Crazy Stupid Love (USA) Directed by Glenn Ficara; John Requa   Written by Dan Fogelman  Starring Steve Carrell; Julianne Moore; Ryan Gosling; Analeigh Tipton; Jonah Bobo; Marisa Tomei; Kevin Bacon; John Carroll Lynch; Beth Littleford; Liza Lapira; Josh Groban; Liza Laira

Without Judd Apatow there probably would be no Crazy, Stupid Love. The go to comedy guy re-imagined what R rated comedies should be, and Crazy follows the same basic formula he established in genre melding films like Knocked Up, delving into real life issues in a humorous way.

Directed (but not written by) Glenn Ficara and John Requa, the writing team behind I Love You Phillip Morris (which they also directed) and Bad Santa, Crazy is a romantic comedy of sorts, in the same way that 500 Days of Summer was - a kind of anti-romantic comedy perhaps, but at it’s heart (as the title would imply) this one is about men and women and the way we relate to one another. From a script by Dan Fogelman (Cars 2; Fred Claus) there is nothing new or trenchant happening here, and it is the quality of the acting, and some assured direction, that keeps the film from landing on the wrong side of another multi-character story about love bearing a number of similarities to this one, Love Actually. Like it’s British counterpart (and later films like Valentine’s Day and the upcoming New Years Eve) there are a number of inter-related characters facing relationship/love dilemmas, and no small amount of treacliness and self-satisfaction. Crazy, Stupid Love is a little too filled with coincidences; a little too ironic; and a little too reliant on cliche’d ground covered in many other places, but particularly given the current dire straights of the Hollywood product, there is also much to recommend it.

Playing boring forty four year old father/husband/suburban accountant, Cal, this is probably Steve Carrell’s best dramatic performance. His half-articulated mumbles and trailing thoughts being notably effective as he portrays an average Joe beaten down by his mundane (though privileged) life. Despite his best efforts, Carrell is still not in the same universe as Julianne Moore in the way that a competent actor like Emma Stone, as Hannah, is not residing in the same district as Ryan Gosling, playing Lothario extraordinaire, Jacob. There are nice supporting turns from an underutilized Kevin Bacon and Marisa Tomei, but regardless of the order of the billing and/or screen time it’s mostly Gosling and Moore’s show.

What separates Crazy, Stupid, Love from the insipid romantic comedies that Hollywood continues to spit out on a regular basis is that it does, ala Apatow, take some chances with tone. The set up is nothing special (to say the least) as Carrell emerges as the Eliza Doolittle to Goslings’s Professor Higgins. The very nature of the storyline thus dictates that there will be learning in the end for all concerned, and the film dutifully follows that path, failing ultimately to veer from the accepted chartered genre course. It’s the amusing stops along the way that count here, however, and the film does contain a number of funny bits.

As was the case with their previous effort, I Love You Phillip Morris, Ficara and Requa, along with British cinematographer Andrew Dunn (Precious; Gosford Park; The Madness of King George), do well with the visuals, elevating the film from the usual flat style typical of comedic fare. In this way the film compares favorably to something like Soderbergh’s The Informant, and at least points to the work of the great PT Anderson, and Alexander Payne, auteur directors with a firm command over the look and tone of their material. Make no mistake, Crazy, Stupid, Love is hardly comparable to any of the films made by those two directors, but there is an obvious attempt here to treat the characters and the look as something more than disposable elements, and with only two films under their belts this directing duo could certainly be considered in the company of someone like Jason Reitman, who is also producing reasonable adult fair for the masses.

