing about the experience.  In fact, nothing here distinguishes itself from the most mediocre of sword-and-sorcery films.  If the studio's goal was to reintroduce a new generation of moviegoers to "Conan," a better option would be to rent the original on DVD... it's not art, but it's campy enough, entertaining enough, and will spare you a 3D surcharge and a few aspirin.

* 1/2  out of  * * * *  stars

"One Day"

Runtime: 1 hr, 47 min.

Rated PG-13 for sexual content, partial nudity, language, some violence and substance abuse

Cast: Anne Hathaway, Jim Sturgess, Romola Garai, Rafe Spall, Ken Stott

Director: Lone Scherfig

The key to successful romantic movies, I think, doesn't lie in our ability to accept the main players as a couple, but as individuals.  What kept me at arm's length from the central romance in "One Day" between Emma Morley and Dexter Mayhew, the beloved characters from David Nicholl's international best-seller, is that I wasn't drawn into their respective individual plights despite the movie's efforts.

The reason?  I have not read Nicholls' novel, but I'd surmise that the central concept--a decades-long-friendship-turned-subsequent-romance that is documented on the same day each year during the union--probably worked masterfully on the page but lost something in the big screen adaptation.  Novels have the luxury of time.  There's a greater sense of urgency to movies.  A story like this requires the novel-esque freedom to meander, take its time and focus on the thought processes and changing attitudes of the friends/lovers.  I can see how an idea like this could work as a book.  When streamlined into screenplay form, however, the concept plays more like a gimmick.  The movie is noticeably disjointed in a way that I imagine the novel was not.  The result is an oddly dispassionate film that has some nice moments but lacks a magnetic pull.

British college students Emma (Anne Hathaway) and Dexter (Jim Sturgess) first meet on July 15th, 1988 at their graduation.  They almost sleep together, but decide instead to remain friends.  Said friendship stands the test of time, somewhat miraculously as these two are the most polar of opposites.  Emma is an idealist and a diligent study, and has utilized her college experience to prepare for a life of world-changing efforts.  Dexter, by stark contrast, seems to have peaked in college, and spends the next couple decades in a slow, hedonistic downward turn... working as a tv personality and devouring alcohol and women in equal measure.

We catch up with the friends (and inevitable lovers) every year on July 15th.  The story follows their life paths, a few joys but more disappointments... from Emma's passionless relationship with a tragically unfunny would-be stand-up comedian (Rafe Spall) to Dexter's continued sybaritic lifestyle that has left his sick mother (Patricia Clarkson) heartbroken and continues to fuel a strained relationship with his father.  Years pass, their lives continue to intersect to the point where a transformation from friendship to more becomes inevitable.

There are a few things that blocked my emotional involvement.  One was the story's by-the-numbers predictability; even developments late in the film aren't quite as surprising as intended.  This further fuels speculation that David Nicholls' book (he also penned the screenplay adaptation) had to have been more detailed and insightful regarding the life directions of the characters.  If the novel was no more interesting than what was presented here, I am truly baffled at its widespread acclaim.  I also had a problem with the character of Dexter himself.  I understand that he's burdened by some pretty heavy familial hardships and that women just love a bad boy, but Dex seems not so much "bad" as perpetually whiny; he is engaged in a twenty-year celebration of self-pity.  A decades-long attraction to such a personality on Emma's part seems a rather monumental suspension of disbelief.

Anne Hathaway and Jim Sturgess do their best.  I've read many complaints about Hathaway's accent, but things like that don't derail me; my lack of emotional engrossment seldom hinges on such details.  Sturgess brings what he can to Dexter, though making him engaging seems a tall order for any actor.  The sweeter performances exist on the periphery.  Patricia Clarkson brings an ethereal sapience to her role as Dexter's mother, telling him "I love you more than anything, and you could do whatever you wanted to in life... I'm just worried that you're not very nice anymore."  Those hard but well-meaning words cut deep.  And Rafe Spall gives a memorable turn as Emma's lover who eventually comes to terms with her preference for Dexter over him.  "She made you decent," he confesses to Dex late in the film.  "And in return you made her so happy.  I"m grateful for that."  The great achievement in his performance isn't that he makes the character eccentric, but he does so while keeping him so very real.

The director is Lone Scherfig, who helmed the masterful, Oscar-nominated "An Education."  The problem here isn't the direction, but the square-peg-in-a-round-hole translation from book to film; not everything makes a smooth transition to the big screen.  The movie plays like a pale imitation of something much more meaningful.  I didn't hate the film, but that's little consolation for a movie depending on full viewer raptness.

