True Grit (USA) Directed by Joel Coen; Ethan Cohen  Written by Joel Coen; Ethan Coen  Starring Jeff Bridges; Matt Damon; Hailee Steinfeld; Josh Brolin; Barry Pepper;

There was a time when it seemed that the American Western had all but died out, but along came Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven (1992), and later, the acclaimed HBO series Deadwood (2004-06), both serving to re-invent the tired genre in their own way, creating the path for a string of quality revisionist or anti-Westerns that include Tombstone (1993); The Propostiion (2005); 3:10 to Yuma (2007); The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (2007); and Appaloosa (2008).

Although they’ve never attempted a straight Western before, The Coen’s have traversed this same basic thematic territory, most notably with 2007s No Country for Old Men, which, like True Grit (novel by Charles Portis), was adapted from a modern classic by a famous American author (Cormac McCarthy), and also involved a search through Western country (not to mention having Josh Brolin in common). While True Grit is a period Western, the story is broadly one that been Coen staple since the beginning - characters thrown together as they journey toward a collective goal that is complicated by individual interests.

The Coen’s may be the closest thing there is to a must see American director. Though there have been a few missteps (most notably, The Ladykillers), for the most part audiences can depend on something of merit arising from the combined efforts of the famously elusive, interview-shy brothers. They continue to take traditional genres, re-inventing, melding, and twisting conventions to create innovative amalgams.

The challenge here was great, if only because this is a remake or re-imagining of sorts. The book had been used before as the source for John Wayne’s 1969 film of the same name (Wayne went on to reprise the role in 1975 in Rooster Cogburn). It is impossible not to compare two films sharing the same name and source material, though no one does Wayne like Wayne, his presence in Westerns perhaps as iconic as any archetypal movie persona in the history of cinema. Rooster Cogburn was a kind of culmination of a career playing the ornery, laconic, tough guy loner, and recognizing this the Academy awarded him an Oscar.

Jeff Bridges, long one of America’s more under-appreciated actors, won an Oscar himself last year. Here, he does ornery and crusty well, with a voice/accent that sounds like a mix of Jack Elam and Billy Bob Thornton’s Carl from Slingblade. Matt Damon as Texas Ranger Labouef, is also solid, playing the part with a mix of sincerity and a wink, his accent a derivation of his well known impression of fellow actor Matthew McConaughy.

The real surprise though is thirteen year old Hailee Steinfeld, playing the role handled by the much older Kim Darby in the original, the preternaturally wise fourteen year old Matty Ross. Matty has recently lost her father, who was murdered in cold blood by criminal Tom Chaney (Brolin). Matty travels to  Fort Smith, Arkansas  to take care of of her father’s business affairs, but, refusing to trust the law to track down and prosecute her father’s killer, she hires the drunken U.S. Marshal Cogburn, insisting she must accompany him as part of the deal, and the two embark on the manhunt, joined by Texas Ranger LaBouef.

The Coens play it relatively straight here, choosing to employ the kind of archaic speech pattern popularized in Deadwood, a challenge met by the talented cast, particularly the young Steinfeld, who manages the fast paced, speech-filled dialogue with aplomb. The mix of the dramatic and comedic, with a dose of Coen violence, has True Grit  ranking as upper echelon Coen - not quite in the realm of Miller’s Crossing or The Big Lebowski, but with perhaps only an overlong first act courtroom sequence and a lukewarm ending keeping it from nipping at the heels of greatness. The Coens usual collaborators assist, and the cinematography from the marvelous Roger Deakins; and piano dominated score by Carter Burwell are both, of course, superb.

Somewhere (USA) Directed by Sofia Coppola   Written by Sofia Coppola  Starring Stephen Dorff; Elle Fanning; Chris Pontius; Lala Sloatman

There has, in recent years, seemingly been a lot of negative verbiage dedicated to the relative abilities of writer/director Sofia Coppola. At 39, with four features under her belt (after shorts Lick the Star (1996); Bed, Bath, and Beyond (1998), she is still in the beginnings of her career. While critical response to her previous work has varied, a case can be made that she has produced one excellent film (Lost in Translation (2003), and two interesting though flawed ones (Virgin Suicides (1999); Marie Antoinette (2006). Somewhere falls somewhere short of the heights achieved withTranslation, but Coppola continues to produce work that, at the very least, places her in a select group of American filmmakers whose work bears watching each time out of the box.

It’s an interesting phenomenon - the Sofia bashing, especially for a writer/director with an Academy award, and an Oscar nomination for best director. Perhaps it is because she is viewed by some as a dilettante, handed the keys from her producer/director father Francis, whose company produces her films. Perhaps it has to do with her much derided acting performance in Godfather III (an appearance that was one of seven she made in her father’s films). Perhaps it’s her hipster persona or her taste for eighties music, rock singers, fashion, and the French? Perhaps it’s merely the fact that she is a woman working on the fringes of the system in a highly male dominated profession?

Regardless, Coppola seems resolute about continuing to make personal films, and there is a quality to the work that is becoming definable. A certain sense of stylized flatness pervades the results of her short career, a general feeling of ennui that in another time might have been termed melancholia. Highly influenced by classic European cinema, Coppola’s aesthetic favors spare scripts with a dearth of dialogue; long, extended takes (many with very little action); a kind of well orchestrated raw photographic style (from the eminently talented Harris Savides), and an attention to character over plot.

Stephen Dorff stars as Hollywood actor Johnny Marco, an adult child living a hedonistic lifestyle while camped out in Hollywood at The Chateau Marmont. Located on the Sunset Strip, the exclusive hotel is infamous for its rock and Hollywood star clientele, a place where the famous have historically decamped, hid out, and practiced their debauchery. Coppola takes her time, allowing us to settle in to Marco’s between films existence, which seems to include a lot of drinking, pill popping, chain smoking, massages, and anonymous sex with a host of attractive star-struck young women.

Johnny is disaffected, numb, bored, depressed, and enveloped in a perennial cycle of self-indulgence. A disembodied voice named Marg calls him at the hotel when he has to be somewhere, often simply to inform him who will pick him up in the lobby, and everywhere he goes he is catered to and fawned over, while text messages are sent to him asking questions like, why are you such an asshole? He puts substances in his body and engages in anonymous sex because they’re available - easy fixes his money and fame afford him.

