Tyrranosoar (BRIT) Director Paddy Considine  Written by Paddy Considine  Starring Peter Mullan; Olivia Colman; Eddie Marsdan; Paul Poppelwell; Ned Dennehy; Samuel Bottomley; Sian Breckin

Arising out of a long history of British realism (what was once “kitchen sink” and has more recently been dubbed neo-realism or “miserabilist cinema” by some), actor Paddy Considine writes and directs this slice of life drama that is not for the squeamish. The brilliant Peter Mullan (My Name is Joe; Neds; Boy A; The Red Riding Trilogy) plays the anti-social, misanthropic, alcoholic Joseph, a man haunted by the past and still prone to fits of violent rage that hint at mental illness. Into his microscopic sphere comes Hannah (a superb Olivia Colman), the owner of a christian charity shop, who attempts to extend him some kindness. Joseph is initially put off by her talk of God, and her propensity for prayer, and being the animal he is almost immediately zeroes in on the weakness and hurt he senses in her. As time passes, however, their lives become intertwined in ways neither of them could have likely suspected. Eddie Marsdan (Happy-Go-Lucky; Vera Drake) provides sterling support as Hannah’s abhorrent husband James, giving the kind of brave performance not often seen in film anywhere. Considine employs a host of other actors unknown in this country, getting uniformly excellent, authentic feeling turns. The vision ultimately is a bleak one, and there is perhaps an overdose on the tragic factor, but there are so many things to like about the film that one can almost overlook the piling on. Mullan and Considine somehow manage to squeeze some humanity out of a mostly despicable sort, and refuse to let the character off the hook (the very title has to do with the man’s cruelty). It is this kind of fidelity to story and to the people populating it that makes one hope that Considine’s first feature is not his last. Erik Wilson (Submarine) gives the bleak surroundings a loving cinematic touch, and Colman is Mullan’s equal in the piece, which is no small statement.

Haywire (USA) Director Steven Soderbergh Writer Lem Dobbs Starring Gina Carano; Channing Tatum; Ewan McGregor; Michael Fassbender; Michael Douglas; Antonio Banderas; Mattieu Kassovitz; Michael Angarano; Bill Paxton

With The Girlfriend Experience, director/cinematogrpaher/editor Steven Soderbergh took a non-actor (porn star Sacha Grey) and used her as the lead in a story about a high end call-girl - here, he casts real life MMA fighter Gina Carano as Mallory Kane, a fighting/killing machine/action hero. Thankfully, Soderbergh has more success in regards to the performance of the attractive Carano than he did with the barely conscious Grey, though neither will likely be winning any acting awards in the near (or distant) future. Carano, however, displays enough life to plausibly embody the role, using her looks and physicality to play her version of Luc Besson’s/Anne Parillaud’s Nikita.

Soderbergh’s visuals are, as always, top-notch (he uses a 4k red camera), capturing scenes bathed in glowing primary colors; and his prowling shooting style utilizes long lensed shots, black and white photography, and some stylistic flourishes to mirror the surveillance involved in the spy/intelligence/special ops/contractor game. He covers the action with a fluid camera that follows Carano as she battles and flees and chases, probing as if trying to discover what will happen next. The electronic David Holmes (Out of Sight; Ocean Series) score is also recognizably Soderbergh-ian and is notable as much for the times when Soderbergh chooses not to employ it as it is for its pulsating nature.

Soderbergh is enamored with genre experimentation, and here he takes a simple idea - creating an action thriller with a global feel (ala The Bourne series; The International; The American; Munich; Ronin et al) and a woman as its lead, which of course another well-known franchise (The Dragon Tattoo trilogy) is already doing. The director, who a short time back, threatened to retire from film-making, is also riffing on his own oeuvre. Utilizing a basic formula demonstrated in Girlfriend; touching upon world politics or, at least, international intrigue, as in Contagion; Traffic; Michael Clayton; and Syriana (the latter two he produced); using fractured narrative as he has done with The Limey; Out Of Sight; The Ocean Films; and The Informant, he continues delving into new genre vistas while visually and structurally remaining in an identifiable stylistic realm. Ultimately, because Soderbergh doesn’t write his own scripts his body of work is all over the place in terms of voice - the most consistent aspect of his films past being an evolving, singular visual style and a reliance on the previously referenced editing technique.