* *  out of  * * * *  stars

"Fright Night"

Runtime:1 hr. 46 min.

Rated R for bloody horror violence and language including some sexual references

Cast: Anton Yelchin, Colin Farrell, Toni Collette, David Tennant, Imogen Poots, Christopher Mintz-Plasse

Director: Craig Gillespie

When you consider it, a rehash of the 1985 horror flick "Fright Night"--given the spate of vampire-related movies, tv shows, books, clubs--seems not only unnecessary but unwise.  And yet there is something enjoyable about Craig Gillespie's remake.  Perhaps it's because the movie doesn't try to romanticize the bloodsucker's plight.  Or as one character puts it, "this isn't some fictional vampire who is sensitive and brooding... this is the fucking shark from 'Jaws' and he will not stop."

I remember the theatre where I viewed the original.  I was still in high school, and two things stood out about the movie.  One, the idea of having a vampire as your neighbor (at that time, anyway) seemed original to me.  And two, the film was far more interested in treating its audience to a slew of thrills without getting bogged down in vampiric lore.  Horror filmmakers these days seem intent on out-geeking each other with their respective treasure troves of knowledge.  I have nothing against horror aficionados who revel in lore, but I prefer my B-grade horror-comedies to focus a little less on backstory details and more on the horror and the humor.  Sometimes, damn it, you just want to have a good time.

The story takes place in the suburbs surrounding Las Vegas; an ideal location, we're told, for a vampire to feed given that most inhabitants work the clubs and casinos through the night and sleep through the day; more opportunities to grab unsuspecting suburbanites.  A neighborhood kid named Charley Brewster (Anton Yelchin) lives in one such suburb with his recently-divorced mother (Toni Collette).  In school, Charley has changed his social status from outcast to "sort of" cool upon hooking up with a sexy new girlfriend (Imogen Poots).  This doesn't sit well with his childhood friend, Edward (Christopher Mintz-Plasse, the beloved McLovin' from "Superbad") who conjures up some pretty embarrassing fodder to be used as leverage so that he may spend more time with his former best friend.  ("Maybe you want me to tell your new friends about the time you borrowed my Stretch Armstrong doll to tie around your balls so you could jerk off for an hour.")

As more people disappear from the streets, Charley begins to suspect his neighbor, the handsome yet creepy Jerry (Colin Farrell) might be the cause.  The evidence collected by Edward sheds further light on the possibility that he's a vampire.  A far-fetched notion, though Jerry at first doesn't seem too interested in keeping his secret.  (A locked dumpster sits parked a few feet from his front door.)  The mysterious neighbor has a nose for fresh blood and a keen eye on those with suspicions, and soon confronts Charley in an exchange where each character knows what the other is thinking but reluctant to spell it out.  "Your mother, there's a neglect there.  It, uh... gives off a scent," Jerry hisses.  "And your girl... she's ripe.  There are a lot of bad people out there, Charley."  During the exchange, Jerry's nose twitches and his eyes dart back and forth.  His olfactory senses are so strong he can't eye his prey directly, even when threatening him.  With nowhere else to turn, Charley attempts to enlist the help of horror icon Peter Vincent (David Tennant), the pampered star of tv and the Vegas stage, whose ostentatious shows promise a bit more sagacity in the art of vampire elimination than is actually the case.

Director Gillespie ("Mr. Woodcock," "Lars and the Real Girl") and screenwriter Marti Noxon don't bother pacing themselves or slowly building the suspense; this one pretty much leaps from the starting gate and maintains its rapid pace.  Slow spots are scarce.  The special effects are passable and wisely not overused.  The acting is acceptable enough for this type of film.  (Farrell works as the vampire, though it's worth noting that Chris Sarandon did bring a sardonic wit to the character that Farrell lacks.)  And of course, with a remake comes a welcome cameo.

The screening I attended was in 2D, though both versions were offered.  There's nothing here that warrants a 3D viewing, and many scenes contain a dark, smoky and washed-out atmosphere that I suspect would be less effective seen in 3D.  What ultimately makes the movie enjoyable has nothing to do with the difference between the dimensional viewing options.  It's in the approach to the source material.  The film doesn't try to outdo the original, but honors it by studying it, learning what made it effective entertainment, and offering the same to today's audience.  The end result, while not life-changing, is still a fun late summer romp through B-grade chiller terrain.