There are times when the alchemy of the serious and ridiculous feels strained. Until Funny People, Apatow usually defaulted to his his roots, grounding his characters as human beings, but ultimately leaning toward the comedic moment. In the same way that Funny People tread a precarious line between drama and comedy, Crazy tries to bounce from sincerity to near parody, and that tension is felt throughout. While, theoretically, this creates a more complex bag, it also highlights some very obvious plot construction. There is nothing wrong with sticking to the basic conventions of a particular genre, but there is an inherent problem with a genre as stale as the romantic comedy. When nothing (the twist notwithstanding) is done to push the envelope with plot we’re left with good dialogue, solid visuals, and some excellent actors who are hampered by the complete lack of originality vis-a-vis the storyline.

There is also something disquieting when one invests in characters as real, live people, and they then behave in erratic ways that simply don’t seem entirely true to life. Sometimes going for that easy laugh comes at the expense of the film as a whole, and resorting to some cloying lowest common denominator moments reduces what might have been a special film to something less than that. Though there is an attempt to make this feel like an ensemble piece, the other sub plots (the unrequited love of the babysitter Jessica (Analeigh Tipton) and preternaturally wise son, Robbie (Jonah Bobo), et al) are mostly given short shrift.

Still, while we know exactly where we are going the entire time, there is something to be said for at least using the right ingredients in the stew. Post viewing, one may not be left pondering Crazy, Stupid, Love, but it is undoubtedly a well done diversion.

The Adjustment Bureau (USA) Directed by George Nolfi   Written by George Nolfi  Starring Matt Damon; Emily Blunt; John Slattery; Terrence Stamp

Screenwriter George Nolti contributed to one of the atrocious Ocean’s sequels and to The Bourne Ultimatum, and here teams with one of the stars of those two films, Matt Damon, as the writer and director of this fantasy thriller. Based (loosely) on a short story, The Adjustment Team, by the estimable Sci Fi novelist Phillip K. Dick (whose work has been made into films like Blade Runner; Minority Report; Total Recall; and A Scanner Darkly, among others), The Adjustment Bureau’s basic premise is that a celestial group is responsible for dictating the fate of the human race. When life events arise that may alter a complex predetermined course they are called in to make adjustments. Damon is politician David Norris, who meets a young woman, Elise Sallas (Emily Blunt), and instantly feels a strong connection to her. The problem is they is not supposed to wind up together, and the film is about Norris’s attempt to alter he and Elise’s individual and dual destinies. The scenes with Blunt and Damon are witty and charming, worthy of a solid romantic comedy (is there such a thing?). Usually in films of the type the characters and dialogue become lost in the wash of technical details and CGI effects (the budget here was only 50 million), but as a writer Nolfi is clearly concerned with the words, and despite the ’science,’ he stays focused on Damon and Blunt. As good an actor as Anthony Mackie (as Bureau guy Harry Mitchell) is the film lags in some of the sections that have him teaching Norris about what his group does. One can’t help recall the extended sections of expository dialogue in Inception with characters essentially narrating the movie as we go, and there are moments when the whole thing frankly seems a bit silly. Thankfully, however, the film rests with Damon and Blunt, and surprisingly, given the genre, there is real romance here. While the on screen chemistry may not exactly remind anyone of the steamy connection of say a Burton and Taylor, there is a believable something between David and Elisa that makes the stakes seem high, and aids in the film’s timeless feel. Shot by the talented John Toll, the visuals are a plus.

British Director Ken Loach

The marvelous British social realist filmmaker Ken Loach has a channel, Ken Loach Films, on YouTube at   http://www.youtube.com/user/KenLoachFilms. Loach and his producing partner Rebecca O’Brien, through their Sixteen Films, provide an opportunity to view trailers, clips of Loach speaking in public, interviews, and a host of rare, hard to find older films that include documentaries Ken Loach: The Flickering Flame (1996); Carry on Ken; and television narratives from the BBC’s Wednesday Play series like Cathy Come Home (1966); The Big Flame (1969); and other TV offerings like The Gamekeeper (1980).

