Movie review by Greg Carlson

Director Michael Bay, one of Hollywood’s most clueless and bombastic moviemakers, sucks all the potential fun out of “Transformers,” a massively budgeted, feature-length headache that is equal parts military recruitment propaganda and car commercial. Based on a line of Hasbro action figures, “Transformers” will appeal only to pre-teen boys and adults who still think and act like pre-teen boys. Loud, stupid, and obnoxious, not to mention ridiculously overlong, “Transformers” will be a gigantic hit in spite of itself. Anyone seeking a movie with heart, warmth, or realistic human characters should look elsewhere.

One must exhibit a very robust suspension of disbelief to accept the premise that warring factions of oversized, sentient robots that can reconfigure themselves to look mostly like GMC vehicles have come to earth in search of a MacGuffin known as the “Allspark.” Metallic baddie Megatron, leader of the Decepticons, has literally been kept on ice for years by the U.S. government, but his fellow machines are drawing ever closer to securing a pair of eyeglasses with crucial information embedded in the lenses. Manic, twitchy dweeb Sam Witwicky (Shia LeBeouf, tremendously annoying), a descendant of the explorer who originally owned the specs, is trying to sell them on eBay.

As a filmmaker, Bay has never been acknowledged for demonstrating sensitivity, and his casual racism and sexism sink “Transformers” like a stone. Bernie Mac and Anthony Anderson are reduced to playing painfully strident caricatures. Of the young female characters, Megan Fox is stuck in the thankless “hot girlfriend” part and is given a cursory back-story that leads to a laughable misunderstanding straight out of a bad sit-com. Rachael Taylor fares no better, playing a computer wizard who figures out all sorts of important things and then is completely ignored once the action cranks up.

Neither human nor Transformer is immune to a blockheaded reductionism that saddles each entity with a single defining trait. In what is perhaps the most painfully unfunny sequence in the movie, Sam’s mother accuses him of masturbating in his bedroom (lifted unsuccessfully from the vastly superior “Weird Science”) while the young man desperately attempts to hide both a girl and several gargantuan robots from his nosy folks. Sam’s Transformer pals, having learned earth language from mediated popular culture, behave like clumsy children, exclaiming things like “My bad” when accidentally crushing the family flowerbed.

When the titular creations engage in a massive orgy of destruction in the final section of the film, Bay falls back on his tried and true methods: an inexplicable combination of unnecessary slow motion shots presumably meant to instill a sense of grandeur and awe, and a cacophony of machine-gun quick cuts so disorienting you have absolutely no idea which robot is which and who is doing what to whom. The design of the Transformers is particularly vexing. Despite the advanced computer design that has rendered them with tens of thousands of moving parts, it is impossible to differentiate between the Autobots and the Decepticons. Sadly, no amount of dazzling special effects can compensate for an absence of good storytelling.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A major improvement over the disappointing “Cars,” Pixar’s “Ratatouille” is a delightful movie buoyed by top-flight animation, gorgeous design, and confident storytelling.  Despite the obvious challenges of marketing a movie dealing with a rat who yearns to be a gourmet chef, “Ratatouille” will please even the most demanding animation fans with its rich palette of colors and flavors.  Director Brad Bird, whose movies “The Incredibles” and “The Iron Giant” have marked him as one of the finest practitioners of feature-length animation, equals or betters his earlier work, and “Ratatouille” already seems destined for both critical and commercial accolades.

Pixar movies have regularly drawn from the Disney model that values a particularly difficult to achieve level of quality, and many of their stories feature central characters who aspire to greatness in a given field.  In “Ratatouille,” a gifted rodent named Remy (Patton Oswalt) uses his highly developed sense of smell to distinguish between good food and bad.  Initially, Remy’s skill is employed mainly to separate regular garbage from rat poison, but the rat hones his gift after being inspired by a television show featuring the recently deceased master chef Auguste Gusteau (Brad Garrett), a gourmand who lived by the motto “Anyone can cook.”