* * *  out of  * * * *  stars

"Another Earth"

Runtime:1 hr. 32 min.

Rated PG-13 for disturbing images, some sexuality, nudity and brief drug use

Cast: Brit Marling, Matthew-Lee Erlbach, D.J. Flava, William Mapother, Meggan Lennon

Director: Mike Cahill

"Another Earth" contains science-fiction elements, but isn't really a science-fiction film.  It's a philosophical one.  If you're expecting the kind of flashy, CG-driven visual style associated with mainstream Hollywood, this isn't your movie. 

The science "hook" is the discovery of a planet whose landscape configuration remarkably resembles earth.  I already know what you're thinking.  And yes, there are so many questions regarding scientific logic and how it does (and most especially does not) apply to the premise that one doesn't know where to begin.  Better to not begin at all.  You can't ask questions like that in a movie like this.  The story establishes from the outset that it's a pensive, deliberately-paced character drama fueled by the main character's need for redemption.  If you insist on getting hung up on the science, save your money. 

Co-writer/director Mike Cahill has crafted a bold story that revels in possibility, and what may or may not be afforded in terms of karmic restitution for its main character(s).  While it doesn't quite achieve greatness (it raises more questions than it elects to follow through on and opts for philosophy over emotion), there are enough avenues of provoked cogitation offered to make for an intriguing movie experience, so long as you're open to it.

Rhoda Williams (Brit Marling) is a high-school graduate who has just been accepted into MIT.  Around the same time, the discovery of a planet (dubbed Earth 2) has been made; it has moved from behind the sun and into plain view in our night sky.  Following a graduation party, an intoxicated Rhoda gets behind the wheel of her car and speeds off.  She turns her attention toward the night sky as her car races down the street, ultimately crashing into a standing vehicle at a stop light.  A pregnant wife and six-year-old child are killed while the husband, a music professor named John Burroughs (William Mapother) is left in a coma. 

Four years pass.  Rhoda is released from jail, and opts for work as a custodian.   Burroughs has recently come out of his coma, and spends his days as a recluse behind a palisade of painful memories.  Rhoda learns of an essay contest for a free ticket to be shuttled to Earth 2.  Seeking any form of solitude, she enters the contest. 

While out walking around the crash site one evening, Rhoda sees John leave a toy at the point of impact.  She surreptitiously follows him home.  Her need to confess is unbearable.  She approaches his door a few days later and knocks, but upon seeing him, she loses her nerve and poses as an employee from a housekeeping service offering a free trial.  He takes her up on it (his place does need cleaning) and as they spend more time together, a friendship is formed but the devastating secret remains.  (It's explained in the film that John was in the coma during the trial, and refused to view the court documents for fear of what he might do to the perpetrator.)

The movie contains a cacophony of existential pontification--whether it be on radio broadcasts or television shows--on what may exist on Earth 2, what its existence means to us, whether or not we should plan for annihilation, and so forth.  Those elements remain in the narrative's background to fuel the scientific mystery, but don't impact Rhoda or John directly.  One scene that does change the nature of things involves the director of SETI who, while on a live tv broadcast, attempts to make radio contact with Earth 2.  A voice crackles though from the other end.  It is similar to the director herself.  Eerily similar.  Exact.  The director learns there is another version of herself on the recently-discovered celestial body.  It's a terrific scene that adds a whole new layer to the mystery.

Brit Marling not only stars, but co-wrote the screenplay with Cahill.  She skillfully portrays a woman of vast intelligence understandably anchored by great compunction but capable of even greater joy.  Her shining moment comes as she recounts to John a story of a cosmonaut driven mad by a clanking sound in his vessel, until he learned to fall in love with the sound.  William Mapother is a fine character actor, but he's not quite leading man material.  Yet he is credible here as a man who lost everything but rediscovers himself in the most subtle ways.  (His friendship with Rhoda is established during a Nintendo Wii boxing game.)

What I admired most about "Another Earth" is how it forces us to leave our expectations at the door.  I don't know if I've even described it in a way that makes sense.  I suppose that's inevitable.  The main character's struggle for redemption runs parallel to a scientific discovery that might offer a unique avenue to achieving such a goal.  What could it mean to have another you out there in the cosmos, and one day meeting that person?  Maybe nothing.  Perhaps to enjoy the company of one who unabashedly shares your sense of humor.  Or maybe to look deeply into their (your) eyes, through any pain and regret that still resides there, and say "you're forgiven."