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Henri Langlois: Phantom of the Cinema (FR) Directed by Jacques Richard

Following a 1970 documentary entitled Henri Langlois, this French production’s title refers to a man who was not an actor, director, or producer, but whom nevertheless looms as one of the most influential figures in cinema history. Born in 1914, Langlois was a theater owner, a film studies professor, a preservationist, archivist, and museum curator who, for forty years, did his level best to save films from disappearing, educate anyone who was interested in the history of film, screen the best in world cinema to theater audiences, and provide a designed space for the public to experience the many film treasures he acquired throughout his lifetime. He was far ahead of his time when it came to rescuing nitrate celluloid and in collecting not just books and the physical films themselves, but telegrams, costumes, scripts, production drawings, photos, and the like. Starting in 1934, Langlois went about securing and then exhibiting his curated films, screening them wherever and whenever he could throughout the war. He engaged in a kind of battle of wills with the Nazis, protecting American and Russian films they wished to destroy and eventually recovering thousands of seized films, managing to save Blue Angel by trading the German occupiers a meaningless documentary. Langlois opened his museum and began showing films daily in 1948, and The Cinematheque became a home away from home for most of the new wave directors, including Chabrol, Rivette, Godard, and Truffuat, most of whom (along with filmmakers like Rohmer, Berri, Pialat, Garrel, and a host of various individuals involved with Langlois and French film in general) are shown here. The new wavers considered Langlois teacher and father, the man who helped instruct them and nurture their beginnings, schooling them on Dreyer, Murnau, Vigo, Keaton, Chaplin et al, and aiding them in developing the auteur theory espoused in Cahiers and adopted as a rallying cry for the groundbreaking movement. The iconoclastic Langlois was consistently in conflict with the state, who contributed meagerly to his efforts, and were constantly demanding accountability and bureaucratic control. When he was ousted in the late sixties, the new wave directors took to the streets, and the media, leading protests in his defense that eventually led to his return. Langlois was married to Mary Meerson, and had one adopted child. Meerson became his partner in crime, working by his side, and selling art to keep the cinematheque going. Though at its height the Cinematheque had some seventy five employees and sixty thousand films, Langlois died penniless in 1977, all of the utilities in his home turned off, but although his museum was later shut down, his legacy lives on. At one point in the film he says during an interview, “if you feed people crap, they lose their taste buds.” Langlois began when the critical view of the art form was vastly different than it is now. Perhaps as much as anyone, he helped shape how we view cinema, influencing critics, cinephiles, and filmmakers the world over by shaping and enriching our understanding of how to classify and appreciate a history of work.

Any list - particularly one involving television with its massive viewership and serial nature, is open to debate. For every group of Mad Men devotees there are no doubt an equally massive number of passionate fans of Family Guy, NCIS, The Walking Dead, Game of Thrones, or True Blood. This is, therefore, a subjective list of the best in narrative (as in it doesn’t include reality or talk programming of any kind) television currently on the air.

1. Mad Men (AMC)

Four seasons in, the best thing on TV. Already but a few pegs below The Wire and The Sopranos, and on par with Deadwood, as one of the best shows of the past decade.

2. Dexter (SHO)

Going into season six, Dexter may well have slipped some, but remains intriguing due to its signature color drenched cinematography and a gripping lead performance from Michael C. Hall, elements that help make this serial killer/police show one of the best on the air.

3. Curb Your Enthusiasm (HBO)

Misanthropic Larry David brings his innovative black comedy back for an eighth season (Seinfeld only ran for nine) and it shows no signs of slowing down.

4. Boardwalk Empire (HBO)

Great start to a sweeping series that hints at the possibilities of becoming an all time great. One hopes only that, ala Deadwood, budget considerations don’t force a premature end.

5. Breaking Bad (AMC)

Bryan Cranston heads a solid cast as Walter White, the ex-science teacher turned cancer survivor/big time meth dealer/manufacturer. Three seasons in, the show continues to prove itself to be a singular series without legitimate comparison.