Since the death of its namesake, Gusteau’s restaurant has lost its prominence and luster, as new boss Skinner (Ian Holm) devotes more time to cashing in on a line of Gusteau frozen dinners than he does to culinary excellence.  One evening, Remy completes a soup started by garbage boy Linguini (Lou Romano), a clumsy naïf with zero cooking skill.  The dish is a smash hit, and before too long, the rat and the human have worked out a system that allows Remy to prepare food by offering direction from underneath Linguini’s toque.  Linguini’s rise in popularity does not go unnoticed by the suspicious Skinner nor by the pretty Colette (Janeane Garofalo), who also happens to be the toughest chef in Gusteau’s kitchen.

Bird took over “Ratatouille” from Jan Pinkava during production, but there is no evidence of behind-the-scenes strife.  Instead, the film is an absolute feast for the eyes, presenting more evidence of the steadily developing art of computer animation.  A credit at the end of the movie boasts that no motion capture was used in the production of “Ratatouille,” and the statement is clearly a major point of pride for the animators who deliver one dazzling series of images after another.  The level of detail is tremendously impressive, and the hustle and bustle of a busy restaurant kitchen, especially the process of cooking itself, is rendered in tones that are sumptuous, savory, and rich.

“Ratatouille” succeeds on many levels, and much credit must be given to Bird for astutely avoiding the shopworn clichés that mar the majority of contemporary animated features.  “Ratatouille” has plenty of squirm-inducing shots of swarming rats, but there are few gags that rely on bodily functions.  Additionally, the film adroitly resists the temptation to pepper the action with references to popular culture.  This almost instantly imbues the proceedings with a timelessness that will surely age better than the vast majority of “Ratatouille’s” competition.  “Ratatouille” will be challenging for its youngest viewers, but like certain cheeses and wines, it will be even better when those kids have grown old enough to appreciate it.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Winner of the Palme d’Or at the 2006 Cannes Film Festival, Ken Loach’s “The Wind That Shakes the Barley” continues the director’s tradition of naturalistic depictions of societal and political struggle pitting the marginalized against the powerful.  A gripping indictment of unwanted military occupation and the costs of armed conflict, the movie echoes contemporary news reports without specifically functioning as an allegory for U.S. involvement in Iraq.  Even so, the guerilla tactics employed by the Irish Republican Army form parallels that are hard to deny.  Loach has spoken about how the past can illuminate the present, and “The Wind That Shakes the Barley” rarely feels like a period piece.

Set in the early 1920s during the lead-up to the Irish Civil War, the movie follows the actions of Damien (Cillian Murphy) and Teddy (Padraic Delaney), brothers who take up arms for the IRA in the hopes of driving the British from Ireland.  Loach begins the film with a harrowing incident in which a small squad of Black and Tans harasses a group of young men.  The one who defiantly answers the interrogators in Gaelic pays dearly for his pride and the episode has such a profound effect on Damien, he immediately abandons his plans to study medicine.

Working with screenwriter Paul Laverty, a frequent collaborator, Loach refuses to shy away from the fierce brutality that accompanied what surely must have been a terrifying day-to-day existence for the working class in County Cork.  The horrifying acts of violence are not limited to the oppressors, however, as Damien himself begins to carry out unspeakably grim tasks.  Loach’s unadorned, fly-on-the-wall approach allows scenes to unfold with raw immediacy and a tension that suggests anything might happen.  Given the things he is asked to do, Damien and the audience are forced to contemplate the limits of what one might do for a cause.

Some of the best scenes in the film pause to contemplate the political deal-making that results in hard to swallow compromise.   When uneasy accords are reached, brother is divided from brother over whether or not the painful struggle has been in vain.  The fraternal conflict sounds like the makings of classic melodrama, and to some extent, the relationship between Damien and Teddy is played out in terms befitting a Greek tragedy.  Pragmatism goes head to head with idealism, and the outcome is as black as night.