The trouble here is not the concept itself, nor the tone - Soderbergh does well using cinematic subtly to hold back information and allow a thinking man’s thriller to unfold. He just doesn’t go far enough. While the script by Lem Dobbs is mostly free of the ghastly expository dialogue too often found in like minded films, the narrative structure (or at the very least one particular device) is purely kids stuff and flies directly in the face of the aforementioned restraint. To whit, the film begins with Kane appearing at a diner where she proceeds to meet Aaron (Channing Taum), a fellow special ops contractor and representative of her boss and former boyfriend Kenny (Ewan McGregor). The two argue about her going with him, they fight, and Kane winds up traveling with an unsuspecting diner patron, Scott (Michael Angarano), who helped her during the altercation.

All of this would be fine if the injured Kane didn’t then proceed to take the wheel and, during the ensuing drive, run down her recent jobs in Barcelona and Dublin (with accompanying flashbacks) with the illogical idea that this stranger/civilian is going to go to the authorities with her story. What makes matters worse than this more than obvious screenwriting device is the fact that Scott will eventually disappear and not be heard from again. Soderbergh is in love with this idea of shaking up the pieces and telling the story in a non-linear way, but here it seems completely unnecessary. If the aim was to subvert the genre and take all (or most) of the air out the tires than mission accomplished. Even for an action thriller though, the facts seem a bit too sketchy, and the story seems a bit too… inconsequential maybe (?) - perhaps in part because we never get to invest in Mallory Kane as a person. In any event, the reliance on the skewed time-line here feels like a cover for a lack of genuine suspense, and that’s a problem..

Make no mistake - Carano as former marine Kane is a female bad-ass, and her past real life fight experience definitely assists in making her hero character close to being believable. The problem is we see her battling a series of grown men, who are mostly also trained Martial artists and professionals like herself, who also deal in violence on a regular basis, and we are somehow to believe that this character, even at a hard-bodied hundred and forty pounds or so, could withstand repeated full contact blows from males outweighing her by 30, 40, 50 pounds or more? There is a reason why women do not fight men professionally, or even compete with them in contact sports, and those reasons apply here.

Still, the fights themselves aren’t bad and Soderbergh uses sound to great effect, though it should be said that several of these confrontations are over-choreographed and, in certain moments, just plain silly. One understands that it’s all a bit of a gag, but Soderbergh does so many things well here, creating a mostly understated action flick that is actually largely watchable that it’s a real shame to see him let go of the realism that dominates many other aspects of the film. It would have been more pleasurable to see Kane demonstrate her fighting abilities, but also a recognition that she couldn’t beat most trained men hand to hand and see her using other skills and methods to escape and/or defeat them. No such luck.

Bill Paxton plays Kane’s oddly passive father, and Michael Fassbender; Michael Douglas; and Antonio Banderas are mostly wasted in underwritten roles that seem to beg for more screen time. Haywire is not an uninteresting foray into a genre dominated by CGI laden, big budget Hollywood entries, and there is certainly no small degree of technical panache on display, but the uber talented Soderbergh perhaps should have taken more chances and diverted even further from convention. The messy time sequencing too is, at this point, tiresome.

