by Jason Dean

The 82nd Annual Academy Awards’ build-up toward the crowning of Best Director and Best Picture was a see-saw battle for momentum between Team Cameron and Team Bigelow. Best Cinematography and Best Soundtrack showdowns for the two visually arresting—but very different—films set the tone as the dueling exes traded reaction shots throughout the evening. But when the dust settled, Kathryn Bigelow became the first female director to win an Oscar and The Hurt Locker (six wins, including best picture) stomped all over Hollywood’s biggest ego and the most lucrative movie ever made.

Director Kathryn Bigelow and presenter Barbara Streisand onstage

It was not James Cameron’s night. He never got any closer to the stage than his third-row seat allowed, and he was forced to grin and endure Ben Stiller’s deliciously dry blue-face parody as presenter for Best Make Up (for which Avatar was not even nominated). As Awards Season 2010 heated up, it became apparent that Avatar’s bloated technical reputation could outstrip its Oscar legitimacy. It could be that the gritty, Iraq War reality of The Hurt Locker speaks directly to our collective world-weary psyche, more so than a breathtaking, sparkly fantasy land. Or, The Academy is just plain sick of ol’ JC’s smug mug.

Starting in 2009, Best Actor and Actress nominees were introduced by their peers rather than shown in a clip from their nominated performance. Luckily, there were no moments like last year, when Adrien Brody was reduced to reciting Best Actor nom Richard Jenkins’ IMDB page, sounding suspiciously like the kid who forgot to do his homework and made some half-assed attempt to complete it five minutes before class started. Michelle Pfeiffer gave a moving introduction to Jeff Bridges in which she praised his moral character and commitment to his family and his craft. When Bridges won for his performance as a grizzled country singer in Crazy Heart, he basked in the moment with a humble appreciation that felt entirely authentic.

Sandra Bullock’s Best Actress win for The Blind Side gives the proven box office star an “Erin Brockovich” stamp of credibility.  Bullock was classy, elegant, and eloquent, though she seemed stunned to hear her name spoken, as would anyone who’s up for an award against Meryl Streep. Mo’Nique’s chilling portrayal of an evil and abusive mother in Precious rightfully earned her a Best Supporting Actress nod, and Christoph Waltz’s Best Supporting Actor win gave Inglorious Basterds its lone moment in the winner’s circle.

Co-hosts Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin during the 82nd Annual Academy Awards

As for the broadcast, the Martin/Baldwin co-host arrangement seemed ill-conceived; Steve Martin’s already hosted the show on his own. Hugh Jackman was snarked upon at last year’s Oscars for having the audacity to entertain as emcee; by comparison, this year’s cocktail banter between Steve and Alec didn’t inspire. There was a touching tribute to late filmmaker John Hughes, which was followed by a puzzling retrospective of horror movie scenes. We saw an interpretive dance number intended to represent each of the 10 Best Picture nominees. But once again, there were no musical performances from the Best Song category. James Taylor was on hand to perform The Beatles “In My Life” acoustically for the In Memoriam montage, which added a poignant touch to the annual feature that remembers those in the industry who have died in the past year.

Now that the 2010 broadcast is history, the Academy can get to work tinkering and reinventing itself for 2011. A few suggestions: One host is enough, one song is not enough, and James Cameron a safe distance away from a microphone is just right.

by Todd Gilchrist

A few years ago I would have described Tim Burton and Alice in Wonderland as a perfect pairing of director and material; even without intimate familiarity with the source material, his pedigree as a purveyor of mainstream fantasy is largely unrivaled, and there’s no doubt his visual sense could reinvigorate (if not fully reimagine) Lewis Carroll’s book for contemporary audiences. But Burton, champion of the outsider and documentarian of the underdog, somehow became a Hollywood fixture – a hit-making machine, except when he seemed to follow his heart, as he did with the beautiful box office failure Big Fish.

Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter

As a result, his efforts to stay outside of the industry’s comfort zone have felt like they’re as provocative or peculiar as the sale rack as Hot Topic; he’s tackled one conventional “weird” project after another, and with few exceptions, they’ve all failed to surpass their source material, or even show why he’s a good choice to adapt or reinvent them, except for the automatic opening-weekend returns. Sadly, Alice follows in this disappointing trend, revealing Burton at his most automatically, reliably counterculture, creating a new story out of Carroll’s mythmaking that fails to inspire interest, perhaps except as a rote exercise in mainstream weirdness.