As a storyteller, Loach layers his tale with much to contemplate.  To his credit, the movie resists a preachy tone.  The running time occasionally slackens, but the scenes that count the most are delivered with a striking tautness and economy.  Murphy, known to American audiences primarily for his work in “Red Eye” and “Batman Begins,” is outstanding as the troubled fighter.  As is typical of Loach’s films, however, the entire ensemble seems to operate like a single organism, and the many supporting performers are as integral to the movie as Murphy.  “The Wind That Shakes the Barley” might scare away some viewers reluctant to invest in what at first glance looks like a dour history lesson, but viewers who do opt to see it will be rewarded.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer,” already ringing up massive receipts due in no small measure to its kid-friendly PG rating, is catastrophically poor.  The best children’s movies contain content that appeals to grown-ups, a notion utterly ignored by the moviemakers in this case.  From dismally one-note characterizations to iceberg pacing, “Rise of the Silver Surfer” does not hold a candle to the intriguing comic book that inspired it.  Only the nonsensical, souped-up CG effects distract from the rotten proceedings, but handsome visuals alone do not an entertaining feature make.

Despite earning an armload of negative reviews, the original Fantastic Four outing proved a cash cow.  The complaints attending the original movie apply to the sequel: execrable dialogue, undisguised sexism, and moronic interactions that resemble one of ABC television’s TGIF sitcoms.  The creaky plot revolves around the impending nuptials of Mr. Fantastic (Ioan Gruffudd) and Invisible Woman (Jessica Alba).  On his wedding day, Mr. F feigns interest in the lavish, highly publicized affair, despite being more engaged by his Baxter Building laboratory tinkering and the sudden appearance of an unexplained force wreaking havoc on the earth’s climate.

The meteorological mystery turns out to be none other than that interplanetary lover of the longboard, the Silver Surfer. The Surfer is voiced by Laurence Fishburne with mock gravitas, and Doug Jones and millions of pixels share the physical manifestation of the character.  The Silver Surfer often looks impressive, particularly when he is zooming around through space, but screenwriters Don Payne and Mark Frost, working from a story by John Turman skim the figure’s origin story.  The Surfer’s relationship with Galactus is left unexplored, much to the disappointment of fans old enough to have read the comic book.

In the first movie, the Human Torch (Chris Evans) and the Thing (Michael Chiklis) shared comic relief duty.  In “Rise of the Silver Surfer,” the formula holds with a vengeance.  The Thing’s humanity is replaced with belch jokes and blustery indignation.  In the air, the Torch manages to look cool, but on the ground, he merely riffs on the same old womanizing jerk routine.  In another putrid scene that rivals the stupid dance sequence in “Spider-Man 3,” Mr. Fantastic cuts a rug in a nightclub, using his elasticity to dazzle two partners simultaneously.  Saddest of all is the movie’s dismissal of Invisible Woman.  Alba is arguably the biggest name in the picture, and yet she is reduced to playing an ineffectual helpmate for Mr. Fantastic who appears to have neither skill nor interest in the high-tech science and engineering practiced by her mate.  Instead, she uses her talents to make a zit disappear from her forehead.

Director Tim Story favors a tone of breeziness that in more capable hands might have played like an antidote to the depressing soul-searching that dominates Marvel’s other massive franchises.  The result is so flat, however, that “Spider-Man 3” practically seems like Ernst Lubitsch next to the miserable and decidedly not fantastic quartet.  “Rise of the Silver Surfer” is the very definition of banal.  The chemistry-free interactions of the performers are so vacant that if you look closely, you can almost see the reflections of dollar signs in their eyes.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

That unluckiest of numbers adorning the title to Steven Soderbergh’s third “Ocean” caper serves as a harbinger of the events contained within.  Weak, dull, and very often insulting, “Ocean’s Thirteen” never misses an opportunity to remind viewers that they will never possess the charm, wealth, and luck necessary to frolic like the movie stars they are supposed to admire.   The movie operates without any suspense, a condition that sucks all the air out of the viewing experience.  Viewers will undoubtedly assume that the movie is just a breezy good time, and the house stands to collect a pile of money.