6. Men of a Certain Age (TBS)

Ray Romano’s first series following Raymond is an insightful, tonally complex look at middle aged men and their problems. Smart, understated, and well acted.

7. Friday Night Lights (NBC via DIR TV)

Yes, it’s nearly over, but Friday is technically still alive. It will be missed.

8. Nurse Jackie (SHO)

The brilliant Edie Falco heads a marvelous cast of a show that revels in the minutiae of one morally compromised woman.

9. Weeds (SHO)

Last season (six) was not a high point in the shows history as, with the advent of the Mexican criminal plot, it began to devolve into the absurd. While the jury is still out after a few mediocre first few episodes of season seven, Weeds has been a long time quality mainstay.

10. Louie (FX)

Like Seinfeld with less set dressing than season one and way, way, way more depression. From the brilliant comedic mind of Louie C.K., something of an anti-show. It’s at times, shockingly honest, in a really refreshing (though sobering) way. Like Men of a Certain Age minus any of the good times and/or friendly banter or comeraderie, or Curb except meaner and a lot lonelier and more misanthropic.

Ten More Good Ones (in no particular order)

Episodes (SHO) Matt Leblanc (that’s right, Joey) stars as a version of himself. Surprisingly good first season.

Californication (SHO) While it dropped off some during a wildly uneven fourth season, threatening to become a kind of parody of itself, the show survives thanks to consistently profane and clever writing; David Duchovony’s mostly likable miscreant writer Hank Moody; a quality supporting cast (Evan Handler; Natascha McElhone; Pamela Adlon); fun guest stars, and a high insider Hollywood quotient.

The Office (NBC) It has become de rigueur to bash this show in recent seasons, but it’s still one of the best things on TV. Will be interesting to see where the show goes following the Michael Scott departure.

The Sarah Silverman Show (COM CENTR) Absurd, but consistently funny stuff from the twisted mind of one of the best comics out there.

It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia (FOX) Perhaps television’s most irreverent half hour keeps chugging along as it heads into it’s seventh season.

Modern Family (ABC) Disappointing fall-off after a stellar season one. This year might be make it or break it.

Parenthood (ABC) Though there are times when one wishes this family drama would take more chances, it is network television and this is about as good as it gets right now in terms of narrative drama heading into next season.

Life and Times of Tim (HBO) Critically (and critically) neglected animated series.

How To Make it in America (HBO) Another one the critics seem to have missed. An energetic show about two NYC hustlers trying to earn a buck.

The Ricky Gervais Show (HBO) Arose out of the podcast run by Gervais and his British Office partner Stephen Merchant, revolving around their animated discussions with idiot (savant?) Karl Pilkington.

The Trip (UK) Directed by Michael Winterbottom   Starring Steve Coogan; Rob Brydon; Claire Keelan; Rebecca Johnson; Kerry Shale; Margo Stilley

There are several moments in Michael Winterbottom’s latest that recall sections of Iranian filmmaker Abbas Kiarostami’s brilliant The Wind Will Carry Us (1999). Steve Coogan, playing a version of himself, is forced to travel long distances from the inns and hotels where he is staying in order to get phone reception, and we see him set against vast natural backdrops as he attempts to connect to the people in his life; there are also numerous long lensed static shots of a vehicle trolling along through the Northern English countryside that also remind us of similarly composed frames as Kiarostami’s erstwhile director and crew traverse the desert in search of their film.

The Trip started as a three hour/six part series for the BBC, and has been edited down to feature length for a theatrical release. That it takes a meta approach is unsurprising given the players involved (Winterbottom; Coogan; and Welsh comedian Rob Brydon) collaborated onTristam Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story (2005), a meta film if ever there was one. Like Kiarostami, Winterbottom is interested in, among other things, the relationship between filmmaker and audience and the way we perceive reality as it relates to the making of narrative/documentary, often blurring the line between the two. Winterbottom is nearly unpinnable when it comes to categorizing him as a director, seemingly intentionally navigating his career in such a manner that he has always been impossible to pidgeonhole. He continues to be highly respected by his peers and legitimate critics, however, and there is no dearth of top talent looking to work for and with him.