Mia Wasikowska in Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland

Luminous newcomer Mia Wasikowska plays Alice, who gets stuck in an unrecognizable Wonderland after tumbling down a rabbit hole while escaping a would-be suitor and a life of boredom and complacency. Soon enough, she happens upon Carroll’s cavalcade of weirdos, including the March Hare (Michael Sheen), the Cheshire Cat (Stephen Fry), Tweedles Dee and Dum (Matt Lucas), and of course, the Mad Hatter (Johnny Depp), who is shellshocked from a combination of personal trauma and sniffing too much hat glue. But when she discovers she’s a key player in a turf war between the Red Queen (Helena Bonham Carter) and the White Queen (Anne Hathaway), Alice muscles up to help her new comrades, in the process discovering a sense of direction for her life as well.

Admittedly I’m not familiar with either of the Carroll books (Alice and Through the Looking Glass) from which Burton took his inspiration, but screenwriter Linda Woolverton effectively turned them into a sort of condensed Lord of the Rings-style travelogue odyssey, a quest where Alice learns life lessons after slaying foes both physical and metaphorical. While this certainly isn’t an inherently bad thing, Burton fails to provide any reason why we should care about what happens, since Alice reminds us at every turn that it’s a dream, and there don’t seem to be any real stakes even if it wasn’t.

Helena Bonham Carter as the Red Queen

Furthermore, there’s a leaden sort of melodrama that accompanies much of the character development (the Mad Hatter’s past, etc.) and eliminates the fun and excitement of just being goofy and weird and having a frothy adventure. That said, such exuberance is at least hinted at in the performance of Carter as the Red Queen, who’s introduced to us interrogating her (literal) toadies and then turns to mouth-frothing grandstanding as she tries to keep her head while chopping of virtually everyone else’s. But Depp’s turn as the Hatter falls into scenery-chewing territory early and never returns, and with the exception of Fry’s seductively charming Cheshire Cat and Hathaway’s prissy, exasperatedly serene White Queen, the cast adds little new to the existing landscape of these characters on screen.

But this is Burton’s show, and even though he appears to be indulging every impulse he knows to create a compelling Wonderland, there’s just nothing in it to truly inspire or arouse interest. Even the film’s 3-D feels flat and dim, lending what should be a breathtaking fantasy world a melancholy, joyless air. And that’s really the difference between Burton the purveyor of spectacle and the former filmmaker who toiled meticulously making heroes out of oddballs: there’s no exuberance, either on screen or seemingly behind the camera, in rendering a universe where the least likely person in it becomes its biggest hero. As such, Alice isn’t truly terrible, but spectacularly underwhelming, and may ultimately leave you questioning where the ‘wonder’ is in Wonderland.

Rating: 1.5 out of 5 stars  1 1/2 out of 5 Stars

by Christina Ochoa Lopez

It is T minus 3 days for entertainment’s most talked about ceremony, and we all have our favorite nominees. Coming to mind are the controversial ex-spouses James Cameron and Katherine Bigelow–both heading the “Best Movie” and “Best Director” categories–sure to ruffle some feathers when the award is given, not to mention an immediate reaction shot of the losing party at the moment of the announcement.  To start off this countdown, and in anticipation of the hopefully memorable 2010 Oscar ceremony, we look back at the shocking and bizarre unexpected moments of the past…

Although the Academy Awards have been around since 1929, its only since 1952 Hollywood’s biggest night has been televised. Before that, they were  broadcast on radio, and not always the complete ceremony. Hell, before 1940, the results weren’t even in a sealed envelope. They would be printed in the next day’s newspapers. But its a good thing they televise them now, because otherwise they would rob us of great and shocking moments; from a puffed-up Sean Penn defending Jude Law to joking host Chris Rock—a moment that made Spicoli fans everywhere wonder where his sense of humor had gone. Or how about host Jerry Lewis, who had twenty minutes to kill in 1958 when the show ran early and tried to tell some jokes. In 2003, Adrien Brody gave presenter Halle Berry a long, passionate kiss after his unexpected Best Actor victory over Jack Nicholson and Daniel Day-Lewis. “I bet they didn’t tell you that was in the gift bag,” he then told a stunned Berry.

So here’s a look back at a couple of past moments that are both famous or just plain bizarre:

Jack Palance does one-armed push-ups.