The movie’s essential plot is a warmed-over reheating of the events that transpired in the earlier movies.  Ruthless casino owner Willy Bank (Al Pacino) double-crosses Danny Ocean’s (George Clooney) mentor Reuben Tishkoff (Elliott Gould) on a real estate deal, leaving the old veteran bedridden and traumatized.  The Ocean gang rallies around their wily teacher, vowing to get even during the grand opening of Bank’s ostentatious new venture, which bears the owner’s apropos moniker.  Naturally, breaking the Bank’s bank requires a ridiculous series of spectacularly coordinated cons, but is there any doubt that the team will fail?

The first movie in the series managed some success because Ocean adversary Terry Benedict (Andy Garcia) appeared to be as cunning and crafty as his opponents.  Compared to Benedict, Pacino’s Willy Bank is a babe in the woods.  The awful script, by “Rounders” scribes Brian Koppelman and David Levien, depicts a man oblivious to the treachery surrounding him.  One wonders how he managed to reach his position of wealth and power in the first place.

The only female star in the movie is Ellen Barkin, and the screenplay reduces her to a lustful lump of putty in the hands of Matt Damon’s Linus Caldwell.  As Bank’s top employee, Barkin should have been a razor-sharp threat to Ocean’s plan.  Instead, one whiff of a powerful aphrodisiac renders her instantly orgasmic, despite the fact that Damon is wearing a disguise that makes him look like a Halloween party version of Dr. Evil, right down to the pointy fake proboscis.  Luckily, this subplot contains a refreshing turn of events involving an FBI agent played by the hilarious Bob Einstein.

The absence of Julia Roberts, handled by a few unconvincing lines of exposition, leaves a substantial hole in the movie.  At least Roberts appeared to play a character who recognized that Ocean was arrested in adolescence.  In “Ocean’s Thirteen,” nobody is on hand to baby-sit the boys, resulting in a dish that is all sugary sweet with no tartness to offset the flavor.  Soderbergh, despite his usual asides to the audience, directs the movie purely as if he is just going through the motions and connecting the dots required by the formula.  In addition to a winking exchange that acknowledges Clooney’s “Syriana” weight gain and Brad Pitt’s fatherhood, “Ocean’s Thirteen” literally claims that one cannot run the same gag twice.  The line is meant to be a tongue in cheek admission that the director and his confederates are doing exactly that, but it comes off as a snarky reminder that what we are seeing is just another variation on the old con game.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Superior in nearly every way to previous outing “The 40-Year-Old Virgin,” Judd Apatow’s “Knocked Up” is the rare comedy that gets to have its cake and eat it too.  Appealing to both stoners/slackers in search of a devilishly crude set of bawdy jokes and the audience seeking the liquid center of heartfelt, feel-good romantic warmth, “Knocked Up” is at home in both camps.  Apatow’s stock company, used more effectively than in any of his projects since “Freaks and Geeks,” continues to operate like a well-oiled machine and the writing is as pointed as ever.

In his first role as a leading man, Seth Rogen plays Ben Stone, a responsibility-free loafer with only a vague idea of a possible career trajectory.  It’s a bit of a stretch to think that Ben would not already be intimately familiar with the Mr. Skin website, but he and a quartet of housemates, including Apatow regulars Jason Segel, Martin Starr, Jay Baruchel, and Jonah Hill, dream about providing an internet service that directs like-minded fanboys to nude scenes in their favorite movies.  Ben’s carefree lifestyle undergoes a major change following a one-night stand with Alison Scott (Katherine Heigl), who discovers herself pregnant several weeks after her encounter with Ben.

Nobody is going to believe for a second that Ben would stand a ghost of a chance with the way out-of-his-league Alison, but in Apatow’s world the charm is pitched at just the right angle to allow one’s suspension of disbelief.  Heigl is every bit as good as Rogen, and the two have a wary chemistry that shores up the incredulity of the beauty-and-the-bong partnership.  Heigl is also abetted by Apatow’s wife Leslie Mann, who plays her sister, and Paul Rudd as her brother in law.  As a young married couple with kids, Mann and Rudd serve as much needed counterpoint to the quartet of lotus eaters who serve as Ben’s support system.  In another sweet bit of casting, Harold Ramis plays Ben’s dad and Joanna Kerns plays Alison’s mom, although both might have been given just a bit more screen time.