When Cleo (Elle Fanning), his eleven year old daughter, arrives at the hotel, first for a day visit, and then for a longer stay, we get a further glimpse into Johnny’s inner life, though glimpses are all we ever get in this restrained piece of cinema. Coppola does not feel responsible for our knowing full back stories or connecting all the dots. We are forced to take these characters how we get them. Cleo’s beautiful smiling young face, her grown-up ability to order food and make meals for herself, her exuberance when playing a video game serving as brightness against Johnny’s deadened existence. Dorff’s Johnny is, in many ways, a selfish, reprehensible sort, though his ineffectual love for his daughter is obvious. Cleo represents something real and true and innocent in the jaded sphere he inhabits, and it is during the scenes with his daughter that we see him momentarily distracted from his various methods of self-medication. 

The relationship between Johnny and Cleo is touching, though not romanticized. Always underlining their desultory time together, playing Guitar Hero and Wii, having a card game, eating gelatto while watching a movie, lying by the sun, is the knowledge that this is a father who has neglected a daughter who loves him. He plows through women, conquering and discarding them as if they were used Kleenex, and in many ways his daughter is just another on the list. Their connection is obvious and natural though, and Coppola beautifully captures a host of small moments between the two. When emotion is finally displayed, it hits with a contolled burst, and feels eminently believable and fully earned,  

Coppola’s collaboration with the father of her children, and Phoenix lead singer, Thomas Mars, continues, and the soundtrack fuses original and eclectic popular music from disparate artists like Gwen Stefani, Amerie, Bryan Ferry, and the Foo Fighters. An odd open (a tip to Vincent Gallo’s Brown Bunny perhaps?) and close (despite the attempt, no interesting Translation close, here) mar slightly what is otherwise a taut, well rendered offering from a Hollywood insider who, having command over her own established style, knows her story inside and out.

The King’s Speech (BRIT) Directed by Tom Hooper  Written by David Seidler  Starring Colin Firth; Geoffrey Rush; Helena Bonham Carter; Derek Jacobi; Timothy Spall; Michael Gambon; Guy Pearce; Claire Bloom; Eve Best; Roger Parrott; Jennifer Ehle

Fifty year old Colin Firth is most often seen playing some version of the very British, handsome yet self-effacing romantic leading man on screen persona developed over his twenty five years in film and television. 2009 saw something of a departure for him as he played a suicidal gay man in A Single Man, and here, as speech afflicted Albert “Bertie” Windsor/would-be King George VI, he stretches further, expressing hard fought, roiling emotion and temper that would be considered uncouth in many of his previous, more placid roles.

While the scope of this character study is rather narrow, especially given the enormity of the times, and the renown of many of the players involved, there is something satisfying about seeing a historical piece that focuses on the personal. It is easy for sweeping historical tales to lose sight of their main characters as it is often a chore to give great events their proper weight, while attempting to humanize personal stories. That is never the case here, and director Tom Hooper does his best not to trivialize or give short shrift to world wide political happenings that would come to shape and define the middle part of the 20th century.

Born in 1895, Prince Albert was the second son of King George V (Michael Gambon) and Queen Mary (Claire Bloom). He married Queen Elizabeth (Bowes-Lyon) and had two daughters, Elizabeth (who became Queen Elizabeth II) and Margaret. Afflicted with a serious stammer, Albert was eventually forced to take the crown in 1937 when his older brother, newly appointed King Edward VIII (Guy Pearce) abdicated due to his involvement in a scandal over his marrying a twice divorced woman, Wallis Simpson (Eve Best).

From top to bottom the cast is superb, with veteran British actors like Gambon, Bloom, Timothy Spall (as Churchill) and Derek Jacobi (as Archbishop Cosmo Lang) occupying small roles, but managing to imbue them with the required gravitas, making each of their relatively short time on screen memorable. Firth, Carter, and Rush are wonderful in the prime slots, pulling off the subtly humorous asides/comedic moments largely based on manners with as much aplomb as the more dramatic scenes. There is tremendous pleasure to be derived from watching a production that is so thoroughly professional, observing experienced actors inhabit roles with the kind of ease and adeptness that would make most fellow professionals envious.

Director Tom Hooper (John Adams; The Damned United) provides some fittingly awe-struck photography (DP Danny Cohen) at the grandiosity of the architecture, while, with the exception of a montage that involves a pivotal radio broadcast, keeping us away from the kind of cliched time passes and breadth cheats that can sometimes awkwardly stand apart from the rest of the film. He instead pays close attention to the smaller design and costume details that give the film its authentic feel, and allows the wonderful actors at his disposal to serve as the main show.

The relationship between speech therapist Lionel and Bertie, as the two refer to themselves in the room, is a special one. Rush is an expert at this type of role, that of the slightly eccentric outsider. There is humor and real warmth between these two men - one, a failed actor and family man from humble means, the other, wealthy, from royalty, but largely friendless, and burdened by expectations and the affliction he believes to be incurable. Their friendship and professional working partnership is allowed the room to evolve and take shape over time, traversing several highs and lows as George ascends to the throne.

The sessions Bertie and Lionel share become as much like actual talk therapy as they are about the physical delivery of words, and there is illuminating discussion along these lines, including the idea that people are not born stutterers (as Bertie was not), but rather develop the condition. In this way, the film does great justice to the issue of speech affliction. There is one particularly nice moment when Churchill reveals to King George his own history of impediment, illustrating the universal nature of the problem.

It is the accumulation of a number of these well handled moments, and the restraint Hooper demonstrates in refusing to allow melodrama or ornateness to overtake that help make The King’s Speech such an enjoyable watch.

Tiny Furniture (USA) Directed by Lena Dunham   Written by Lena Dunham   Starring Lena Dunham; Laurie Simmons; Grace Dunham; Alex Karpovsky; Jemima Kirke; Merritt Weaver; David Call( Keith); Amy Seimetz

Festival hit Tiny Furniture comes from twenty four year old writer/director Lena Durham, who also plays the lead, Aura, who has recently finished school at Oberlin (her real life Alma Mater) and returned to her family home (her real life family home) in Lower Manhattan/Tribeca, NYC. Though quantifying how the content of a piece according to its autobiographical details is usually a bad idea, doing so becomes virtually unavoidable when a writer/director also plays a lead character who happens to be a filmmaker, and casts immediate family members (real life artist mom Laurie Simmons as mom Siri; real life sister Grace as sister Nadine) in major supporting roles that are closely drawn versions of themselves.