Veteran character actor and perennial villain Jack Palance picked up an Oscar for spoofing his bad guy image in 1991’s “City Slickers.” While he probably deserved one for the legendary western “Shane” or little-known film noir “The Big Knife,” Palance proved that, at 72 years old, nobody was tougher. After receiving his statue, he got down on the floor of the auditorium and did one several armed push-ups. His “City Slickers” co-star (and Oscar host) Billy Crystal used Palance as fodder for his jokes all evening, giving the audience updates on the virile old man’s after-show activities: “Jack Palance has just bungee-jumped off the Hollywood sign.”

Jolie in love with her brother?

Maybe one of the most shocking moments starred a newly awarded Angelina Jolie in 1999 for her role of Lisa in “Girl, Interrupted.” A stunned and smiling Jolie stood on stage and professed her not only shock over the win but the fact that she was madly in love with her own brother. Apparently in a candid moment just before her acceptance, Angelina’s brother, James-Haven, held his sister close to him and professed his love for her as well with a then-deemed very inappropriate kiss. The result: an unclear and shocking remark that lead to unending tabloid rumors as to the exact nature of the siblings’ relationship still talked about in interviews today.

Crawford evens the score.

Joan Crawford was a notoriously competitive movie queen (ever seen “Mommie Dearest”?) whose real-life animosity for co-star Bette Davis came through in the campy psychological thriller “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?” In 1963, when Davis was nominated for Best Actress for the film and not her, Crawford wrote each of the other nominees and offered to accept the award if they were not able to attend. Sure enough, Anne Bancroft won the statue that night and wasn’t able to be there, so Crawford slithered up to the stage to bask in the glory while Davis sat in her seat and gave her the evil eye.

Brando refuses award.

The most puzzling event of any Oscar telecast was occurred in 1973 when Marlon Brando won his inevitable Best Actor award for “The Godfather.” He sent a woman who claimed her name was Sacheen Littlefeather onstage, dressed in traditional Native American garb, to refuse his award. Why? “Marlon Brando very regretfully cannot accept this very generous award … the reason for this being the treatment of American Indians today by the film industry, excuse me, and on television in movie re-runs, and also the recent happenings at Wounded Knee.” Huh? It turns out Littlefeather was really a struggling B-movie actress of largely Mexican descent named Maria Cruz. The speech caused Clint Eastwood to joke that night whether the Best Picture award should be accepted “on behalf of all the cowboys shot in John Ford westerns over the years.” Seven months later Cruz appeared, sans costume, in Playboy.

by Todd Gilchrist

The thing about zombie movies is that I really don’t care at all why people become zombies. That is the least important and, at a certain point, least interesting part of the plot of any movie featuring undead, deeply sick, ravenous, violent monsters. However, the fact that The Crazies tries to come up with that explanation – half-assed as it is – seems to be a concession to the non-horror audiences that director Breck Eisner hopes he will be drawing into theaters when the film opens this weekend. (Although technically speaking, the assailants in The Crazies are not full-fledged zombies but insane living persons, many audiences will be hard-pressed to tell the difference once they start oozing unhealthy looking fluids and shrieking with homicidal rage.)

A definite mainstream thriller that masquerades as a remake of a cult classic, The Crazies is remarkably effective as scary populist entertainment but may not make an impact with genre fanboys and girls.

Joe Anderson, Timothy Olyphant, Radha Mitchell and Danielle Panabaker

Timothy Olyphant (The Perfect Getaway) plays David Dutton, an Iowa sheriff who stumbles across a military cover-up after townspeople start to act unpredictable and violent towards one another. Enlisting his wife Judy (Radha Mitchell), a deputy named Russell (Joe Anderson) and Judy’s receptionist Becca (Danielle Panabaker), David escapes a military camp for the infected and heads out of town, hoping to get away from trigger-happy soldiers and ravenous, homicidal monsters alike, encountering both en route to supposed freedom.

Although Eisner claims to be a real genre fan, his first film was the more generously-budgeted Sahara, and it’s the crowd-pleaser in him that seems to steer this material away from its truly dark impulses towards something scary but more conventionally suspenseful. That actually isn’t a bad thing: set pieces play out more entertainingly by focusing on the characters’ emotions rather than their entrails, and the movie as a whole moves with an efficiency and fluidity that makes you enjoy even its most clichéd moments. Eisner’s ability to hone in on the immediate on screen threat and distract viewers from the real one is a gift, and even if all of the material isn’t up to the same level of sophistication, he makes most of it work, with a craftsman’s sense of style.