A Damsel in Distress (USA) Directed by Whit Stillman  Written by Whit Stillman  Starring Analeigh Tipton; Greta Gerwig; Carrie MacLemore; Megalyn Echikunwoke; Ryan Metcalf; Caitlin Fitzgerald; Zach Woods; Aubrey Plaza; Hugo Becker; Adam Brody; Jermaine Crawford; Billy Magnissen; Alie Shawkwat; Taylor Nichols

Sixty year old writer/director Whit Stillman’s fourth feature (and first in thirteen years) is another stylized look at the young and privileged. Set in a Northeastern Ivy League-like college, Damsels focuses on a foursome of female students who subscribe to a self-conceived, developed, and regulated set of beliefs involving their dating inferior men and assisting fellow students through depression and suicidal thoughts.

On registration day, sophomore transfer student Lily (Analeigh Tipton) is approached by the girls. Led by the whimsical, and possibly unstable Violet (Greta Gerwig), they proceed to school her with a series of strange life lessons mostly concentrated on the minutiae of manners relating to dating the opposite sex. Though the four actresses - the group includes Magalyn Echikunwoke as Rose and Carrie MacLemore as Heather - all do their darnedest to handle the Stillman-speak, and the efforts of the talented Tipton and Gerwig improbably threaten to to make it all work, part of the issue is the girl’s overriding philosophy is so disjointed and sleight that it’s difficult to care one way or another.

With Metropolitan; Barcelona; and Last Days of Disco, the dialogue was no less quip-filled and meandering, but somehow Stillman was able to draw the audience in with sharply honed, wickedly intelligent, and often very funny words spoken by characters wonderfully embodied by the likes of Chris Eigeman; Taylor Nichols; Mira Sorvino; Chloe Sevigny; and Kate Beckinsdale. Despite the archness in each of his previous three films, the worlds depicted felt fully realized, and while Damsels in Distress stays almost entirely within the confines of the campus, both the characters and the surroundings never feel like more than overly self-conscious movie constructs.

Filmmakers creating highly stylized work always walk a fine line, constantly in danger of going too far and wandering into cartoon territory. From the very start, Damsels feels dated, as if Stillman wanted to create an 80s period piece but didn’t have the budget for it. And while in each of his previous films there were laugh out loud moments, and a wealth of amusing and unique ideas being spoken in a monotone, stilted manner by an array of characters, here the words often seem stale and many of the jokes fall flat. Furthermore, most of the supporting characters struggle with the rhythms of Stillman’s speech, creating too many uneven moments throughout. Though everything about Stillman’s films is supposed to occur in a bubble of altered quirky reality, here the tone is inconsistent and often simply doesn’t work.

Worst of all, none of the events seem even remotely realistic, and the precious, fey eccentricity that is so appealing and often delightfully surprising in Stillman’s previous work is replaced by a number of predictable, hackneyed scenes that feel like they needed to be exorcised. In fact, all of the male characters depicted are uniformly uninteresting, with frat boys Frank (Ryan Metcalf) and Thor (Billy Magnussen) so inanely written (they are supposed to be funny stupid) that one wonders how on earth a filmmaker of Stillman’s skill could possibly allow this level of embarrassing material into his final product.

There is something sad about a talent like Stillman’s long period of struggling to get films made, but perhaps equally as depressing is the fact that so many enthusiasts waited well over a decade for his next work, only to find a result that is almost wholly inconsequential.

A Dangerous Method (BRIT/CA/GE/SWITZ) Directed by David Cronenberg   Written by Christopher Hampton Starring Viggo Mortensen; Michael Fassbender; Keira Knightley; Vincent Cassel; Sarah Gadon