Tiny Furniture (the name comes from the miniatures Siri works with), Dunham’s second feature, has a Mumblecore feel to it as many of the characters are young adults, the film was made cheaply (a micro budget featuring a Canon 7D), the focus is on dialogue, and plot-wise not a lot happens. There is also a level of self-absorption that has one drawing comparisons to the previously mentioned DYI string of films, but also filmmakers like Woody Allen, a writer/director/actor with whom Dunham shares a very New York, upper middle class aesthetic, and perhaps Chantel Akerman, an auteur who has also, to some extent, used herself as an object on film. Like Allen, there is a kind of personal neurotic, self-deprecation at work that combines with some exploratory stabs at the vagaries of intellectualism, the NYC art scene, and wealth. Like Akerman, Dunham plays with ideas about her own sexuality, daring to expose her physical form on camera. Because (as in Akerman’s case) Dunham doesn’t embody some traditional Hollywood notion of physical beauty, her choice is both brave, and, almost by default, embedded with some socio-sexual-political commentary (one echoed in her choice of art installation, which of course was an actual video she made in real life that enjoyed wide play on the internet).

Dunham (who is already involved in an HBO project with Jud Apatow) is a budding filmmaker with some ability in regard to performance as she uses a mix of experienced and inexperienced actors to relatively good effect. She also shows a steady hand when it comes to modulation, allowing what little drama there is to arise in small, effective moments, refusing to impose unnecessary plot or structure into what is essentially a meandering piece about a young woman reeling from a recent breakup of a long term college relationship, and attempting to find out how to begin her adulthood.

Aura comes back to a home that doesn’t seem to live up to her idealized version of it, feeling like she no longer fits in a place she still considers partly hers. She’s angry at her mother and sister’s self involvement, her mothers assistant’s free reign of the living section of the loft, and the restrictions imposed upon her by a new restaurant job and Siri’s rules regarding her comings and goings. She retreats into the arms of several ill-matched would be lovers, and an old/new friend Charlotte (Dunham’s real life pal, Jemima Clarke), while practically ignoring her schoolmate Frankie (Merritt Weaver), with whom she was scheduled to get an apartment with.

Dunham should be applauded on more than one front - her ability to maximize  very limited and simply designed locations, her restraint in keeping the story small, her avoidance of cliche trap. All of these factors are aided by the overall underplaying of events in a kind of through-line of vague depression. With that said, in some ways the film’s strength is also its biggest weakness as the stakes do not ever seem high enough to fully compel us or demand our emotional investment.

As a character, Aura is neither overly likable nor abhorrent. While her sister, the slender, bespectacled Nadine, a star student who wins a national poetry prize (as she did in real life) is certainly vaguely annoying, obviously put out by her big sister’s arrival; the men she encounters - the sous chef (David Call), and fellow video maker Jed (Mumblecore vet Alex Karpovsky) fittingly callous and selfish; and Siri certainly focused on her own pursuits, it is difficult to muster tremendous sympathy for someone who seems to come from such a privileged background, and who presumably has plenty of time to go about making more mistakes before figuring it all out.

This is not to say that Tiny Furniture is without a recognizable sensibility or significant merit. Dunham’s voice is (perhaps naturally) very much a woman’s, and for all the accomplishments of the Mumblecore films there has not, to this point, been much from a female perspective. While the story also seems quite obviously a young person’s, this fact makes it no more or less valid than any other. In its best moments, Dunham manages to capture the essence of an uncertain human being clearly confused about what kind of person she will become. Her mistakes seem like the kind that people make at that age. As she tries to find solace in the cocoon of her family home, she is exasperated by the fact that her presence seems to barely register with Nadine and Siri, provoking annoyance and anger she can’t name, her inability to verbalize creating exponentially more distress.

Ultimately, clear visuals utilizing the new SLR technology, well cast supporting players - Clarke is a standout as the quirky faux-British accented rich girl, and an authentic feeling existential melancholia permeating a story as minimalist as Dunhams Mom’s loft, make Tiny Furniture a promising start to what might be an interesting film-making career.

127 Hours (USA) Directed by Danny Boyle  Written by Simon Beaufroy; Danny Boyle  Starring James Franco; Kate Mara; Amber Tamblyn; Lizzy Caplan; Treat Williams; Kate Burton; Rebecca Olsen

Having started acting some thirteen years ago, for some time now thirty two year old James Franco has been lying in the wings, hardly out of radar range, but fitting into a variety of supporting and leading roles in a cross-section of studio and independent films. Projects as wide ranging as cult TV show Freaks and Geeks (1999-2000); the mini-series James Dean (2001) the Spider Man trilogy (2001-2007); City by the Sea (2002); The Pineapple Express (2008); Milk (2008) and Howl (2010) have brought him to this point in his career - one which has, for some time, seemed to promise an ascension to movie stardom enjoyed by the likes of Brad Pitt; Matt Damon; Johnny Depp; and George Clooney. After all, Franco has the looks, the toothy, slightly crooked smile, and certainly the chops to be a matinee idol - someone populist audiences and critics alike could agree to accept.

With 127 Hours, Franco has perhaps emerged as a bankable leading man, and it’s a (practically) one-man; tour de force; bravura performance, the kind actors win Oscar’s for - and yet, this Danny Boyle helmed film, based on the memoir of the same name by Aron Ralston, is a not typical of anything, including previous semi-solo offerings like Castaway. Though 127 Hours shares a basic premise with that Tom Hanks movie - a man being trapped in a far off spot away from loved ones and friends, facing various forms of deprivation, Boyle does his level best to infuse the proceedings with lots of colorfully imaginative flashbacks, sun-splashed photography (DPs Anthony Dod Mantle and Enrique Chediak, using the S12K, Canon 7D and 5D HD cams), various editing flourishes, a forceful soundtrack (A.R. Rahman) bolstered with popular music, monologues in the form of a camcorder that Ralston uses to record his experience, and a host of surrealistic images mirroring thoughts, hallucinations, memories, and dreams to take us inside the head of a human being facing an extreme set of circumstances.