On the surface, The Trip’s premise of Coogan being hired by a publication (The Observer) to write about top shelf restaurants in Northern England, and bringing his friend Brydon along when his American girlfriend Mischa (Margo Stilley) and he take a break, sounds, frankly, like a snooze-fest. Structurally, the film bears some similarities to another famous for having two main characters who do nothing but talk, Louis Malle’s My Dinner With Andre. While Wallace Shawn and Andre Gregory similarly waxed poetic on subjects such as philosophy and art, among other intellectual matters, Coogan and Brydon are comedians and thus their conversations are more entertaining, albeit perhaps less substantial in content (a fact not helped by brevity that one can assume is the result of having to conform to the less than two hour run time).

The best thing about The Trip, beyond the laughs, is that Winterbottom imposes little overt commentary into the proceedings. Reportedly wholly improvised, Coogan and Brydon are allowed to be alternatingly funny, boring, annoying, selfish, and their opposites. Coogan’s character (one we’ve seen before) is a self-involved womanizer who looks down on Brydon’s career. Brydon comes off as an easygoing sort who concedes that Coogan is more famous and successful, but is simultaneously proud of his own accomplishments and relishes simply having the opportunity to make people laugh. Brydon longs to return home to his wife and child. Coogan misses his girlfriend (or recent ex), and would like to get back together with her, but seems more obsessed by legitimizing his career, and working with top directors (his American agent tells him it’s a good time to be Steve Coogan).

There are some excruciating moments with Brydon doing terrible impressions of American actors like Al Pacino, but the dueling Michael Caines and James Bonds are funny, and the sparring that goes on between the two is consistently amusing, even if it does eventually get trying. Coogan and Brydon annoy and entertain one another, seemingly in equal doses, and we as an audience feel much the same. The strength of their interaction is, in fact, that we imagine ourselves along for the ride, enjoying the fun, while dreading the claustrophobia that comes along with it.

The Trip itself consists of nothing more, really, than Coogan and Brydon driving in a Range Rover and making pit stops at various high end restaurants where they are served expensive multi course meals. Shots of the chefs preparing the food and waiters in designer suits serving them are infused with table conversation between the two as they comment on what they are eating, about comedy, their personal lives, poetry, literature, geography, and various other subjects. The pair also visit various landmarks, including a home of Samuel Coleridge, and Bolton Abbey. Brydon spouts poetry and does impressions non-stop (many of which bring about eye rolling and pleas for him to stop from Coogan); Coogan vomits geographical factoids and rambles on ceaselessly about himself and his career.

Yes, the minutiae and bickering gets tiresome at times, but the idea is that we have two forty-something men aging in vastly different ways. Brydon settled and satisfied, in love with his wife and baby, happy to be nothing more than a funny man. Coogan, divorced, smoking pot, chasing women, and feeling insecure as to his place in the business as a legitimate actor. He dreams about working with Wes and P.T. Anderson and The Coen Brothers, longing to be respected as a dramatic actor, while failing perhaps to grasp all the gifts he is presented with. At one point, Brydon compares him to Don Quixote.

Ultimately, The Trip is probably not enough of one thing or another - not a real food and travel guide; not a true comedy; not weighty enough to be actual drama; not satirical enough to be an actual mockumentary, but like it’s director it is satisfied with being difficult to categorize, content with merely existing as itself.

Tree of Life (USA) Directed by Terrence Malick   Written by Terrence Malick   Starring Brad Pitt; Jessica Chastain; Sean Penn; Hunter McKracken; Laramie Eppler; Tye Sheridan

Sixty Seven year old Terrence Malick, he of the breathtakingly sumptuous Badlands (1973) and Days of Heaven (1978), has famously managed to make a grand total of five narrative features in his some forty years as a filmmaker. He once, in fact, went two entire decades between films. It is impossible then not to compare him to the late, great Stanley Kubrick, a man who may have been as well known for his oddities and the paucity of his output as he was for the dozen outstanding features he made in his some forty five years in the business.