Sixty nine year old David Cronenberg re-teams with fifty three year old frequent collaborator Viggo Mortensen (who replaced Christoph Waltz) as Austrian Sigmund Freud, in this story of Freud’s friendship with the Swiss Carl Jung (Michael Fassbender). Set in Zurich and Vienna from 1904 to 1913, Christopher Hampton adapts his own 2002 play, The Talking Cure (itself based on Non-fiction book A Most Dangerous Method by John Kerr) and though the film’s stage origins are evident in the lack of scope an historical piece of this kind would most often demonstrate, what the film lacks in sweep is at least somewhat rehabilitated with excellent performances, not least among these being Keira Knightley’s turn as psychiatric patient Sabina Spielrein, a Russian Jew who later became one of the first female psychiatrists. Cronenberg/Hampton concentrate on showing us Jung’s treatment of patient Spielrein and the professional and personal bond that blossoms between them. Jung’s alliance with his mentor Freud is also detailed (mostly though letters), creating a slow build with the older, venerated Freud set in his opinions relating to the field, and Jung attempting to explore new pathways to discovery that will advance the science. Shot by Cronenberg regular Peter Schuschitzky, the film is beautiful to look at, fluidly evoking the period, though again the limited settings at times make the film feel like a chamber play. Though Knightley’s physical abnormalities are displayed with uncomfortable precision, the events involving the personal relationships dominating the film are mostly held in check, preventing melodrama from overtaking the proceedings - no easy task given a plot that seems to be straining toward it at every turn. For a production that is so professional in so many ways, the actual philosophy and methodology discussed is a bit simplistic, and there is an almost completely unnecessary supporting character played by Vincent Cassel, though the actors ultimately keep an audience interested.

Corman’s World (USA) (doc) Directed by Alex Stapleton

There has never been anyone quite like writer/director/producer Roger Corman. The sheer number of people who worked for him and went on to enjoy historic Hollywood careers is enough to solidify his legacy in an industry/town that historically had little to no use for his talents. The list of those employed by Corman at one point, and in one capacity, or another, includes Francis Ford Coppola; Peter Bogdonavich; David Carradine; Martin Scorcese; Joe Dante; James Cameron; Dennis Hopper; Talia Shire; Ray Milland; Basil Rathbone; Nicholas Roeg; Barbara Hershey; Peter Lorre; Vincent Price; Curtis Hanson; John Sayles; Robert Towne; Bruce Dern; Monte Hellman; Polly Platt; Pam Grier; Peter Fonda; Jonathan Demme; Ron Howard; and Jack Nicholson. Many of these same people appear in the film, giving testimony to Corman’s legendary iconographic status; his proper demeanor (he was educated at Stanford and Oxford); business savvy; and extreme frugality. What is perhaps the most illuminating aspect of the film is the way in which it makes a case for how Corman’s B films and philosophy of feeding the masses eventually translated into movies like Jaws and Star Wars and an entirely new era of blockbusters originating from low grade sources. Corman actually had a golden opportunity to begin doing bigger and better films in the late sixties when he brought Easy Rider to his longtime partners, American International Pictures, but an insult levied at Dennis Hopper led to the film being set up elsewhere, and Corman and partners subsequently lost millions. Corman the man is an interesting study because his demeanor and carriage is so unlike what one might expect from the pre-eminent schlock-meister of the past fifty plus years. Even people who obviously have great affection for him talk about how they were essentially exploited for little to no pay, though for the most part they also concede to entering into the bargain knowingly, attending what is referred to as “the school of Corman.” Jack Nicholson is perhaps the most eloquent and candid of the interview subjects in discussing his longtime friend, detailing how Corman was basically the only one who would hire him for a decade. Although Corman made but a few select films that stand up today quality-wise, he did distribute some excellent foreigns from some of the greatest directors in history, an interesting footnote in a legacy as layered with irony as the man himself.

Jeff Who Lives at Home Directed by Mark Duplass; Jay Duplass  Written by Mark Duplass; Jay Duplass  Starring Ed Helms; Jason Segal; Susan Sarandon; Judy Greer; Rae Dawn Chong; Steve Zissis; Evan Ross

As The Duplass brothers work with bigger budgets and higher profile actors they are beginning to explore genre constructs by melding them into an overall personal aesthetic honed making DYI films. Cyrus, and now their latest, Jeff Who Lives at Home, are both examples of films made by filmmakers who are progressing, gaining control over their chosen medium with a previously unseen fluidity.