The beginning credit sequence, as well as the ending of the film, seem to be very much in Slumdog Millionaire mode, painting a wide scale perspective of the human condition and the eventual triumphant conquering of spirit. While these sections feel at least a tad derivative, the film as a whole miraculously places us smack dab in the shoes of the mountain climbing Ralston, a free spirit who found himself with his arm inextricably squeezed between rock formations in the middle of the vast desert near Moab, Utah. We experience the five-plus days he endures this horrific situation, riding the roller coaster of frustration, terror, panic, and depression that besets him.

Much has been made of the sequence when Ralston cuts off his arm in order to extricate himself. Make no mistake, this is powerfully visceral stuff, excruciating visuals and sound that come as close as is likely possible to getting some small hint of what it must have been like. The act itself, made even more difficult by the fact that Ralston had forgotten his Swiss army knife and was forced to hack his way through his own flesh and bone, deserves nothing less than the graphic detailing it receives, and Boyle refuses to shy away from the impossibly gruesome spectacle. Though it is clearly the most sensational part of the story, the act, as brave and courageous, and, (let’s face it) disgusting as it might be, doesn’t define the film, and this, as much as as anything, is an accomplishment Franco and Boyle should be applauded for.

There seems to be an acute understanding (no less aided by a screenplay Boyle adapted with frequent collaborator Simon Beaufroy) at work regarding the necessity for real finesse in executing the structural balance between Ralston’s present day circumstances and the melding of time and memory, an aspect that would certainly play a prominent role with anyone stranded on their own, deprived of food and water, in severe pain, exposed to sun and rain, and facing almost certain impending death, for any extended period of time.

Franco has been a tremendously prolific actor, particularly given his myriad extra curricular pursuits - namely, going to film school, making documentaries and narratives, producing, painting, writing fiction, and currently his attendance at Yale, where he is pursuing a P.H.D. He has even made time to do a role on the soap opera, General Hospital (which he subsequently turned into an art exhibit). Additionally, he is set to adapt and direct Faulkner’s (yes, that Faulkner’s) As I Lay Dying in the coming year. All of this seems to indicate that Franco might buck the tide and refuse to have his career defined by inane big budget romantic comedies and action flicks. As indicated by his appearances on Funny or Die and his connection to Jud Apatow it also seems that Franco, despite his lofty intellectual and artistic pursuits, and unlike some wonderful contemporary actors like Bale; Penn; and Day Lewis, doesn’t take himself altogether too seriously, a quality that might assist him in the years to come.

The Fighter (USA) Directed by David O. Russell   Written by  Scott Silver; Paul Tamasy; Eric Johnson    Starring Mark Wahlberg; Christian Bale; Melissa Leo; Amy Adams; Jack McGee; Mickey O’Keefe

In an era fraught with scandal and controversy within the sport, Junior Welterweight “Irish” Micky Ward rose out of relative obscurity to become a national symbol of what was right with boxing, demonstrating the kind of blood and guts determination and fortitude that movies are made of. Wallah, we get the story of Lowell, Massachusetts native Micky and his half brother, Dicky Eklund (Christian Bale), a once promising fighter himself whose life became dominated by crack addiction, multiple arrests, and repeated periods of incarceration.

In real life Ward’s career record was only 38-13, but he won a championship belt, and fought three epic battles (winning one) with nemesis (and later, good friend), the late Arturo Gatti, a warrior who was Ward’s equal in the never-quit-no-matter-what department. Both braved serious cuts, injuries, and multiple losses throughout their career, but continued on to eventually see their individual stars rise in their thirties. Their fights with one another in 2002 and 2003, which brought out the best in both men, were shown on HBO. These were particularly brutal contests, marked by a plethora of blood and closed eyes and the kind of brutal beauty and awe inspiring courage that defines the very best example of the controversial sport.

The film doesn’t touch the Gatti period, choosing to concentrate on the events leading up to Ward’s rise to prominence. Events too are heavily fictionalized, including the compression of Ward’s long life in boxing, and what was actually an eight year prison sentence for Eklund (in the film it feels like about one). Included though is the well known incident where Ward’s right hand was smashed by a Lowell police officer, though it actually happened much earlier in his life, and became a defining aspect of the latter part of his boxing career. Because his hand was so badly damaged and would repeatedly break, he was forced to rely on his left, the same hand he would use to dig into the body of his opponents, a devastating shot that became Ward’s trademark. The film barely touches on this very key detail, and its overall approach seems to be one long favored in Hollywood, where truth is less important than the aim of telling a good story. Here, director Russell blends genres and mixes tones to create a straight-forward, but simultaneously odd composite.

Producer/lead Wahlberg spent years trying to bring the story to the screen. Originally, other actors (Brad Pitt; Matt Damon) and directors (most notably, pre-The Wrestler Darren Aronofsky) were attached. There were several scripts and several near starts. The journey was also made more rocky by a controversy surrounding the fact that, at one point, Eklund sold the rights to his brother’s story.

The famously volatile Russell, who previously cast Wahlberg in Three Kings and I Heart Huckabees, was eventually brought on board, and he clearly saw the film as one primarily about family as opposed to an action based boxing story. While care is taken to recreate fight footage, and (with all the starts and stops) Wahlberg spent multiple years training to look like a fighter, the lack of budget (11 million for production) and shortened shoot shows in a definite lack of scope in the fight scenes. Wahlberg is, at best, adequate in these sequences, moving and throwing punches reasonably, but many of the scenes are too obviously choreographed, and Wahlberg seems to be in slow motion in some of the workout sessions (one can practically hear the counts dictating the next punch, duck, or block).

Russell has lots of fun at the expense of the family, making a mockery out of the seven Ward/Eklund sisters (who are less characters than caricature) and Mom/manager Alice (Melissa Leo - a wonderful actress, who struggles mightily with the vaunted accent). The Oedipal implications are obvious, with favored elder son Dicky, the once “Pride of Lowell”, receiving the lion’s share of the attention and accolades. The delivery of the information regarding Dicky’s familiar and community status is hardly subtle, however, as we are repeatedly told about his fight with Sugar Ray Leonard where he either did or didn’t knock Ray down.