Unfortunately, Mitchell mismanages her character’s terror, and later, trauma, focusing the audience’s ire on her bad decisions (seriously? It doesn’t occur to her not to drink water after she determines it’s dangerous to do so?). But movies always need a good bad guy, that character we love to hate, and the movie is chock-full of ones that we can genuinely get behind, and get into being scared by their bad behavior, that her transgressions are relatively forgivable. Ultimately, The Crazies isn’t a masterpiece, but it seems bound for crossover success because it maintains a level of intensity and gore without grossing audiences out. All of which means that much like zombies themselves, it works better with less analysis or explanation, since all you want in a movie like this is to be scared, and in that capacity it does that just fine.

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

by Todd Gilchrist

After spending almost two decades giving Kevin Smith the benefit of the doubt, it’s hard to refute the seemingly obvious truth that he just isn’t a good director. Not only is he not much of a visual stylist, he doesn’t have any flair for storytelling, and almost none of his films have any real dramatic momentum. That said, he occasionally has a gift for good dialogue, when he isn’t making mud pies out of poop jokes and pop culture references.

Bruce Willis and Director Kevin Smith

His new film, Cop Out, is not well made. It’s not well directed or written. It does, however, star Tracy Morgan, an actor whose on screen persona and off screen personality seem uncomfortably similar, which makes his manic, unpredictable behavior seem weird, and occasionally wonderful. Also, it features Bruce Willis, who’s done both good and bad cop roles so many times he could sleepwalk through another one, much like it looks like he’s doing here. But Smith’s latest is in fact his best in a while, because it abandons the pretense of personal vision in favor of superficial fun, paying homage to ‘80s buddy cop movies and every other kind of movie without being much of one itself. Which is fine, but the biggest point is to not look too closely, because what works about it is so much simpler than what people seem
to think doesn’t.

First of all, I have colleagues who actively hate this movie. Fair enough. But there are others who were confused by it, and that just confused me. After a recent press screening, they asked in earnest if Smith meant to make the score sound like a “bad ‘80s cop movie score” (their words, not mine). Okay, maybe they don’t know that Harold Faltermeyer is the guy who did the music for Fletch, Beverly Hills Cop and Top Gun among many other ‘80s movies. But honestly, has any movie Smith made before been deserving of any level of deeper introspection? Rife with subtext? No. We’re not talking about Paul Thomas Anderson here, whose Magnolia was lampooned in Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back. It should be safe to assume that Smith did indeed mean to make the film sound like an ‘80s cop movie. In my opinion, a good one.

Tracy Morgan and Bruce Willis in Cop Out

As for what it’s actually about, it has something to do with two doofus cops played by Morgan and Willis on the trail of a Mexican gang leader who got his hands on Willis’ character’s prized baseball card. Amazingly, the film wasn’t actually written by Smith, although you can bet that its myriad movie references were funneled into the scenes by the director’s indefatigable film knowledge. What wasn’t funneled into any part of the film, however, was energy. Even the slightest momentum to carry viewers from one scene to the next would have sufficed. Admittedly, I was in complete stitches during the scene where Tracy Morgan’s character discusses his bowel movements in minute detail while he and Willis are staking out a house, but part of what was funny was the fact that it just kept going – no breaks, no purpose, just pure Morgan madness.

Seann William Scott and Tracy Morgan

Although the very idea of Morgan repeatedly mispronouncing a character’s name manages to evoke laughter, not the least of which because it seems as likely that he actually couldn’t pronounce it as him doing so on purpose, he’s not the only bright spot in the film. Seann William Scott, a real charmer with a career that hasn’t done him a lot of favors since his Stifler days (although The Rundown is classic), manages to steal every scene in which he appears, and not just because he plays a thief. But Smith doesn’t seem to know what to do with the character, which is why when something weird happens to him towards the end of the movie, we’re not sure whether or not to laugh.

But then again, that’s Smith’s problem in general: he comes up with good characters, and occasionally, interesting scenarios, but doesn’t know what to do with them, and especially can’t tie them together. All of which makes Cop Out a successful movie, even if it isn’t a good one: because it’s superficial, it satisfies the demands of being entertaining, and doesn’t bother with the business of emotional depth or even particularly effective storytelling. Plus, he picked Harold Faltermeyer for his score, and anyone who can convince a studio to let them hire a guy whose last recognizable credit was Tango & Cash deserves the benefit of the doubt for at least a little bit longer.

Rating: 2.5 out of 5 stars

By Jason Dean

Certain things in this world just feel wrong when you put them together. Olives and raisins. Burkas and Coppertone.  Rachel Maddow-Coulter.  Now comes the most salacious pairing of modern journalism: National Enquirer and Pulitzer Prize? (Try saying it out loud without your voice curling up into a question at the end.)