To date the Duplass Brothers’ films are essentially about relationships - between friends; siblings; husbands and wives; girlfriends and boyfriends - and always there is social awkwardness in the mix. With Jeff, there are perhaps less cringe inducing moments (or at least they are delivered with less emphasized tension), and in their place is a kind of whimsical overriding theme having to do with fate that PT Anderson (and any number of sci-fi and romantic comedies) might be proud of.

Taking place in the course of one day, Jeff is a nicely self-contained piece that admirably recognizes its own limitations and does not attempt to exceed them. Despite the natural gentle philosophizing that goes along with the titular Jeff’s (Jason Segel) quest to follow his destined path, The Brothers restrain themselves from allowing the characters to wax overly poetic about the mysteries of life and the universe.

Jeff is a floundering thirty year old man-child stoner who lives in the basement of his Mom Sharon’s (Susan Sarandon) house. Sans a life plan, a relationship, or (seemingly) a job, a series of events, beginning with a random phone call, starts him on a path to what he begins to suspect is a course he is beholden to follow. Along the way he comes in contact with his not so nice older brother Pat (Ed Helms), whose marriage to Linda (Judy Greer) is already in serious trouble when he informs her of a just purchased Porsche they cannot afford.

Several times during the film Jeff communicates with Mom Sharon as she attempts to go about her work day, though her attentions are turned when she begins receiving instant messages from a secret admirer. The sixty-five year old Sarandon classes up the proceedings as an older woman living the same kind of mundane, average existence as her two sons, who she confesses at one point to not liking very much lately.

While the visuals are slowly getting better, The Brothers are still relying a little too heavily on signature shaky hand-helds, replete with that twitchy re-framing device. There is nothing wrong with a verite methodology on the surface, though by the now their specific shooting technique has become commonplace, and it’s debatable how necessary the tics are in order convey their intended vibe.

There is a farcical element to Jeff’s quest, and especially the conclusion, that leaves the film resting in an odd place between realism and fantasy, but perhaps that’s the point. Jeff is funny and dramatic in places and the slacker lead’s overall thought process and approach to his quest certainly contains a wealth of applicable Zen-like philosophy. More than anything Jeff further demonstrates that The Duplass Brothers are unafraid of something that scares some of the best filmmakers working today - sincerity.

21 Jump Street (USA) Directed by Phil Lord; Chris Miller  Written by Jonah Hill; Michael Bacall  Starring Channing Tatum; Jonah Hill;  Brie Larson; Dave Franco; Rob Riggle; Ice Cube; Ellie Kemper; Nick Offerman; Chris Parnell;

When it comes to assessing comedies it’s sometimes hard to know if one should be grading on a curve. It is obvious that making even solid comedies that actually hang together as full stories isn’t easy. After all, if it was there would be more of them, wouldn’t there?

21 Jump Street, yet another film made from an old television series (and no the joke in the film saying as much doesn’t alter this fact or mitigate it any way) is written by co-star Jonah Hill and Scott Pilgrim scribe Michael Bacall. Chock full of gags and a few too many meta nods (that wind off coming off as apologies) it’s funny in places, though the absurdity and inconsistencies begin to add up, eventually rendering the whole undertaking tiresome.

Hill as the nerdy Schmidt and Channing Tatum as ex-jock Jenko are two rookie officers who were from different castes in the same high school, but became friends at the police academy through helping one another out with their individual weaknesses. The pair are a good match and have some nice moments together playing off their physical differences. Hill does his usual shtick, but the surprise is Tatum, who commits fully to the comedy - always the best move for someone who has made their bones in drama.

It is possible for a film to have plenty of funny moments and still not hold up. Step Brothers (and perhaps most Will Ferrell films over the past decade?) is a perfect example of a film with laugh out loud scenes that falls apart in the third act. The best moments in 21 Jump Street are not nearly as funny as those in Step Brothers, though the film is at its best with the narcs interacting with the high school kids they befriend, with comedy being derived from the perspective the boys have gained; the changes in trends that have occurred; as well as the unresolved angst still haunting them.