* * *  out of  * * * *  stars

"The Guard"

Runtime:1 hr. 36 min.

Rated R for pervasive language, some violence, drug material and sexual content

Cast: Brendan Gleeson, Don Cheadle, Rory Keenan, Liam Cunningham, David Wilmot

Director: John Michael McDonagh

"I can't tell if you're really motherfuckin' dumb or really motherfuckin' smart," the straight-laced FBI agent says to the grizzled, eccentric Irish guard.  Neither do we, although the fact that he takes it as a compliment says something about his character.

There are other things, too.  Sergeant Gerry Boyle (Brendan Gleeson) has remained in the employment of the Garda Siochana in the sleepy province of Conemarra for too long.  It's one of those western Ireland hideaways immune to the effects of political correctness.  ("I thought only black fellas were drug-dealers," Boyle wonders aloud during a multi-agency briefing.)  He is not above swiping narcotics from an accident scene involving reckless teens and is compelled to treat himself to prostitute-involved threesomes for his birthday.  His only moments of quiet reflection come in the presence of his terminally-ill yet plucky mother (Fionnula Flanagan).  Boyle is a seemingly venal enough character for a post like this, as the surrounding jurisdictions are rife with corruption.  When a fastidious and principled African-American FBI agent named Wendell Everett (Don Cheadle) arrives in Conemarra in pursuit of three bumbling smugglers and Boyle's partner mysteriously vanishes without a trace, the guard finds himself drawn into the investigation.

This isn't a buddy comedy per se.  Boyle and Everett don't really team up on the case; they're more like pinballs who ricochet off each other as they pursue their own answers.  The story is crafted a bit like a Western, with east and west Ireland serving as the cinematic frontier, and Gleeson as the dispassionate lawman who finds redemption only after his hand has been forced. 

The writer/director is John Michael McDonagh, whose older brother directed Gleeson in the stellar "In Bruges."  The younger McDonagh shares his brother's penchant for sharp, off-beat dialogue that serves as the conduit to Boyle's politically incorrect viewpoints.  Everett's race doesn't prevent the guard from asking things like "so, you grew up in the projects then?" and verbally pondering queries that include "I thought black men couldn't swim.  Or is that ski?"  Boyle's sharp tongue offers no quarter for the FBI ("I reckon they haven't had this much fun since they killed all 'em kids in Waco,")  and especially for any inhabitants of the flaming pits of Dublin; he'd love nothing more than to ferry their bodies back down the Acheron--err, I mean, the Liffey River.  Boyle can't be in a room with an easterner without a fistfight ultimately breaking out.

Gleeson and Cheadle share an unforced chemistry, playing two men unwilling to spare the other's self-respect.  (After confessing that he didn't realize inhabitants of western Ireland spoke mostly Gaelic, Boyle smugly responds with "they didn't teach you that at Langley?"  "No, they didn't teach me that at Langley..." Everett replies, then adds "Langley is the CIA.  Not the FBI, you idiot."  "Oh," says Boyle.  "You didn't know they spoke Gaelic in western Ireland and I'm the idiot.")  Both men are intelligent.  Both are resourceful, and both are uncompromising in their demands for respect.  They have no choice but to eventually take cognizance of one another's best traits.

The three vile but impolitic villains are drawn with just enough character gradation to make them distinguishable.  They include Liam Cunningham as the designated ringleader for being slightly less bumbling than the others, Mark Strong as the silent type who would rather his gunfighting abilities do his talking for him, and David Wilmot as an intellectually-stunted oddball who can't quite decide if he's a psychopath or a sociopath.  Adding texture to the casting mix are Laurence Kinlan as Conemarra's only employed photographer and Michael Og Lane as a precocious young lad forever perched atop his pink bicycle who houses an unbridled admiration toward to the self-willed lawman.  And Fionnula Flanagan is a welcome presence as the movie's heart.  (Yes, even a film like this can have soft spots.)  As death nears, she tells her son "you never once gave me grief."  Boyle takes her hand, says "you know that's not true."  "Let's pretend that it is," she counters.  Her understated delivery makes the scene more tender than you might expect.