Like Kubrick, Malick virtually eschews all publicity, and like his fellow American director (Kubrick later relocated to England), Malick has been accused of creating art that lacks a certain warmth or humaneness. Kubrick made coldly aseptic pieces that explored the intellectual questions that haunted his fecund mind. An inventor of sorts, who came up with a number of technical innovations that pushed the boundaries of what was possible photographically, Kubrick was in every way a visual filmmaker of the highest order. Malick, for his part, is also considered by most to stand in select company as one of the finest image makers in the history of the medium.

Malick is known for his reliance on voice-over - so much so that there have been questions raised about his reputed disdain for acting and actors - stories told of him barking orders at established thespians who are forced to do repeated takes walking through the woods, or lifting a leaf. Like Kubrick, Malick’s perfectionism, is the stuff of legends. He is, in some ways, more painter, photographer, or installation artist, than a traditional director of narratives. The difference, of course, being that his work costs many millions of dollars to make, appears in multiplexes, and stars A level Hollywood actors.

In the same way it is impossible not to link Kubrick and Malick, it is also difficult to ignore the similarities between 2001: Space Odyssey (1968) and Tree of Life. While Kubrick connected apes to a story about space, Malick weaves his tale of the suburban Texas O’Brien family in the 1950s with a nearly wordless flash forward of one of the boys as as an adult (Sean Penn), and long sections of no less than the big bang - shots of the cosmos replete with explosions and bubbling earth and the beginning of life itself. Thus we get dinosaurs and fish and bugs aplenty thrown into this wildly concocted stew, a whole IMAX-worthy documentary almost (and there has literally been talk about one being released), for our movie buck.

The question of whether a single frame of footage beyond the main story of the family is even one iota necessary is perhaps ultimately only for Malick to judge - for he is the artist and clearly every inch of the film has been agonized over to an infinitesimal degree. Still, one can’t help but wonder how conscious the man is of the seemingly preposterous proportions of the pretension on display. Is Malick so full of hubris that he feels capable of capturing the essence of human existence, or is the reach for such universal connection through art in and of itself a monumentally valiant endeavor adding up to a form of humility?

Clearly, there is auto-biography at work here as the main narrative mirrors Malick’s roots. The story involves Jack (Hunter McKracken), the eldest of three sons of Mr. (Brad Pitt) and Mrs. (Jessica Chastain) O’Brien. Pitt is no less than excellent as a father who consistently borders on abuse, a frustrated musician/inventor, consumed by pettiness and his own lack of professional success, constantly instructing and lecturing his browbeaten children on everything from table manners to music, attempting to soften his stern didacticism with physical affection, but failing to truly connect to them on any level. His intense domineering manner is juxtaposed with the children’s nearly silent but loving and ethereal Mom (Chastain is luminous in her role), who reassures them, tucks them into bed, and shares in their kids games. Framing the story, is the knowledge that one of the boys will later die at nineteen (as one of Malick’s younger brother did around the same age).

Though the scenes with the family are strung together in a quasi-non-linear way, leaving the audience to posit about certain elements of the story, Malick is not at all subtle with his overall message via voice-over. He starts the film with with a written quote from the Book of Job and all along has Jack wondering out loud about his own soul, about the influences his mother and father are having upon him, about God, and the purpose of life itself. Played with intensity, young McKracken’s Jack is compelling in his wide eyed innocence and growing pubescent anger, confusion, and discontent. Laramie Eppler as R.L. and Tye Sheridan as Steve are also well cast (a process that reportedly took a year).