Bale is nothing short of sensational as Eklund, stealing the film with a performance that walks a precarious line between trick- filled imitation and brilliant methody inhabiting, replete with another distressing weight loss (not Machinist distressing, but still…). Though he slips at times, Bale also nails the accent in places (”You’re Micky Ward”), and overall it’s close enough not to take away from his manic, humorous, and soulful take on Eklund, a fighter/trainer/neighborhood character/thief/crack addict. Eklund was something of a physical marvel, supremely athletically gifted, possessing a wealth of boxing insight and knowledge, but compelled by deep seated demons driving him to alcohol and drug abuse, undermining and eventually cutting short a once promising career.

Wahlberg, for his part, doesn’t try to do too much, and this is a good thing. Though at times his go to breathless exhortations resemble Casey Affleck’s solid, but less than hard guy portrayal of Patrick Kenzie in brother Ben’s Gone Baby Gone, but the stillness in his performance manages to close in on Ward’s quiet, humble manner, and his comfort with the accent and surroundings (having grown up in a big family in a similarly blue collar Boston neighborhood) pays dividends in his ability to settle into the role. While Bale’s turn is obviously the standout here, Wahlberg grounds the film with a solid baseline, and without him The Fighter  would’ve failed to achieve the alchemy that, despite some serious flaws, eventually adds up to success.

While Russell’s film takes some time to get going, the eventual accumulation of a well grounded sense of place and well cast minor characters and extras (many local non-pros, including a number of Eklund/Wards appear) begins to take over. The fact that there is no soft peddling of crack addiction, and a well-timed inclusion of the film within a film device, depicting the production of the real life HBO documentary, 1995s High on Crack Street, featuring Eklund, his friend Boo Boo (played by Paul Campbell here), and a third female addict, gives us a reckoning within the family and community, demonstrating how far off their insular world was from reality.

The miscalculation that stands out is simply one of degrees. While the idea of multiple homely, low rent sisters with bad hair who move and speak in unison is amusing on the surface (and does provide some cheap laughs), Russell goes to the well one too many times, and the cumulative affect results in condescension - the kind of skewering of simple-folk that would make a director like Sam Mendes proud. While there is a current of realism that aids the film’s strongest sections, this slip cuts into the overall tone of the piece in its entirety, one that would have done better staying farther away from broad comedy and allowing earned humor to arise naturally. The writers and filmmaker evidently didn’t trust that simple lines delivered with panache were funny enough, and determined the audience needed broad characterizations, over-the-top blow ups (like the porch scene with the sisters confronting Mickey’s new girlfriend Charlene (Amy Adams), and a kind of running “in-joke” worthy of a cookie cutter TV sit-com to “get it”.

Still, like all good sports biopics, what eventually wins an audience over are elements like the very real emotion on display, and an underdog lead character who dreams of doing better, being more. Here, a major component is family challenges/dysfunction; and, while often depicted in a ridiculous manner, the Ward/Eklund’s problems aren’t far removed from the kind of issues faced by families the world over. And while the “joke” involving the sisters certainly reduces them to something far, far less than fully realized individuals, Ward’s relationship with new girlfriend Charlene; father, George Ward (Jack McGee ); Mother,  Alice, and Lowell police office/trainer, Mickey O’Keefe (playing himself), smacks of the real thing. And regardless of the repeated fun poked at the family, it’s obvious that there is simultaneously an intent to honor their tight bonds, eventually unveiling the kind of unconditional love and support that knows no bounds.

In the end, it is the moments of realism, the generally strong sense of place, lead Wahlberg’s comfort with the world, and one knockout performance from Bale, that push The Fighter beyond the average, helping it offset the rather unfortunate representation of living and breathing working class people who deserve to be seen as something more than cartoon constructs.

The Social Network(USA) Directed by David Fincher   Written by Aaron Sorkin  Starring Jesse Eisenberg; Justin Timberlake; Rooney Mara; Andrew Garfield; Max Minghella; Armie Hammer; Joseph Mozzello

Hollywood has every resource its disposal - the money to buy the best technology and technicians; the ability to cast most any actor; access to locations across the world; the best post production personnel, procedures, and equipment; the best composers; millions to throw at advertising and promotion. The reasons why then so little quality winds up emerging are likely too numerous to try to delineate here, and of course the end goal is money as opposed to artistic merit, but suffice to say there is simply not a plethora of well constructed, reasonably thoughtful, entertaining films made by major Hollywood studios. 

The Social Network is an example of a quality concept that somehow got a studio to throw $50 million dollars at it, which in today’s insane Hollywood financing landscape is actually below the estimated average budget for a studio film. Perhaps the lack of a comparatively extravagant budget is one of the reasons why the film manages to retain some feeling of authorship amongst a sea of products that too often feel like the result of filmmaking by committee.

That is not to say that the result might necessarily be identified as a “David Fincher Film”. Though there are socially relevant themes contained (and cinema in general has a tremendous ability - too often squandered - to relate the important stories of our time) in this tale covering the rise of Facebook, the most successful social networking site in the history of the Internet, it is far from the dark, foreboding piece one might readily associate with the director of Fight Club; Seven; and Zodiac.

This is, however, the same filmmaker who made Benjamin Button, and (though that film was heralded for its work with reverse aging Brad Pitt), The Social Network too is hardly marked by cutting edge themes or hard edged violence and sex. The technique is solid, and the pace swift, but this is the kind of relatively straight-forward bio-pic/recent historical drama in the same general realm as that of a crowd/critic pleaser like the $30 million Up In the Air.

Based on the 2009 non-fiction bestseller by Ben Mezrich (and an excellent script from West Wing guy Aaron Sorkin), the story is a fascinating one, and the nebbishy Jesse Eisenberg seems a perfect fit for founder and CEO Mark Zuckerberg, currently the youngest billionaire in the world. Though the distillation of his story into a metaphor involving his pursuit of, and resentment toward, women seems (whether true or not) more than a little simplistic, the ideas supporting the development of a site that represents a huge shift in the way human beings across the world communicate and interact are effectively and satisfyingly portrayed.  Zuckerberg’s story (or at least the one put forth on screen) speaks to the psychological nature of why and how we use the Internet and the way it both reflects human nature and simultaneously affects it.