Despite the overwhelmingly positive critical response, “Knocked Up” is not without its deficits.  The nature of the loose adlibbing fosters too many highly topical pop culture references that will date the movie in just a few months.  “Spider-Man 3,” for example, gets name-checked at least once too often.  Additionally, the last third of the movie, while remaining as funny as what precedes it, is occasionally unwieldy and unfocused.  Contributing to an unnecessarily long running time, this indecisiveness makes one a bit antsy for the story’s inevitable outcomes.

Apatow’s frank, almost matter-of-fact presentation of seemingly disparate elements conveys a certain freshness unheard of in similarly themed comedies.  “Knocked Up” is just the sort of movie that will reveal new layers of humor with multiple screenings.  No matter how fleeting the role, the supporting players, including Charlyne Yi as Martin’s spaced-out girlfriend, Ken Jeong as Dr. Kuni, and Kristen Wiig and Alan Tudyk as Alison’s clueless E! TV bosses, are all spot-on.  Better than any of the blockbuster sequels with which it is competing, “Knocked Up” is one of the summer’s most enjoyable movies.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Following the messy, incoherent, and bloated second installment of the wildly popular Disney franchise, “Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End” manages to be just as messy, incoherent, and bloated as “Dead Man’s Chest.”  Obviously, this will not stop audiences of all ages from attending the movie or attempting to convince themselves that they liked it more than they really did.  Required, at least on one level, to wrap up some plot lines, “At World’s End” might be a hint more satisfying than its predecessor, but like so many “more is better” sequels, this one defines the law of diminishing returns.

Echoing one of the lines in the movie, director Gore Verbinski appears to be making it all up as he goes along, which produces something akin to fatigue as opposed to a feeling of fresh improvisation.  According to a variety of sources, “At World’s End” began shooting without a completed script, and the movie’s pile-up of twists, reversals, double-crosses and triple-crosses supports this notion.  Despite the studio’s plea to critics to keep the movie’s secrets, there is nothing that would qualify as shocking or unexpected in the clattering roundabout that comprises the film’s narrative.

To be candid, “At World’s End” leans more toward product than it does art, and the computer generated special effects have come to replace what now looks like the quaint charm of the first “Pirates” movie.  As expected, the picture’s saving grace is Johnny Depp, who always manages to perform Jack Sparrow without appearing to care or worry about the financial return on investment his employers expect.  Depp blithely swishes and sashays from one crisis to another, and his performance is the only effortlessly enjoyable aspect of the movie.

Oddly, the romantic relationship between Elizabeth Swann (Keira Knightley) and Will Turner (Orlando Bloom) often recedes into the background.  Knightley benefits most from the change of direction, as Elizabeth is regularly placed in the center of action while Will continues to be stuck dealing with his cursed father Bootstrap Bill (Stellan Skarsgard).  More time is spent introducing new characters like Chow Yun-Fat’s Captain Sao Feng, a Singapore-based plunderer who exists as an excuse to show off some dazzling set design.  Production designer Rick Heinrichs and supervising art director John Dexter deliver a variety of eye-popping images that should please the fans who insist that the movies honor the original theme park dark ride in some capacity.

Less honorable is the treatment of Tia Dalma (Naomie Harris), the exotic soothsaying priestess.  The writers take her in a direction that makes about as much sense as her indecipherable accent.  Geoffrey Rush and Bill Nighy, who also reprise their roles, fare better.  The much touted cameo appearance of Keith Richards amounts to little, and should have been funnier and more sprightly.  If the pirates decide to set sail again, and that outcome seems likely, the filmmakers ought to go back to the drawing board.  The current course is well charted, and all the treasure appears to have been dug up.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“Away from Her,” based on a short story by Alice Munro, marks a strong directorial debut for performer Sarah Polley, who evidently picked up a thing or two when working for filmmakers like Atom Egoyan.  Egoyan happens to serve as one of the executive producers of “Away from Her,” which carries several clear signs of his influence.  Polley’s movie has received strong word of mouth, in particular for the casting of Julie Christie in one of the picture’s two major roles.  The strongest performance, however, is given by Gordon Pinsent, as a husband who struggles to deal with his wife’s decline as a victim of Alzheimer’s.