The idea for the film, or at least its general scope, can be traced back to the seventies when Malick was involved with a project called Q. The film was never made, but Malick spoke, over the years, of doing a story about the beginning of the universe. Cinematographer Emmanuel Lubetzki; Production Designer Jack Fisk; Visual Effects Supervisor Dan Glass; and (providing an identifiable link with Kubrick) effects master Douglas Trumbull - receiving his first feature credit in twenty seven years, assist Malick in bringing his vision to light, and the results, taken on their own, are impressive. From a technical standpoint, everything in the film is of the highest order, frame after frame of gorgeous and sometimes haunting visuals, accompanied by an elaborate score of classical choral music.

When examining the correlation between the sections, one can argue a need for the quiet, desultory pieces of adult Jack riding in elevators, telling his father over the phone he thinks about his dead brother everyday, staring up at sprawling urban architecture, and not listening during a business meeting - a troubled middle aged man who feels lost in his own life. It becomes more difficult, however, to justify the inclusion of a latter section (dream sequence?) that has Jack on a beach, tentatively passing through a doorway, one that has him walking through a kind of desert, or any of the beautiful though disconnected extended passages of visual yawping. There is no compelling metaphor at work when the filmmaker is simply spelling it all out in exhausting 138 minute detail.

When looking back at the film it is not the grand photography of the universe unfolding, or the very lovely images of the adult Jack being reunited with his family on a beach that remain with the viewer - rather, the heartfelt, poignant moments of simplicity - a baby playing on the lawn; a child uncomfortable with a father whom he resents, hugging him; the same father trying to explain himself to his child; a man attempting to teach his sons how to fight; a boy getting caught looking at a girl in class; one brother picking on another. There is beauty and revelatory power in this ’small’ story, and one can’t help but wonder of the ’smaller’ film that could have been, and how much more it might have said about our lives. The very prominent tree (flown in to the set and re-planted), focus on gardening, weeding, and tending the lawn, and the many low angled shots of buildings, tree tops, and sky serve as more than enough symbolism by themselves. The inclusion of all of this other ’stuff’ merely lessens their effect.

The issue with Tree of Life has nothing to do with Malick’s ability as a director. The Harvard/Oxford educated Rhodes Scholar is a genius filmmaker and there are very few of those in the world. However, a film must be judged on its merits and reach. Because Malick reaches for it all he demands that we judge the film along with the very best of its kind, and the end result translates into a finished product with an amazing, at times stunning, central narrative that is compromised by the inclusion of bombastic visual imagery that seems (to this layman anyway) virtually without cause.

Apologies for my recent hiatus, but I am back and will once again be posting. Appreciate all the kind words of encouragement.

- The Cinema Guy

Biutiful (SPAN) Directed by Alejandro Gonzales Inarritu   Written by Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu; Nicolas Giacabone; Armando Bo  Starring Javier Bardem; Marciel Alvarez; Hanna Bouchaib (Ana); Guillermo Estrella (Mateo); Eduard Ferndez; Cheikh Ndiaye; Diaryatao Daff; Lang Sofia; Luo Jin Lin; Cheng Tai Chen

At two and a half hours Biutiful still feels overstuffed, as if co-writer/director/producer Inarritu could have constructed a mini-series or several films out of the material. The main criticism levied at Inarritu in the past has never focused on his abilities/talent, for he is simply one of the best craftsmen working today. He also consistently manages to elicit outstanding acting performances from experienced well-known performers and non-professionals alike. What bothers people about the director though is his tendency toward pretension, his overreaching multi-story-lines, and an overall inability to pull himself back from the excesses of moralizing commentary on everything from world economies, politics, and the nature of death.