"The Guard" is an engagingly trenchant cinematic yarn about a wayward lawman who finds redemption while never losing his self-defining turpitude.  When one of the villains, trapped on a burning boat, hisses to the guard "I will not beg you to spare my life!" Boyle holsters his sidearm, smiles, says "all right then... I'm proud of you, lad."  He turns and leaves the man to be burned alive.  Although I'm sure he really was proud of him.

* * *  out of  * * * *  stars

"Sarah's Key"

Runtime:1 hr. 51 min.

Rated PG-13 for disturbing situation/holocaust and thematic material

Cast: Kristin Scott Thomas, Melusine Mayance, Niels Arestrup, Frederic Pierrot, Michel Duchaussoy, Dominique Frot

Director: Gilles Paquet-Brenner

The story is gut-wrenching, tragic, and unforgettable. Yet with every harrowing tale comes the promise of rebirth and hope. It is presented as a love letter to an unborn child; a spiritual passage of sorts to leading a more purposeful and fulfilling life.

Based upon the novel by Tatiana de Rosnay, "Sarah's Key" is set during the Holocaust. There have been many individual stories involving atrocities committed during that time, and many more that have yet to see the light of day. Some cynical viewers might scoff at the idea of yet another tragic account. The movie answers such criticisms before they're raised. We don't recall them for originality but to understand, learn, grow, apply lessons, and live with greater conviction. At one point in the film, a younger colleague of the journalist writing about the horrific events says, "I can't believe this happened right in the middle of Paris, in front of all these people. It's disgusting." The journalist fires back. "And what exactly would you have done in that situation? None of us knows what we'd do." The journalist is well aware that no lesson has ever been learned from passing judgment. It just doesn't work that way.

The incident referred to is the Vel d'Hiv Roundup of Jewish families in 1942 Paris. The Starzynskis were one such family, plucked from their home not by the Nazis, but the French authorities themselves (a distinction made clear in the movie... fear cast a considerable net from Hitler's homeland during World War II). They were shipped off, along with around 8,000 other French Jews, to the Paris Velodrome before being transferred to various transit camps. The conditions at the Velodrome were beyond appalling... the heat was stifling, they had little water and virtually no food, and were devoid of any basic sanitary facilities. (Captives were reduced to defecating on the floor.) Before long, prisoners who had lost all hope began tossing themselves from the structure's upper tier onto the concrete below, in full view of horrified onlookers cramped together in the seats.

From there, the families were shipped to camps where parents were separated from their offspring. The story is driven by the need of ten-year-old Sarah Starzynski (Melusine Mayance) to return home to recover something she locked away before being rounded up. It's something of such value that she risks her life to flee the camp. (You may or may not already know what is locked away, but I did not know before seeing the movie and I won't reveal it here.) With key in hand--and with the help of an unusually kind guard--she escapes with a fellow captive and begins the journey back.

The story cuts back and forth in time, between 1942 and 2009, when an American journalist named Julia Jarmond (Kristin Scott Thomas) moves her family into the heart of Paris. She is currently working on an article about the Vel d'Hiv Roundup and, during the course of her research, learns of an unsettling connection between her own family and that of Sarah's. Her investigative work uncovers painful truths, but truths that need to be shared. Her efforts take her from France to the States to Italy, and her passion is one of several factors contributing to an increasingly strained marriage. (She recently discovered she's pregnant, but her husband is steadfast in his reluctance to having another child.)

Kristin Scott Thomas has grown on me during the last few years. I wasn't completely sold on her back in "The English Patient" and "The Horse Whisperer." I had a hard time accepting her as a romantic lead; she seemed too emotionally detached. (Yes, even in "Patient." Juliette Binoche was the heart of that film.) Yet she's so good here, playing a woman whose passion for her work takes hold of her heart's choices as well. She senses a stronger truth, a lesson to be learned and passed along to future generations; she desperately wants to keep her baby. Melusine Mayance brings a potent combination of feistiness and compassion to Sarah. (I liked the way she handled the guard who ultimately freed her.) And Aidan Quinn is effective in a small but crucial role late in the film as Sarah's son. We understand both his reluctance to learn the truth about his mother and his need to overcome that reluctance.

Director Gilles Paquet-Brenner brings to light another powerful story of the Holocaust, one that contains pain and heartache but offers hope. There will be some who don't see the need for more accounts of hardship, but as explained in the movie's bookend voice-overs, every story must be told. At least, until the day comes when we've nothing left to learn from history. I don't see that day coming.

* * * 1/2  out of  * * * *  stars

"30 Minutes or Less"

Runtime: 1 hr. 23 min.