The intimately contained scenario introduces the audience to Fiona and Grant Anderson, a couple whose forty-four year marriage begins to unravel when it becomes clear that Fiona suffers from a disease for which there is no cure.  Polley efficiently sketches the comfortable routine that the Andersons have honed to comforting regularity.  They cross-country ski, prepare meals, and sit by the fire as Grant reads Auden aloud to Fiona.  Even as habits are carefully kept, Fiona cannot slow her decline.  She places a just washed cooking pan in the refrigerator.  She wanders in the cold until tracked down.

The movie becomes compelling once Fiona decides to separate from Grant and move into a residential health care facility, largely against the wishes of her husband.  Policy dictates that new patients not see any relatives for the first month of transition, a fact that nearly causes Grant to back out of the plan.  Polley manages to make the conflict palpable and wrenching, despite the mostly flat, slightly clinical portrayal of the cold administrator who rarely demonstrates any warmth toward Grant.  Christie and Pinsent share several powerful scenes together, and their separation resonates with believable humanness.  Requesting some private time prior to being admitted, Fiona reminds the staff that she and her husband have not been apart from one another for a month in their entire marriage.

As Fiona becomes accustomed to her new life, Polley develops a rhythm that switches the action between two central timelines.  Additionally, Grant’s own memories of the first part of his relationship are glimpsed in grainy, stylized images.  We discover that the Anderson marriage was far from perfect, and Grant even suspects that Fiona occasionally pretends to have lost her memories in order to be able to punish him for his infidelities.  Grant develops a relationship with the wife of a patient to whom Fiona has become oddly attached.  He also seeks some small comfort from conversations with one of Fiona’s nurses.

Polley develops these initially strange pairings of the sufferers with notable sympathy.  Caregivers Grant and Marian (Olympia Dukakis) understand one another as their afflicted spouses also come to depend on and help one another cope.  Some viewers might argue that the content of “Away from Her” might seem better suited to presentation on the small screen, but Polley’s almost complete avoidance of melodrama and histrionics laces the film with a subtleness that many will find arresting.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“The Ex” could have been a bitingly funny satire of young adult insecurities that occur in the first flush of parenthood, job loss, and relocation. Instead, it is an intermittently funny trifle that largely wastes the formidable talents of its cast in favor of a series of up and down gags. Director Jesse Peretz goes about his business with workmanlike efficiency, but the screenplay by first timers David Guion and Michael Handelman lacks sophistication and smarts. Several moments capture the hilarious awkwardness of the Farrelly brothers at their best, but the plotting is as formulaic as a junior high school drama production.

As Tom Reilly, Zach Braff plays another variation of his self-effacing, flip charmer. Chef Tom is married to out-of-his-league lawyer Sofia Kowalski (Amanda Peet), and he happens to get fired from his job on the very day his wife gives birth to their first child. Far too much time is spent milking the mostly unfunny labor sequence, which plays like a loop of all the familiar delivery room clichés. Even worse, it is preceded by a slapstick food fight that mostly squanders the cameo appearance of Paul Rudd as Tom’s hateful boss.

Tom and Sofia make the radical decision to leave New York City in order to move near her parents in Ohio. While Sofia takes care of the baby, Tom accepts a position as a “assistant associate creative” at the cutesy advertising agency where her father Bob (Charles Grodin) is employed. Grodin, who has not appeared in a feature for more than a decade, is a welcome addition to any movie, and his fans will be reminded of more exquisitely painful exercises in hubris and humiliation from years ago. Sadly, “The Ex” is closer to “Beethoven” than “The Heartbreak Kid.” Even so, one wishes that Grodin would spend more time on screen.