This torrid hook-up may spawn more scandal than Speidi, Brangelina, and even Pelosobamadonnagaga. (Okay, I made that last one up.) The brouhaha caused by this bastard coupling of literary integrity and tabloid pap—or as I like to call it, NatPul—is merely the latest symptom of society’s degenerative relationship with its favorite whipping dog—the media.  NatPul was bound to happen. Call it a tryst of fate.

The National Enquirer was the first publication to break the John Edwards scandal. Not the pretty-boy hair thing (although they covered that admirably as well), the other story—the one about him fathering a love child with his girlfriend while his wife was undergoing cancer treatment and he was running for president (not necessarily in that order). Edwards clarified that he had had the affair while his wife’s cancer was in remission during a subsequent TV interview, where he could be seen haplessly fumbling around for the “off” switch on the giant, shit-covered fan whirring away next to him.

The “legitimate” press—which conducts itself with loads more decorum (emphasis added for ironic license) than its supermarket-checkout-line-dwelling brethren—had little interest in the tawdry affair. Heck, Edwards wasn’t even a Republican. When it comes to scandal, everybody knows Rush Limb-hog’s pill habit and Sen. Craig’s urine-stained loafers trump Gov. Spitzer’s high-priced prostitution ring any day of the week. Besides, no one on either side of the aisle could compete with the legendary babe magnet himself, William Jefferson Clinton—The Pain Feeler.

So while the wily Enquirer was doggedly sniffing out the story, the fat cats at other news organizations calmly went about their business adjusting the deck chairs, preparing for the inevitable, titanic collapse of the print medium. The conversation probably went something like this.

New York Times: “I say, old chap, have you heard about this Edwards fellow and his shenanigans?”

Boston Globe: “I do recall seeing something when I was waiting to buy crumpets and brie at the market.”

New York Times: “There’s no Clinton factor; I’m nonplussed.”

Boston Globe: “Harrumph.”

San Francisco Examiner: “How come Barney Frank never responds to my tweets?”

Onward through the presidential election season the mainstream media forged, foraging for newsy scoops to inform the public and illuminate the times. They filed in-depth reports on the deterioration of the economic fabric of society and the burgeoning national debt, the Wall Street bailouts, the health care crisis, the disappearing middle class, climate change, stump speeches, flag pins, and more, dumping a mind-numbing pile of hefty paperweights on an already beleaguered American psyche.

Okay, to be fair and balanced, the New York Times did win a Pulitzer last year for breaking the Spitzer story and following it up with “authoritative, rapid-fire reports,” according to the Pulitzer website, culminating with Mr. Spitzer’s resignation three days later. The austere Times can get down and dirty when necessary. But The National Enquirer wrote the modern playbook on breaking sordid scandals; they do it with the grace of a bull in a china shop and the cerebral nourishment of a double-stuff Twinkie. If such a creature exists, I can’t think of a better mascot for the modern American media machine.

The Enquirer is entered in two categories in this year’s Pulitzer voting: Investigative Reporting and National News Reporting. (The word “news” has been open to broad interpretation ever since the bastion of right-wing propaganda known as Fox News started broadcasting its signal.) The valuable lesson that the New York Times should take from NatPul is that it’s time to get with the times. There’s no shame in being as dumb as a post (The New York Post, that is). Lose the haughty “Mr. and Ms.” garbage and come up with some cool handles for public figures. Give us more candid bathing-suit shots and less analysis about why respectable media sources are turning to candid bathing suits shots to stay relevant. Don’t over-think; overdo. If The Times plays it smart, the following conversation could play out in an elitist espresso shop near you.

Unemployed screenwriter: “Did you hear about the man who was impregnated by an alien sheepdog?”

Barista: “Preposterous!”

Unemployed screenwriter: “But I read it in the New York Times.”

Barista: “Oh, do tell!”

by Todd Gilchrist

“Forget about it, Jake, it’s the CIA.” Perhaps needless to say, this isn’t actually a line from The Ghost Writer, but Roman Polanski’s latest film shares much in common with his 1974 masterpiece Chinatown, not the least of which being a resignation to the larger, impenetrable machinations of a system that was in place long before its main character tried to pull back the curtain on it. A grown-up mystery that reminds audiences why Polanksi is a filmmaker whose professional profile deserves to stay in the spotlight, The Ghost Writer is a creepy, captivating thriller and the year’s first great movie.