Rated R for crude and sexual content, pervasive language, nudity and some violence

Cast: Jesse Eisenberg, Danny McBride, Aziz Ansari, Nick Swardson, Dilshad Vadsaria, Michael Pena

Director: Ruben Fleischer

"30 Minutes or Less" is an 83-minute crime caper comedy with just enough enjoyable footage to make a two minute trailer. This is the kind of film that seems destined to take up space in a DVD rental kiosk awaiting the procurement of someone with little to do on a Saturday night.

Sad, considering the talent involved. The director is Ruben Fleischer, who scored big with the surprise hit "Zombieland." The cast includes Jesse Eisenberg, fresh off his Oscar-nominated turn in "The Social Network" (as well as the aforementioned "Zombieland") and up-and-coming funnyman Aziz Ansari (NBC's "Parks and Recreation"). An impressive lot, but all are at the mercy of a screenplay that redefines everything you thought you knew about indolence. The script feels worked under a two hour deadline and the writers had just run out of weed.

The story is set in Grand Rapids, Michigan and involves two sets of goofballs, one pairing less moronic than the other. Nick (Jesse Eisenberg) is an often-stoned though somewhat likable twenty-something who is seemingly content in his life as a pizza delivery driver. His nights are spent in the company of his only friend, a schoolteacher named Chet (Aziz Ansari). They spend their evenings glued to a six-pack while re-watching all manner of action cinema. ("Die Hard" and "Point Break" among them.)

The more moronic duo are Dwayne (Danny McBride) and his best buddy, Travis (Nick Swardson). They take pride in being the most hapless of losers. Dwayne's verbally abusive father (Fred Ward) is a former marine who won millions on a lottery ticket but refuses to share with his lazy offspring. The nitwits' only real aspiration in life is to open a tanning salon that offers happy endings, and they devise a plan to hire a hit man (Michael Pena) to kill dad and inherit the dough. Ah, but an assassin requires money, so the boys conjure up another plan... one that involves kidnapping some poor sap, strapping a bomb to his chest and ordering him to rob a bank within ten hours or BOOM! What better target than a pizza delivery boy? (One could ask why not skip the hit man and simply keep the money accrued from the bank heist, but I suppose that would have eliminated a subplot and made the movie even shorter.)

The film has an acceptable enough pace (the truncated running time helps), and director Fleischer wisely stages the action scenes as though he were piecing together a Wile E. Coyote cartoon. (A smart move. The idea of a bomb strapped to a man's chest is a bit unsettling so if you're going to play it up for laughs, best to stay clear of any semblance of plausibility.) The problem isn't with the direction; it's with a screenplay noticeably devoid of wit. Had it possessed even the slightest hint of a dry or satiric angle, it could have amounted to something. Instead, the characters are reduced to trading f-bombs instead of jokes. Profanity doesn't offend me, but expletives alone don't equal humor. (Only David Mamet has elevated their usage to an art form.) I guess we're expected to laugh out loud at every utterance of the word fuck. Or maybe the screenwriters didn't expect anything from the viewer. Who knows.

The cast does what they can, but the weakness of the script forces them to do too much. Eisenberg and Ansari come off the best, if only because their banter doesn't wear quite as thin as that of McBride and Swardson. I'm not a viewer of HBO's "Eastbound and Down" so I admit that all I have to go on is his movie roles, but Danny McBride seems more and more like a one-shtick-pony, and I'm growing tired of the shtick. If I were to toss a little career advice his way, I'd say the next time someone approaches him with a role he'd be ideal for, run away as fast as you can. I've seen Nick Swardson in a couple movies now. I have nothing against him, but he doesn't seem above Chris Kattan level at this point. With due respect to Kattan, that's not really a compliment coming from me.

I don't blame Fleischer for this comic swing-and-miss. That he even manages to keep the movie afloat is a testament to his filmmaking skill. I doubt he's a one-hit-wonder, but he needs to wait for a much better script to come along or write one himself. Having a film like this on your resume isn't going to wow anyone. The trailer for the movie promised something a lot more fun than what was delivered. Maybe that explains the shortened length... the editors wanted to cut out the things that didn't work only to realize that doing so would leave everything but the trailer on the cutting room floor.

NOTE:  I opted not to include reference to the horrific Brian Douglas Wells collar-bomb case that the film's premise is strikingly similar to in my original review, as I wanted to focus more on the movie itself.  Screenwriters Michael Diliberti and Matthew Sullivan flatly deny that their idea was in any way inspired by the aforementioned event.