Despite Grodin’s return to movies, “The Ex” is a showcase for Jason Bateman, one of the most underrated comic performers of his generation. Longtime supporters were vindicated during the abbreviated run of “Arrested Development,” which showcased Bateman’s chops in the role of a lifetime. In “The Ex,” Bateman plays paraplegic Chip Sanders, a creepy co-worker of Tom and Bob who backstabs and manipulates on a seemingly minute-by-minute basis. Chip is never shy about using his disability to his advantage, and he finds a new enemy in Tom.

The origin of Chip’s vendetta against Tom is traced to a brief high school romance between Chip and Sofia, and Tom is routinely treated to the intimate details of Chip’s lovemaking prowess. In the movie’s best scene, Chip treats Sofia and her folks to an outrageously inappropriate movie night. Most of “The Ex” is devoted to the escalating rivalry between Chip and Tom. No matter how hard Tom struggles to expose Chip’s cruelty, he seems destined to suffer a series of bitter defeats. As dictated by the conventions of the genre, however, all is well that ends well as “The Ex” ties up its loose ends. One imagines it might have been a better movie had it given in to the darker side of its nature.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The first major studio release of the 2007 summer blockbuster season, “Spider-Man 3” proves that a movie’s ability to stuff a bank vault has nothing to do with the actual quality of the goods.  Word of mouth is not likely to be kind to Sam Raimi’s third outing with the gigantic franchise, as the movie sputters and stalls out again and again.  Many fans will be scratching their heads, wondering what went so wrong so quickly.  “Spider-Man 2,” after all, bested the original in terms of wit, depth, charm, and storytelling.  The latest one offers none of these qualities, instead presenting a warmed over rehash inexplicably dumbed-down even as the special effects budget is pumped up.

The good things about “Spider-Man 3” can be counted on a rather short list.  Bruce Campbell’s cameo is as entertaining as Stan Lee’s is painful.  As Gwen Stacy, Bryce Dallas Howard squeezes every ounce of value out of her poorly written role.  Beyond that, the movie is nearly wretched.  Dialogue scenes are almost always shot in tight close-up, the CG is two-dimensional and unconvincing, and Raimi never passes an opportunity to shamelessly wave the American flag.  Hurricane-force nepotism places no fewer than five additional Raimi family members in the cast or crew, and Sam should be ashamed for allowing one to exclaim “wicked cool!” during an action sequence.

As the ever beleaguered Peter Parker, Tobey Maguire is at his most somnambulistic, going through all the motions as if he’s done it a million times before.  It doesn’t help that the old Mary Jane-in-peril saw tastes so stale, but this time, Peter is also written as clueless and vain.  Instead of demonstrating that with great power comes great responsibility, he has thoroughly regressed to a state of naivete and self-centeredness that jeopardizes his basic likeability.  Kirsten Dunst’s Mary Jane is equally gloomy.  You don’t want to spend time with either one.

Perhaps because it is the third part of a cycle, “Spider-Man 3” attempts to cram as much plot as possible into its unnecessarily bloated running time.  In addition to the half-hearted resolution to the Harry Osborn/Green Goblin/New Goblin thread that has been percolating in each of the films, two more marquee villains, Sandman (Thomas Haden Church) and Venom (Topher Grace) jockey for pride of place.  The multiple villain strategy is exactly what crippled the “Batman” series, as it diminishes the importance of any one rival by dividing the amount of time that can be devoted to crafting an interesting character.

There is little question that we will be seeing more “Spider-Man” movies in the future, although it is too early to say whether Maguire and Raimi will return.  It might be better to try something without them.  The current episode is completely devoid of the freshness and excitement that accompanied some of the first one and most of the second.  Perhaps the movie, which is rumored to have cost in the neighborhood of 300 million dollars, suffered because it subscribed to the more is more school of thought.  Without a well-written story, buoyed by compelling characters and sharply defined conflicts, our friendly neighborhood Spider-Man looks appears to be running out of web fluid.