Roman Ploanski and Pierce Brosnan film Ghost Writer

Ewan McGregor plays a ghost writer who discovers some disturbing secrets when he’s hired to rework the memoirs of disgraced former British Prime Minister Adam Lang (Pierce Brosnan). Despite professing zero interest in politics, The Ghost begins to question this faustian pact, first when Lang gets indicted by the World Court for alleged crimes against humanity, and then when a relationship develops between himself and Lang’s wife Ruth (Olivia Williams). As Lang attempts to protect his public image, The Ghost continues to investigate his personal background, eventually uncovering information that not only makes him part of the story he’s supposed to be telling, but puts his very life at risk.

There are a number of parallels in Lang’s story that any follower of Polanski’s personal life will probably recognize, not the least of which being the deterioration of his public image, and his hand-wringing over whether or not to face trial or flee to neutral territory. But suffice it to say that the director isn’t deconstructing his own life, but crafting a thoughtful, mature thriller that examines all of the real-world implications of its subject matter even as it chronicles the made-up (if likely equally real) mysteries of behind-closed-doors deals between governing bodies and the organizations that broker them. Meanwhile, Robert Harris’ adaptation of his own novel both exploits and subverts expectations that come with an exploration of this world, showing how even a seasoned purveyor of narrative conventions succumbs to obvious storytelling twists and turns despite appearing to be fully aware of them.

Ewan McGregor in Ghost Writer

Further, Polanski shoots the film with glorious, clear-eyed style, thanks to classical set-ups and the dexterous cinematography of Pawel Edelman (The Pianist), updating the style but preserving the substance of his earlier movies, not to mention those of ‘70s compatriots like Alan J. Pakula or Sydney Pollack. The Ghost Writer feels like a classic even though it’s thoroughly modern; a plot point even revolves around an automobile’s turn-by-turn GPS, for goodness’ sake. But it’s Polanski’s mastery of form and technique, along with his sophistication as a storyteller, and especially, his respect for the audience, that makes his latest so memorable, even if his ultimate point is a sad one – namely, that sometimes forgetting the truth is the best way to stay safe.

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars 4 Stars out of 5

by Todd Gilchrist

Martin Scorsese is the filmmaker who maybe more than any in the medium’s history brought cinephilia to the mainstream, and it’s this enormous legacy of inspiration, influence, and cinematic subtext that he has embedded in his body of work which makes Shutter Island so hard to talk about. Superficially about a U.S. Marshal investigating the disappearance of an inmate at a high-security mental facility, Scorsese’s latest allows him to check off another genre on his list of conquests – a proper mystery, not to mention by way of film noir. But as always, the director integrates more themes, ideas and points of reference into his films than most moviegoers will ever be aware of, and this one seems particularly rich with the subtext of many, many other movies and moviemakers.

Martin Scorsese directs Ben Kingsley, Leonardo DiCaprio and Mark Ruffala in Shutter Island

The reason for this, it seems, may have something to do with the fact that Scorsese crossed the last measurable threshold in an already distinguished career four years ago when he won an Oscar for Best Director for The Departed. As good as were the two films he made before that, Gangs of New York and The Aviator, they also seemed primarily (if not expressly) designed to win awards, and as a result felt more constricted and mathematical. In which case, Shutter Island feels like a return to form for Scorsese the unapologetic visionary, full of affection and grandiosity as a byproduct of passion, not awards prognostication; it’s a film of vast creativity and intelligence, and most of all, complete freedom, and it triumphs because it reminds audiences what these kinds of movies were, specifically by fully celebrating the possibilities of what they can become.

Leonardo DiCaprio and Michelle Williams in Shutter Island

Leonardo DiCaprio plays Teddy Daniels, a U.S. Marshal assigned to investigate the disappearance of a female patient named Rachel (Emily Mortimer) at a maximum-security facility for the criminally insane. With his new partner Chuck (Mark Ruffalo) in tow, Teddy interviews inmates and parses through the meager details given to him by Dr. Cawley (Ben Kingsley), soon uncovering greater mysteries to solve than Rachel’s wherabouts. As a raging storm descends upon Shutter Island, Cawley and his colleagues persist with their seeming deception, and Daniels finds himself on the run and forced to take dramatic steps to uncover the secrets of Shutter Island, eventually realizing that the cost of learning the truth may be his very sanity.