Unfortunately, the screenwriters and directors evidently failed to recognize that the film lives in the scenes at the high school, a forum that is ripe for these two characters to rediscover themselves, and re-examine their friendship, by getting a second chance to do it again. What could have become a memorable comedy about generation gaps, popularity, and high school life in general, ala Fast Times, Sixteen Candles, Mean Girls, or Ten Things I Hate About You flounders with bad action sequences and cartoon villians. Like Pineapple Express, those in charge seemingly didn’t know what they had (in that case a potentially great stoner comedy about two new buddies) and allowed a bunch of over-the-top “stuff” to get in the way of the development of a story bearing any resemblance whatsoever to real life.

21 Jump Street is no different than the majority of comedies coming out of Hollywood, but that’s the point. Instead of working to go deeper, to make the story add up to something, the lowest common denominator is settled for at every pass. There was a wealth of material to be gleaned from a chubby, baby faced grown man dressing up in a Peter Pan costume to impress a high school girl and enjoy experiences he never got to have when he was younger, but all of it goes out the window in the name of another excruciatingly long and completely unnecessary chase scene.

Some of the supporting players (Ellie Kemper as a sex starved teacher who lusts after Jenko; Dave Franco as the eco-friendly drug dealer; and Brie Larson as Hill’s love interest) are solid, but we want to see more of them and the ways they are affected by the intrusion of these outsiders. Instead of implausibly dropping the narcs into the school with thirty days left in the year, why not have them there throughout, allowing these relationships to grow in a real way? Is it too much to want some laughs and a story that makes just a little bit of sense?

It is probably wrong to critique a film for what it isn’t, but with poorly structured stuff like this that wastes two good leads and a potentially very funny premise it’s almost impossible not to.

Knuckle (IRE) Directed by Ian Palmer

There have been a number of narrative depictions of Irish Travellers (Traveller; Into the West; Pavee Lackeeen) and even several documentaries having to do with traveller boxing (Southpaw; King of the Gypsies); and a BBC series called My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding, but though the subject matter isn’t completely new novice director Ian Palmer brings a unique perspective to these itinerant people’s history of “fair play” bare knuckle boxing. The film focuses on a clan of gypsies, the Quinn McDonagh’s, and their nemesis’/ relatives The Joyce’s and The Nevin’s. Palmer originally met members of the Quinn McDonagh’s (including brothers James, Michael, and Paddy), while assisting with the filming of one of their weddings in 1997 - a fortuitous happenstance that would lead to him spending some twelve years periodically capturing their arranged, refereed bouts and discussing the longstanding feud that exists between the families. The discord evidently stems from several violent deaths that occurred in the late eighties/early nineties, though allusions are made to the disagreement extending longer than that. Palmer wisely avoids a broader sociological perspective having to do with Traveller culture, choosing to focus his examination on the fighting and these particular families. While he does ask some deeper questions of some of his key subjects (and eventually even speaks with some of the camera shy women) about the origins of the disagreement and the hatred that has built over the years, he mostly records passively as the events play out over time. The results yield a narrow insider’s view of a rather mysterious and odd sub-culture with rules and customs all its own. Simple though the film might be, there is no absence of compelling drama.

Directed by Pedro Almodovar; Augustin Almodovar  Written by Pedro Almodovar; Augustin Almodovar  Starring Antonio Banderas; Elena Anaya; Marisa Paredes; Jan Cornet; Roberto Alamo; Barbara Lennie

Though no doubt influenced by the classic melodrama of Sirk; soap operas/tele-novelas; the surrealism of Bunuel and Fellini; the style and themes of Hitchcock; the avante-garde/underground/gay cinema of Jack Smith, Andy Warhol, John Waters and the like; and a host of other sources, watching a Pedro Almodovar film is an experience as unique as seeing something from Woody Allen; The Coen Brothers; Wes Anderson; David Lynch; Aki Kaurasmaki; Lars Von Trier; The Dardennes, or any number of iconic auteurs. Almodovar has created a world entirely his own and the stories arise within this construct - the characters, plots, and stories changing, genre influencing individual pieces, but always there is Almodovar.