The story begins in 2003, Harvard University, Cambridge Massachusetts, where Zuckerberg, an undergrad from New York, writes computer programs, getting in trouble with the school for crashing the university network with his invention of Facemash, which involved the judgment of female students based on their looks. His partners in crime included Eduardo Saverin (Andrew Garfield), who would become Facebook’s CFO, and Zuckerberg’s programmer roommates, Dustin Moskovitz (Joseph Moszzello) and Chris Hughes (Patrick Mapel), who would also assist him in launching what was then titled The Facebook.

The film starts with Zuckerberg being broken up with by his pretty girlfriend, Erica Albright (Rooney Mara) at a college bar. During the conversation, he reveals himself to be a selfish, insecure, petty, and nakedly ambitious young man, utterly unaware of the snobbery and arrogance that Erica clearly abhored. Ironically, fueled by his own social awkwardness and lack of acceptance from elite college social groups, Zuckerberg is hell bent on shaking up the ingrained, elitist power bases that, from his perspective, conspire to keep him on the outs.

The crux of the long since settled legal controversy over the origins of Facebook revolve around the claims by Tyler Winklevoss, his identical twin, Cameron (both played by Armie Hammer) and Divya Narendra (Max Minghella), Harvard students who attempted to hire Zuckerberg to write code for a site they were developing called The Harvard Connection. There seems little doubt (as evidenced by the settlement that would later occur) that Zuckerberg “borrowed” some of their ideas, and also engaged in deception by stall and delay tactics that aided him in getting there first, launching his own amalgamated version of their idea (one he, by the way, was probably already circling around). There also seems to be little question that Zuckerberg is and was an extremely intelligent innovator who likely would have made his mark in some computer related venture regardless.

The nuanced, chicken or the egg aspect adds to the suspense, but this is a film where the journey is ultimately much more important than the end result. Intellectual property law is a complicated arena, and sussing out some definitive truth from a subject like this might be nearly impossible. In the end, Zuckerberg moved on (some might say ruthlessly) from some of the people who helped make the site what it eventually became. Whether this is an organic element in the development of any multi-billion dollar company, or speaks to major flaws in the character and morality of its founder is open to question. Further, there are real questions over how accurate the details of the story are in the first place (Zuckerberg reportedly did not cooperate with the book or film), and just how many fictionalized elements have been added to the mix in a set of events that have already become the stuff of lore.  What’s undeniable is the influence Facebook has had on modern communication across the world, the amount of money the company has generated, and the vast potential for Facebook to continue to impact the future of the most important technological invention of our time.

An effective score by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross; exceptional editing (Kirk Baxter; Angus Wall); and a solid supporting performance by Justin Timberlake as Napster founder Sean Parker further assist in making The Social Network undoubtedly one of the top films of the year.

Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps (USA) Directed by Oliver Stone  Written by Allen Loeb; Stephen Schiff   Starring Michael Douglas; Shia Labeouf; Carey Mulligan; Josh Brolin; Susan Sarandon; Eli Wallach; Frank Langella; Austin Pendleton; Jason Clarke; Vanessa Ferlito       

Sixty four year old Oliver Stone is like a power hitting specialist in baseball - each and every time up at bat he’s swinging for the fences. Many of his efforts over the last fifteen years have fallen short of the wall - pop ups to the outfield; some drives to the warning track, but he keeps whacking away, satisfied only with the possibility of creating big films that tackle the political, economic, and social questions of our day.

Stone’s films are, on the whole, loud and brash, his scripts unapologetically riddled with characters  speechifying about philosophical life questions. There is a theatricality to them that often reaches the grand scale of opera, and the recent historic nature of much of his output provides problems with recounting these real life events in a naturalistic way, keeping up the entertainment quotient while delving into the big questions that compelled him in the first place.    

When Stone gets the balance right, a kind of epic feel is often achieved that is not easily manufactured in cinema. To his credit, whether the subject matter is war; the executive office of the president; terrorism; or finance, his films are almost always about something, which is not at all a given when discussing the majority of entries emerging from the Hollywood machine. For better or worse Stone has a horse in the race most times out of the gate - he’s a student of politics, and history, posessing a seemingly insatiable intellectual curiosity, an artist who wants desperately to reach mass audiences to communicate to them his stridently held ideas about our collective state of existence within American society, and the larger world where we reside.  

Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps is, of course, not the work of a modest filmmaker. Stone is after creating something that speaks of and for our times: no small task that. Here, he tackles our recent economic woes,  concentrating, of course, on the Wall Street collapse and the scandal related to credit default swaps, hedge funds, and the failings of sub-prime mortgages and the real estate market, while  touching upon ideas about the melding of green energy and commerce. 

While the film is not a piece with multiple story lines akin to something like Babel, in its own way it bites off just as much. And by treating Gordon Gekko’s return to public life (he’s written a book) following a five year court battle, an eight year prison stay, and an additional seven years of imposed exile from the financial industry with the kind of utmost seriousness and sense of importance one would expect from Stone, he sets up the plot as a kind of archetypal morality play that is as every bit in love with its own sweep as the original. Thankfully, however, Stone is one of the few filmmakers with the ego, aplomb, cajones, and overall chops to pull off something of this size and scope. Big, wide reaching dramas are ultimately far more unwieldy than the expensive, technically complicated comic book superhero entrees, actioners, and sci-fi/fantasy sagas that make up so much of what we see in American theaters, mainly because they must combine high production value with a logical, coherent story containing emotionally true scenes that rise to the high stakes of the film without going over the top.

Sequels, with a few notable exceptions (Godfather II; Before Sunset), almost always suffer from being severely anti-climactic - attempts to recapture what made (in some cases) the first one so good often  leading to an obvious lack of originality and the feeling of being served a warmed over meal. Stone manages to make real recent history work in his favor, allowing the story (a solid script by Allen Loeb and Stephen Schiff) to arise out of its shadow. A sequel to a tale as big as the original needed something major and compelling at its center/backdrop/core and Stone was smart and savvy enough to realize that the world economic crisis was a set of circumstances that could support a second film.