Devoting more than a paragraph to the film’s plot would do a disservice to its many surprises, but suffice it to say that Scorsese is not content to merely pay homage to the movies that mystified him as a kid. Shutter Island’s surface story is quickly shattered not only by Daniels’ descriptions of his past, but a series of dreams and flashbacks that show Scorsese at his most inventive: the lawman finds himself engaged in conversations with his deceased wife, and relives her death in ways both literal and metaphorical via set pieces that surpass the substantive layers (much less the spectacle) of so-called dream logic. Further, the Jacob’s Ladder of truths, revelations, and realities carries actual emotional weight: As one discovery gives way to another, Daniels’ own self-reflection becomes more intimate, engaging, and powerful because our own beliefs and theories are challenged along with his.

DiCaprio continues to prove himself an intense and sophisticated actor, and his turn as Daniels further enhances his own, growing legend; there’s a desperation, an anger in his eyes that seems unquenchable, and it conveys the character’s indefatigable determination before he speaks a word, or maybe more accurately, asks a question. Ruffalo, meanwhile, exudes the same low-key authenticity he demonstrated in David Fincher’s Zodiac, successfully exorcising memories of the actor’s days of indentured servitude on the rom-com circuit. And Kingsley similarly repairs years of lackluster efforts in films undeserving of his time and talent playing Cawley as a perfect balance of benevolence and intimidation, earning the distruct of the audience without coming across as a moustache-twirling villain.

The rest of the performers all seem equally jazzed in their roles; perhaps they were invigorated by the prospect of working with a director who feels liberated from the responsibility of more conventional mainstream respectability. As Daniels’ confidante and long-suffering wife Dolores, Michelle Williams immediately seems to lead his common sense astray even as she engenders sympathy from the audience; Max Von Sydow, on the other hand, communicates simplicity and honesty even when his relentless diagnoses are their most incisive or suspicious. In fact, there isn’t a bad performance in the film, and Scorsese gives each contributor at least one scene to flex his or her own muscles and bring their part of the puzzle to life, creating a dazzling tapestry of stories where there can only be one actual truth.

As passionate as Scorsese obviously is about his subject matter, Shutter Island feels like a lesser work in his filmography – a Cape Fear or After Hours – style excursion that satisfies his own personal interests, foregoes perceived or actual artistic significance, and wanders around in a world he hasn’t yet examined or explored. But in that sense, the film connects him more strongly to the forebears who first inspired him than any he’s made in the last decade, if not longer; the mainstream and genre filmmakers alike that thrilled Scorsese as an adolescent weren’t necessarily trying to create capital – A art, but did so anyway because of virtuoso execution and the complete integration of substantive influences and ideas into their potboiler plots and lurid landscapes.

Martin Scorsese directing Shutter Island

As such, his latest doesn’t seem destined to earn a place among top-tier Scorsese movies, but it does qualify as an essential work, because better than even his biggest triumphs, it demonstrates how craftsmanship can create art, which is an idea that the director has championed from his earliest days, whether he was aware of it or not. This is the Scorsese that made Boxcar Bertha and injected it with symbolism and visual poetry while satisfying Roger Corman’s pulpy, prurient demands at the same time. With Shutter Island, he’s put together a not only serviceable but superlative psychological thriller, loaded it with visual cues, conceptual references and personal flourishes, and foregone the prospect of making something important, ultimately succeeding in creating something genuinely significant instead.

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars 4 Stars out of 5

By Mark Cartier

Kevin Smith, noted film director, was recently kicked off a Southwest Airlines flight from Oakland to Burbank… for being too fat.

The resulting Twitter war has sucked me in just at a time when I had conspired to give up on Twitter as a conquered property of teenage jagoffs. Proving itself useful again, Mr. Smith’s back and forth with @SouthwestAir is the single reason I re-purchased the twitter app for my iPhone that so recently had been mothballed as a useless tool of children and out of touch politicians.

As interesting as the entire mishandled debacle is, I find my self increasingly amused by posts like this: “Kevin Smith got himself kicked off a plane because he’s too fat. That’s the funniest thing he’s done since… ever.”

It’s Tweets like this that have reminded me- Twitter gives the little man a voice… albeit a drowned-out and typically idiotic voice, but a voice non-the-less.

I have a special place in my heart for Kevin Smith, after all, he directed Zach and Miri Make a Porno. Which is brilliant. His ability to mine this otherwise dropped-at-annoying event is a tribute to his smarts… I see years of free flying in his future. I’ve also enjoyed the several tweets of recent challenging Southwest to bring the row of seats he was kicked out of to the set of The Daily Show so this giant mishandled FAIL can be settled once and for all. He’s even offered to pay $10K to the charity of Southwest’s choosing if he is in fact too fat.