There can, of course, be a downside to watching the full breadth of any auteur’s work play out over time. The repetitive themes and touchstones can begin to tire; a feeling can arise (for instance, in the case of the afore-mentioned Allen) where one wonders if the artist has simply said all they had to say. Conversely, in the same way that we enjoy great living novelists, we are repeatedly allowed an updated installment of the life’s work of the individual artist that is no different from a gallery showing; and in this way we are allowed to come along with the artist as they age, understanding all the while the basic world we are entering into each time out and accepting both the new found wonders that arise, as well as the limitations and excesses of the obsessive authorial imagination.

Thankfully, Almodovar seems to have plenty of gas left in the tank, and this strange, complex film, with details reminiscent of the work of David Cronenberg, adds to the list of recent quality offerings from the master. Based on a French novel by Thierry Jonquet, with a screenplay co-written by Almodovar and brother Augustin, The Skin I Live in is almost impossible to categorize - at once lyrical and as aseptic as anything Kubrick could have imagined, it’s a kind of monster hybrid, a Medical/Sci-Fi/Erotic/Psychological/Horror/ Thriller recalling shades of films as diverse as Coma; The Collector; Sliver; and Hitchcock’s Rebecca and Vertigo. Clouded in mystery, the film slowly, teasingly reveals itself through a series of flashbacks experienced by Dr. Robert Ledgard (Almodovar’s frequent 80s collaborator Antonio Banderas), a plastic surgeon, and his charge, the body suited Vera (the lovely Elena Ayala).

Despite the emotion involved in some of the more dramatic moments, Almodovar keeps a cool, voyeuristic distance from his characters, allowing the events in the past and present to play out with the clinical dissection of one of Ledgard’s procedures. Shot by Jose Luis Acaine, every aspect of the design is impeccably rendered, an area where Almodovar emulates the great Hitchcock. Much like the oneirism in Vertigo, The Skin I live In plays out as a kind of fever dream, purposely leaving an audience on unsure footing throughout. Toying with an array of questions about identity and sexual politics, Almodovar keeps us off balance, blurring the line between reality, waking and sleeping dreams, and memory; sanity and insanity; and the past and present.

Almodovar has never been one to allow himself to be kept in a box, and while the themes here feel very much lived in, this particularly wild genre meld is something new. Though subjects like strong mothers, the objectification of women, rape, image obsession, family, and various aspects of gender identity dominate his oeuvre - much in the same way he enjoys repeatedly employing some of the same performers - Almodovar continues to challenge audiences with his innovative, singular work.

Rampart (USA) Directed by Oren Moverman  Written by Oren Moverman; James Ellroy  Starring Woody Harrelson; Brie Larson; Ice Cube; Robin Wright Penn; Ben Foster; Cynthia Nixon; Anne Heche; Stella Schnabel; Sigourney Weaver; Steve Buscemi

Set in 1999, a charged period in Los Angeles besotted with unrest over police brutality and corruption, Oren Moverman’s Rampart arises out of a long tradition of dirty cop films that includes Serpico (1973); To Live and Die in LA (1985); Internal Affairs (1990); Q & A (1990);; LA Confidential (1997); Cop Land (1997); Training Day (2001); The Bad Lieutenant (1992) and it’s follow-up Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call (2009). Rampart probably most closely resembles Abel Ferrara’s cult original, which famously starred Harvey Keitel. For his part, Woody Harrelson’s Vietnam vet/Rampart Unit cop Dave “Date Rape” Brown gives the gambling addicted, crack smoking, public masturbating, nude dancing NYC lieutenant a run for his money in the fucked-up department.