Most filmmakers would be more than sated with a narrative involving a criminal hustler and single father with a bipolar/substance addicted ex, who learns he is dying of cancer and has, at best, several months to live. Instead, Inarritu chooses to bestow upon his lead magical powers that allow him to speak with the dead, and adorns his narrative with several sub stories involving exploited Asian and African immigrants working in the various illegal businesses he maintains. At least with his previous efforts, the director’s multiple stories felt balanced, if, at times, showing the strain of the melding of somewhat disparate elements. Biutiful, though, is first and foremost a showcase for Bardem and his undeniably immense talent, and therefore his character’s story takes precedence, with the several side plots merely sprinkled in to further up the the social relevance quotient.

It’s not that there isn’t merit in discussing the abuses of globalization that has workers being paid pennies in developing countries in order for established nations (such as our own) to reap the benefits of decreased production costs. It’s not that the issue of new, undocumented immigrant workers in these same developed countries being housed in awful conditions and paid paltry wages by exploitative entrepreneurs running various scam businesses isn’t a worthy topic. The problems here include the fact that these issues call for a film dedicated to a full exploration. Further, these are issues that have been explored recently by a variety of directors, and done with more subtly and depth at that.

Inarritu is focused on making very important, timely films, each and every time out of the box reaching for the most dramatic of circumstances, unapologetically navigating the waters of didacticism with every stroke. When he manages to create the right formula, ala 21 Grams, marvelous things can happen - bravura acting with the best kind of emotive expressions of pain, loss, sadness, and anger. When it falls flat there is a particularly loud thud because the drop is coming from some pretty lofty heights.

Biutiful is, again, nothing if not a forum for the talents of the wonderful Javier Bardem as Barcelona slum area criminal and single father, Uxbal, and his performance is worthy of any and all accolades that come his way. It is, after all, not Bardem’s fault that the entire affair is at least one half hour to forty five minutes too long, or that there are far too many scenes that simply do not advance the story in any way. Despite his undeniably charismatic presence, the meticulously composed visuals by famed cinematographer Rodrigo Prieto, and excellent supporting performances from the likes of Marciel Alvarez as Uxbal’s troubled ex Marambra, and Hanna Bouchaib and Guillermo Estrella as their children, there is simply not enough for everyone else to do. As compelling as Bardem is there is only so much one can demand from an actor. When he is not on screen the film grinds to a screeching halt, and the inclusion of a homosexual relationship between two men running a sweat shop feels tacked on and completely unnecessary.

The same can be said for the superfluousness magic realism of a bookended dream sequence and the plot-line that has Bardem able to see dead people, a device that has been played to death itself, and adds nothing to the depth and/or development of the individual characters, or the story as a whole. The inclusion of this spiritual element reads as self-indulgent nonsense, and it seems apparent that Inarritu has not only failed to be chastised by the steady line of criticism devoted to his excesses - rather, it has become apparent that he is actually dedicated to upping the ante. In the way that Tarantino is like a runaway train who seems to have no one telling him to slow down, Inarritu is, frankly, an artist run amok, a gifted filmmaker in almost every way who has no one telling him to dial it back, to edit himself, to refrain from taking himself so damn seriously.

There are beautiful visuals and quietly acted moments galore in Biutiful - enough that one feels the loss for the film (or films) that could have been. It is hard to come up with a current director in his or her prime who brings more to the table, who is capable of individual scenes, sections, moments that are any better that what this director can put up on screen. Alas, films are judged by their overall composition, and prizes are not awarded for a series of fantastic beats - rather, we judge a piece of art by its overall effectiveness and how successful it is in accomplishing what it reaches for.

We do not expect the same kind of finesse and social relevance from a Jud Apatow comedy as we do from a filmmaker who makes dramas about life’s biggest questions. Inarritu wants very much to be taken very seriously, and his films are therefore judged by the parameters he himself establishes. In the final analysis, Biutiful recalls the recent Italian film, Gomorrah (2008), a similarly occasionally brilliant piece of cinema that also attempted to say too much. Like Gomorrah, Biutiful wants to make universal statements, but fails to hold up to the promise of its reach, never coalescing as a cohesive entity, despite the many excellent individual elements contained in the over crowded mix.