* *  out of  * * * *  stars

"The Help"

Runtime:2 hr. 17 min.

Rated PG-13 for thematic material

Cast: Viola Davis, Emma Stone, Bryce Dallas Howard, Octavia L. Spencer, Jessica Chastain

Director: Tate Taylor

I have not read the book upon which "The Help" is based, but it's important to note that author Kathryn Stockett was raised in a household not unlike that of her main character. She grew up in Jackson, Mississippi and was cared for by an African-American domestic worker in lieu of an absentee mother. This is an important distinction, I think, because it helps to understand what makes the movie work.

There may be a tendency to criticize the film's reliance on caricatures (which it occasionally does) or to accuse it of glossing over its racial themes (which is debatable). I imagine the book was better equipped than the film adaptation to crystallize the complicated relationships between white households of the time and the African-American maids that raised the children. But director Tate Taylor (a childhood friend of Stockett's, to whom she entrusted said adaptation) skillfully weaves together an array of parallel storylines, gets tremendous performances from his cast, and imbues the movie with both intelligence and a welcome sentimentality that earns our sympathy rather than merely demanding it, as many tearjerkers do.

The story is fueled by a struggle to comprehend the hypocrisy-riddled atmosphere of the Deep South during the 1960s, where black women were deemed acceptable enough to raise white children but considered too unsanitary to share the same bathroom. The story's catalyst is Eugenia "Skeeter" Phelan (Emma Stone), a recent graduate of Ole Miss who longs for a career as a journalist.  She arrives home to discover that her beloved caretaker, Constantine (Cicely Tyson) is no longer employed with the family and her terminally-ill mother, Charlotte (Allison Janney) may know more than she is letting on.

Skeeter's discontent gains momentum upon learning of a locally-bred drive called the Home Health Sanitation Initiative, which would require every white home to be equipped with a separate bathroom for the black maids so as to prevent disease. This is the would-be brainchild of one Hilly Holbrook (Bryce Dallas Howard), the head of the Junior League. Appalled at the treatment of the housekeepers, Skeeter decides to write a book told from the perspective of the help. After a bit of convincing, she finally secures the testimony of Abileen Clark (Viola Davis) and her closest confidante, the sharp-tongued Minny Jackson (Octavia Spencer), both of whom contribute under a tarp of secrecy for fear of unemployment, false accusations of theft, or worse. As incidents of racial injustice mount, more housekeepers join the endeavor.

Viola Davis owns the movie, giving yet another Oscar-caliber performance as a woman stronger than she realizes, who puts her soul into instilling confidence in the children while enduring racist attitudes from the adults, brutal in their insouciance. Her resigned, understated manner of describing her own personal loss makes the heart ache. The character's finest moments involve the confessions to Skeeter; she's able to alter the atmosphere around her with the most subtle of gestures.  As the irrepressible, no-nonsense Minny, Octavia Spencer is effective as well. Her best scenes are shared with Celia Foote (Jessica Chastain), the newest resident of Jackson who is considered white trash by the Hilly-led socialites and shunned. The two form an unlikely bond that ends up strengthening both individual's resolve.

The movie does its best to make Emma Stone homely as the outspoken Skeeter. While it's an impossible task (Stone is such a naturally lovely young woman), she manages to be convincing enough as an overlooked tomboy who hasn't time for boys who can't appreciate the passion she has for her voice. Some may dismiss Bryce Dallas Howard's portrayal as Hilly to be one note, but when your character operates from such an intense depth of self-loathing, there aren't many notes at your disposal. Hilly is defined by her actions rather than acting nuance. (She places her mother into a nursing home merely for laughing at her, and isn't above staging a fake theft to prove a point that has no merit to begin with.) And Sissy Spacek has a memorable turn as Hilly's mother, who is keenly aware of the hypocrisy surrounding her even as her own mental faculties erode with age. (Her reaction to Minny's dessert-hidden revenge on Hilly is priceless.)

No, this isn't the most penetrating of movies about racial injustice and yes, it's engineered to be a crowd-pleaser of sorts, where audiences can readily cheer the courage of the heroic and hiss at the actions of the prejudiced. But I don't think it's out to simply apply a bandage to racial injustice. The movie understands that civil rights aren't about the preservation of one race, but of all races. The genesis of bigotry is self-hatred. One's dignity can never be maintained by shredding the dignity of another. The only way we can truly love and accept ourselves is through the acceptance of others.  When Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat on that bus, she was doing all of us a favor.