To me, this is less a story about a completely justified Kevin Smith lashing out and challenging Southwest Airlines for its humorous policy of throwing fat people off airplanes (even after said fat people have seated and belted), so much as it’s a story about the near-forgotten usefulness of Twitter. “Forgotten!?” Yes. Forgotten. I challenge you to name a single peer you have who has read a single Tweet in the four months prior to Fat-gate. I can think of none. In fact, most of my friends who know the gritty details of Fat-gate got their information from other sources, all of which cite Twitter as a source of content. These sources have armies of Twitter reading interns or research assistants so that we no longer need to waste our time. It’s too bad there’s not a TwitterPro… a Twitter that has been edited down to display only interesting crap, instead of @douchecleveland’s rants about whatever the hell people in Cleveland rant about. TwitterPro could start with this article.

If one wanted proof of the entertainment world’s complete and total lack of original ideas, they need look no further than Percy Jackson & The Olympians. A copy of the Harry Potter series so shameless that it even features Chris Columbus, the same director who shepherded J.K. Rowling’s character to the screen, there’s not one single thing in it that will appeal to a person who has ever seen a mythological origin story before, much less any other sort of adventure movie.

Alexandra Daddario, Logan Lerman and Brandon Jackson in Percy Jackson & The Lightning Thief

The film starts off annoying as hell and manages to get boring as hell from there, which qualifies as a modest triumph but dubious praise at best: abandoned by his father Poseidon (Kevin McKidd), Percy and his mother live under the quasi-abusive thumb of a Muggle – excuse me, alcoholic named Gabe Ugliano (Joe Pantoliano). Alienated from most of his classmates because of ADD, Percy pals around with Grover (Brandon T. Jackson) until he discovers that he is the son of a god – and unfortunately, one that can’t protect him from folks who believe he has stolen Zeus’ lightning bolt. Fleeing to the safety of Camp Half-Blood (come on! Are you serious?), he learns that he’s a minor celebrity, but realizes he has much to learn when he decides to strike out on his own, find the lightning bolt, and return it before the world of gods comes crashing down on that of mankind.

Perhaps more problematic than ripping off the Potter audience with a cheap (okay, expensive) knockoff of its visual and thematic hallmarks is the way that the film softens the edges of a mythology which, all other things being equal, could truly make for a twisted kid movie series. At one point, Percy’s mom is supposedly killed, but not only does he basically not react at all – a lazy and irresponsible choice given that the crux of the movie is his desperate quest to find his absentee father – the film never, ever uses the word “killed” or even “dead.” She’s just “gone.” Later, when Percy and his cohorts literally end up in Hell, there’s fire and brimstone aplenty, but none of its true horrors are on display, making the worst place imaginable seem about as scary as Disney’s Haunted Mansion.

Uma Thurman and Logan Lerman in Percy Jackson & The Lightning Thief

Mind you, I didn’t expect that the film would be some pitch-black universe of petty deities screwing mortals on screen or using their powers in casually malevolent ways. But none of the monsters in the film, including Medusa (Uma Thurman, channeling Gloria Swanson by way of Poison Ivy), the hydra, and the minotaur, feel remotely threatening, and the ultimate villain (whose identity I won’t spoil) is just about the most underwhelming, petty and pointless adversary in any major event movie in years.

That said, I recognize that it wasn’t necessarily the moviemakers, but the original writer, Rick Riordan, who is cribbing liberally from the Potter playbook. But like last year’s lackluster Cirque du Freak, this feels like another desperate attempt to capitalize on kid and adolescent fanboys’ utter lack of discrimination when it comes to fantasy stories. In which case I feel compelled just on principle to recommend that no one patronize this boring, personality-free garbage, and demand something original, or at least interesting.

Because Percy Jackson & The Olympians might as well be one of those mash-up videos on Youtube where somebody digitally replaces a movie star’s head with their own – in this case, Daniel Radcliffe’s with Logan Lerman’s. If you like the Greek god aspect, read some books an actual mythology; if you like alienated, “special” kids going off to fantasy schools (here called “camps”) to learn how to use their special powers, read Potter books. But there’s not one thing except for money that justifies this story’s existence, much less this movie’s, and there’s no reason I can see to support it by giving away more of your own.

Rating: 2 out of 5 stars 2 out of 5 Stars