Stone does well with a cast led by the ageless (though currently sick) Michael Douglas (reprising the reptilian Gordon Gekko role), and two good young actors in Carey Mulligan (as daughter Winnie Gekko) and Shia Labeouf (as boyfriend/fiancee Jake Moore). This is the young/young looking Labeouf’s best role to date, and the gifted Mulligan keeps the momentum rolling from her exceptional Oscar nominated work in An Education (she also appears in Never Let Me Go, currently in theaters). The supporting players include Susan Sarandon, who has an underwritten role as Jake’s Jewish, Long Island Mom; Josh Brolin as bad guy/hot shot billionaire Bretton James; ninety four year old Eli Wallach as Jules Steinhardt; and seventy two year old Frank Langella, in a nice turn, as Jake’s mentor Louis Zabel.

Shot by the supremely talented Diego Prieto, Stone makes great use of the New York skyline, employing an abundance of aerial shots and views through the windows of hi-rise apartments to give us a taste of the city, though there are times when the visuals are perhaps a little too busy. Stone includes any number of mesmerizing graphics and charts to (over) explain the already distilled scientific and economic concepts put forth, using dissolves and other transitional devices to continue fluidly driving the momentum. And still, while, for instance, the motorcycle race that takes place between Jake and Bretton is telegraphed and more than a little cliche, it is also crisply filmed with an intensity befitting the speed and danger of the action on display.

This film is not on par with the original, and Laboeuf ultimately proves less compelling and believable than his 1987 counterpart, young Charlie Sheen (who returns in a off-puttingly glib cameo as Bud Fox), but as far as sequels go this one is still among the best ever made.

I’m Still Here (USA) Directed by Casey Affleck

I’m Still Here arises out of a tradition that includes Spinal Tap; Sasha Baron Cohen’s Borat; and Bruno; the films of Christopher Guest; and the work of Andy Kaufman, performance art played out in a mockumentary format. The best of this type of work exists on multiple levels, revealing truths about cultural/societal morays that only the best satirical material can accomplish.

While, like the recent Paper Heart, I’m Still Here melds fact with fiction, what really makes this film different than its predecessors is the prolonged set up, starting with Joaquin Phoenix’s announcement in October 2008 that he was retiring from acting to pursue a career in rap, as well as the A list nature of his celebrity. Word soon got out that he and brother-in-law Casey Affleck (who’s married to Joaquin’s younger sister Summer) were at work on a project that would document Phoenix’s career change. It seemed obvious to this writer that all of this was a stunt for the sake of the documentary, but speculation continued about the validity of the Academy Award nominated actor’s pursuits, subsiding only in the past few days when Affleck revealed that the entire thing was, in fact, a hoax.

The film shows us the infamous and hilarious February 2009 Letterman interview that garnered world wide publicity. It also gives us several of Phoenix’s live rap performances, including the Las Vegas LIV nightclub where he dove into the crowd in order to attack a (planted) heckling audience member. We see numerous excerpts from entertainment shows, You Tube clips, and comedians and talk show hosts commenting on and  mocking his behavior, as well as shots of the paparazzi trailing him at various events.

Behind the scenes we see Phoenix interacting with Affleck, who for most of the film is, presumably, behind the camera, and the other members of his small entourage, including assistant Anton (former Spacehog guitarist Anthony Langdon), a recovering addict and Phoenix’s whipping boy, and put upon manager Larry, exasperated and befuddled throughout as he tries to appease his star client. Celebrities who appear in amusing cameos, include Edward James Olmos; Mos Def; Ben Stiller (who notably mocked Phoenix’s bearded look at The Academy Awards); and Sean “Diddy” Combs.

Phoenix, who refers to himself as J.P., a tag connected to his new found persona, is like Brian Wilson without the talent. His insanely wild, unkempt beard (Letterman compared him to The Unabomber); scraggly, untethered head of hair; and generally disheveled look, combine with his barely coherent mumblings and incessant cursing to frame an absurdly self-involved, off-kilter character. J.P., who has clearly let himself go physically (Phoenix appears shirtless; and several shots focus on his enlarged belly), smokes pot, sniffs cocaine, and with disturbingly manaical laughter orders up hookers by phone. When he’s not recording music at his home studio, he’s waxing poetic about art and purity, while consistently demonstrating his pettiness and jealousy, verbally abusing and berating those in his employ, and spouting deluded ramblings in a neverending stream of consciousness. While the project itself could be considered self-indulgent, it is actually about that very subject; J.P. is, for the most part, a despicable person, his every whim indulged by sycophantic glad-handers who fawn over this rich and famous person.

There are plenty of laugh out loud moments here, including JP’s dealings with Combs, whom he essentially stalks in order to meet. Phoenix is wonderful at playing awkward and uncomfortable, and uses silent pauses, nervous tics, and twitches to great affect, his immersion in this persona so deep that he makes us believe (or at least go with it) in spite of our better judgment. The excruciating rap bits are priceless, with audience members using their cellphones to take photos of the celebrity on parade, excited by his presence, yet slowly coming to the realization that he’s terrible. The confusion over the validity of the enterprise adds additional strangeness as no one is quite sure whether to laugh or get angry.

What’s most compelling about I’m Still Here though is the degree of vulnerability and rawness that Phoenix is somehow able to infuse into the hapless JP, a character we should clearly loathe. There is something about his talk of dreams (he reads from a children’s book on the subject at one point), and his willingness to put himself out there against all logic, that beckons to the child in all of us. He compares acting to being a puppet, and explains that he wants to do something creative to be heard, and one can’t help but wonder how much of his truth is sprinkled amongst the nonsense.   

What’s undeniable is the fact that Phoenix intentionally (or at least consciously) took a torch to his career for the past few years, and one wonders how this enters into how he will be received (by audiences and film insiders) in the future. One wonders what James Gray, director of Phoenix’s last film (the woefully underrated Two Lovers), felt about his publicity stunt as they promoted that film. And to go to this extent, wouldn’t there have had to have been something personal about the ideas being explored here? Could it be that Phoenix was really burned out and looked at this project as a way to escape some of the madness (although seemingly contradictorily opening himself up to an entirely different brand of public scrutiny)? And what of the two recently settled real life (?) sexual harrassment lawsuits filed by female producers connected to the film against director/producer Affleck, and how this factors in to this extended prank of a film.