* * *  out of  * * * *  stars

"Rise of the Planet of the Apes"

Runtime: 1 hr, 50 min.

Rated PG-13 for violence and intense/frightening sequences

Cast: James Franco, Freida Pinto, John Lithgow, Andy Serkis, Brian Cox

Director: Rupert Wyatt

"Rise of the Planet of the Apes" gives you pretty much what you'd expect from a movie called "Rise of the Planet of the Apes."  Is Rupert Wyatt's morality tale corny?  You bet.  Campy?  How could it not be?  Oversimplified in its message?  Sure, but what morality tale isn't?  One could scoff at the goofy premise or the preposition-happy title, but this is a skillfully told story that proves itself a much better re-boot of the original concept than Tim Burton's 2001 remake.

To its credit, the movie tries to be as credible as possible in how the story unfolds.  Of course it's not uniformly plausible, but the film is wisely deliberate in its narrative plotting and progression, to the point where we understand that as the apes fight their way across the Golden Gate Bridge toward the Redwoods, they're doing so with a specific purpose.  The smartest action movies are not about the action. 

The film took hold of my interest from the get go, and it only waned a little during the aforementioned chase across the Golden Gate, as that scene felt the most auto-pilot-fueled.  The filmmakers suddenly seemed more interested in a thrilling action climax than a cohesive narrative completion.  (Indeed, the genesis of the "rise" itself isn't fully explained until the end credits.) 

Said "rise" can be traced back to a scientific endeavor of personal origins.  A devoted fringe scientist named Will Rodman (James Franco) is seeking a cure for Alzheimer's by creating a serum to boost brain function.  Will has borne witness to the disease's effects on his ailing father, Charles (John Lithgow).  His boss (David Oyelowo) is a capital-hungry opportunist who will only fund his subordinate's studies if it'll net him a profit.  After a chimpanzee attack at Will's lab causes his work to get shut down, his animal handler (Tyler Labine) is ordered to put all the remaining chimps down.  Unbeknownst to the powers-that-be, Will takes the baby of one of the chimps home and raises him while continuing his development for an Alzheimer's cure, all while finding time to strike up a romantic relationship with a lovely young veterinarian named Caroline (Freida Pinto). 

Years pass.  Will's chimp (having been taught to sign and given the overtly-symbolic nickname Caesar) has demonstrated an advanced level of intelligence.  Will has determined this to be the result of the drugs given to his mother during pregnancy.  Caesar (a digital effect incorporating the use of body language and facial expressions of actor Andy Serkis) now possesses an increased cognizance, and longs to be free.  After attacking a neighbor (albeit in an effort to rescue Will's father), Caesar is forced into a state-run locked habitat housing many captured apes, and overseen by a shifty animal keeper (Brian Cox) along with his cocky, aggressive son (Tom Felton).  The constant brutal treatment forces the apes to come together, rise up and turn the tables on their aggressors.  This is done through some inventive thinking on Caesar's part, involving developments that can be viewed as contrived, but no more so than those offered by other summer movies.

The special effects are sort of hit and miss.  When the apes are in motion, whether it be Caesar playfully swinging from the hanging lamp fixtures in Will's home or an army of chimps in full assault mode, their movements seem a bit stilted; they take on an almost cartoonish quality.  (I had a similar complaint when Peter Parker donned the Spider-Man gear and swung from building to building.)  The best effects are the close-ups of Caesar's face, as we're afforded the chance to contemplate the motives behind those expressions.  The creepier moments aren't when the apes attack, but as they're planning their attack. 

There's nothing striking about James Franco's performance, but that's not really a bad thing.  Sometimes the best acting is simply knowing when not to overdo it.  As the story's moral compass, Freida Pinto is inspired casting.  Her attractiveness carries an emanation of purity with it; she's the kindest of kindred spirits.  And Tom Felton makes a devilishly slimy young villain, and has a most memorable quote worked into his dialogue.  (After Draco Malfoy and now this role, he is quickly becoming his generation's answer to Michael Ironside.)

While the movie won't stand out as groundbreaking summer entertainment, it nonetheless has an understated intelligence that distinguishes itself.  We know where it's headed and we grasp the lesson with ease.  Damn us all to Hell.

* * *  out of  * * * *  stars