Rolling off his excellent, critically acclaimed debut The Messenger (2009), the director brings back his two leads Harrelson and (in a small role as a wheelchair bound street person) Ben Foster (one of the producers on the film). Though the script (co-written by Moverman and LA noir/crime novelist James Ellroy) sometimes meanders, and ultimately this sophomore effort comes up a bit short of the heights achieved with Moverman’s first time out of the box, Rampart is pleasingly restrained and relatively free of the cliches normally associated with material of the kind. A bonus too is the forum it gives for Harrelson to let it all hang out, and his performance mines previously undiscovered depths while never ballooning into caricature. There is something fascinating about watching a real life anti-authoritarian play one of them and Moverman has now employed Harrelson twice in this capacity.

Though not an obvious choice for the role, Harrelson settles nicely into the shoes of a morally compromised/ emotionally stilted character who is clearly at the end of his tether. Already potentially facing serious charges stemming from several criminal misconduct investigations against him, the egotistical Brown is unable to prevent himself from digging a deeper ditch. So accustomed is he to his own self-indulgence, instant gratification, and the multitude of empty rationalizations he offers up to explain his actions, he cannot recognize and/or acknowledge the fact that the ex wife sisters Barbara (Cynthia Nixon) and Catherine (Anne Heche) he still lives in the same house with are as tired of his act as his eldest, lesbian daughter Helen (Brie Larson). In the same way, he cannot help compounding his massive, widely publicized professional problems that threaten to cost him his job/freedom/and/or his life.

Moverman deals with Brown’s anger, alcoholism, sex addiction, and general misanthropy in a relatively matter-of-fact way, though Brown spends most of the film defending himself to the many people accusing him of the various wrongs he’s committed, including every member of his oddly composed family, attorney Linda Fentress (Robin Wright Penn); Police Administrator Joan Confrey (Sigourney Weaver); longtime friend/ex-cop Hartshorn (New Beatty), and a host of others.

At one point the second generation cop addresses his racism directly (kind of) by informing Ice Cube’s internal affairs investigator that (to paraphrase) he is not a racist because he hates everyone equally. There are deeper social issues at work here as the LAPD has a long history of racial controversy involving African Americans and Latinos (this is eight years after Rodney King), a history which underlies the entire proceedings. Thankfully Moverman avoids the soapbox, allowing his main character to spin out of control to his fatefully pathetic end with a few cat and mouse games thrown in for good measure, but without the encumbrances of long speeches dedicated to the issues touched upon.

While Rampart amps up the action as the film forges ahead it never reaches the extreme escalation and eventual cartoon absurdity that other initially quality attempts like Drive and Training Day eventually devolve into. Moverman stays committed to the style and tone he establishes, avoiding the clunkiness of over-plotting, and handling the ensuing violence in the same flat manner as the preceding minutes, holding the story in the realm of the believable. We also see similarities here with another recent film about a male protagonist attempting to quell his demons with excessive behavior, Shame, with one particular section a near replication (minus the homosexuality) of that film’s back room bar scene.

Brown is an interesting character because Moverman, Ellroy, Harrelson et al. refuse to allow him to exist as an uneducated, fascist blue-collar redneck. Instead, Brown is a law school grad who never passed the bar, which only makes him more frustrated, more needy to demonstrate to all concerned how smart he is. He may be violent, sexist, racist, reactionary, and likely a sociopath, but he is not without intellect or courage, and when accused by the authority figures he already resents so much, he strategizes how to beat them, using the guts, bravado, instincts, and cunning that have kept him on the job for twenty four years.

Ultimately, Rampart poses a lot of subtly stated but relevant questions about the individuals we ask to do our enforcement bidding, and the type of person drawn to these kinds of jobs in the first place. Further, it begs questions about the effects the job has on these same individuals, and also how much leeway we as a society can afford to give these institutions and the people employed by them. With Dave Brown as an example, perhaps not very much.