It is perhaps in the opening created footage evoking the Phoenix (or Bottom) family when they were young, playing in a outdoor lagoon and waterfall in Panama (Phoenix was born in Puerto Rico), and then later, when Affleck and Phoenix (or at least, JP) return to the same spot, that we fully realize this is something more than the usual mockumentary. Though it is never brought up, it is impossible not to recall the tragic death of brother River, and the sense of sadness and loss that seems to underlie the proceedings.  

While Spinal Tap set the bar, and stands as perhaps the richest, most fully developed film of its kind, I’m Still Here melds humor; outrageous over-the-top sophmoric moments; pathos and a poignant depiction of personal fragility; with satirical commentary on fame, wealth, and publicity. The result proves subversive on multiple fronts, not the least of which being the fact that several genuinely moving moments sneak up and bite us, regardless of how seemingly ironic and ridiculous the whole affair might be.

The Town (USA) Directed by Ben Affleck  Written by Ben Affleck; Aaron Stockard; Peter Craig   Starring Ben Affleck; Jeremy Renner; Rebecca Hall; Jon Hamm; Peter Postelwaite; Blake Lively; Slaine; Owen Burke; Titus Welliver

In director years Ben Affleck, at age 38, is a kid, still honing his craft, working out the kinks. And yet, with just two films under his belt, he’s already proven that he has command over his hometown milieu, and that he knows his way around a crime thriller. Like his debut, Gone Baby Gone, The Town is based on a novel (Prince of Thieves by Chuck Hogan ), and like Affleck’s previous film, this one has some structural issues. While Gone Baby Gone suffered from an abundance of characters, over-plotting, and as many rises and falls as the old wooden roller coaster at Paragon Park, The Town is saddled with some implausabilities, and a rather obvious path that fails to surprise or transcend the genre.

Make no mistake, however, this is, for the most part, well done stuff. Though the shootout/heist scenes are certainly overblown (and there’s at least one too many of them) what we see is spectacularly handled. Low tech (in terms of action movie standards), high intensity, testosterone fueled gun battles that feel as viscerally realistic as anything we experience in Saving Private Ryan; The Hurt Locker; or Michael Mann’s Heat. Affleck has an excellent feel for modulating these scenes - hyped up reality to be sure, but sequences that never tipple into the absurd.

And boy, let it be said again - the guy know his milieu. Affleck gets the city right - or at least to the extent that he understands the tribal rituals and cramped architecture of its ethnic neighborhoods. The script is dotted with spot on colloquialisms, and Affleck himself (as our hero/bank robber Doug Macray) delivers a number of amusing lines, clearly relishing the intonations and inflections of the accent. The cast too is beefed up with non-pro locals in small parts, meaning that the only “outsider” actors who have to contend with the vaunted accent are Chris Cooper (in a small role as Doug’s father, Stephen); Jeremy Renner (as Doug’s friend/crime partner James “Jim”/”Jem” Coughlin); Blake Lively as Jem’s sister, Krista Coughlin, and Titus Welliver (as cop Dino Ciampa), an actor who was also cast in Affleck’s previous flick. Accent-wise, the first three struggle mightily, but the performances are generally good nonetheless, with Lively at least getting the vocal rhythms (if not always the pronunciation of individual words) of a local, drug addicted single Mom. One wonders though if Affleck will ever be able to break from the demands of financiers and make a Boston based film where all of the accents are on point (which would, by the way, essentially mean that he would have to cast all locals since non-natives seem unable to approach getting it right).

It should be noted that Affleck the actor is good here. Gone are some of the affectations that had him gliding through roles playing fast talking semi-sleazy guys with loads of charm. Life (in the form of critics) has beat him up some, and maybe it’s for the good, because there is truth in the performance, and he enjoys nearly as many good moments here as he accrued in all of his films post Good Will Hunting. The beautiful Rebecca Hall is at least his equal as yuppie/bank manager Clare Keesy. Despite the massive cliches and a gaping improbability the size of the Quincy Quarries hampering the believability of their coming together, the two actors at least manage to carve out something emotionally real out of what might have been excruciatingly cloying scenes together. Jon Hamm as FBI agent Frawley too makes the most of a decently written role that has him standing somewhere in the middle of good guy and bad.

There are missteps with some small though relevant details. A scene with Macray’s bunch hanging out at a BBQ listening to rap music (a plug for actor/rapper Slaine (as robber Gloansy)) seems, even in this day and age, like a bit of a stretch in a neighborhood where racial tension has been a key element since the 1970s. Talk of father Stephen (Chris Cooper) being violated in prison seem far fetched at best. On the whole, they aren’t the kind of guys who make a habit of getting raped as it simply wouldn’t be tolerated from a group whose ranks include numerous professional crooks and cold blooded killers as ruthless as any Aryan Brotherhood clique. Finally, in retrospect, Peter Postelwaite’s florist/ bookie character Fergie seems almost entirely unnecessary,  present only to drive tension, and later, heighten the drama by making him a true nemesis.

These types of apparent small miscalculations stand out all the more because Affleck does so many things well. His eye for detail is exceptional, the look of both his films superb, and though on this count some large degree of credit must obviously be given to his choices in cinematographers (John Toll with Gone Baby Gone; consummate pro Robert Elswit here), as well as some nice work on the production and sound design, at the end of the day there is one man responsible for the mis en scene, and The Town smells like the real thing. Yes, there is a little too much information tossed at us about Doug’s background, and an eventual series of revelations revolving around Fergie’s role in his family’s past seems like so much overkill, but by and large this is solid genre film-making.

Affleck has now made two strong, though far from perfect films set in neighborhood Boston having to do with crime. Though the cry will go out for him to change it up and bring something new to the table, here’s hoping the director continues to explore his muse, improving his storytelling capabilities as he moves slowly away (both literally and figuratively) from the place where he obviously feels so comfortable. There are lots of wonderful stories to tell about any place in the world. In that way the location is simultaneously  an essential element and an irrelevant detail of Affleck’s bright future as a filmmaker.