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.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Veteran screenwriter Scott Frank makes a strong feature directorial debut with “The Lookout,” a crime caper/character study unafraid to echo stylish influences including “Fargo” and “Memento.” Frank is best known for having adapted “Get Shorty” and “Out of Sight,” and his background research in a variety of forms of delinquency and malfeasance pays off, even though “The Lookout” is not likely to reap huge profits in its theatrical run. “The Lookout” largely skips the self-consciously cute humor present in the Elmore Leonard transformations, but Frank makes certain to include a healthy dose of sarcastic wit, mainly supplied by Jeff Daniels in a sharp supporting turn.

Working with a clear understanding of the value of character, Frank takes ample time to introduce the audience to Chris Pratt (Joseph Gordon-Levitt), a former high school hockey star whose bright future evaporated following a devastating car accident. Dealing with the aftermath of a massive head injury, Chris struggles to make sense of simple tasks that so many take for granted; a small notebook allows him to keep track of sequences that he would otherwise mix up. Even with his pencil and paper system, Chris routinely locks his keys in his car and is tormented trying to locate the can opener. Only the presence of blind roommate Lewis (Daniels) appears to provide anything resembling a calming effect.

The numbing repetition of Chris’ highly regulated schedule is interrupted by the appearance of Gary (Matthew Goode, unrecognizable as the actor who appeared in “Match Point”), a smooth talker who claims to have known Chris some years ago. Gary is a born predator, exploiting the frustration Chris feels regarding the loss of his glory days. Along with a posse of shady colleagues, and a helping hand from the seductive Luvlee (Isla Fisher), Gary railroads Chris into aiding and abetting the thieves during their break-in at the bank where Chris works nights. To say more would be to say too much, and “The Lookout” pays nice dividends once the heist gets underway.

Frank takes notice of all the players in his cast, and despite the unexplained disappearance of one supporting character, the ensemble is colorful and lively. Goode and Fisher are both aces, and Daniels shoplifts every scene in which he figures prominently. As a friendly nightshift deputy, Sergio Di Zio plays several fine scenes with the star. Gordon-Levitt anchors the whole enterprise, and following his notable work in “Brick” and “Mysterious Skin,” continues to create a compelling argument that he is one of the bright lights of his peer group.

Frank merely hints at some of the possible paths that “The Lookout” might have taken. Carla Gugino, playing Chris’ social worker, should have been included in an additional handful of scenes beyond what amounts to a fleeting cameo appearance. The relationship between Chris and his wealthy family piques viewer interest, but Frank chooses not to spend any more than the minimum amount of time exploring the emotional scars that exist between Chris and his father, played by the always capable Bruce McGill. Despite its small flaws, however, “The Lookout” is a smartly made movie completely at home in Frank’s carefully constructed world.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Edgar Wright, along with his usual conspirators, does to the homoerotic buddy cop action movie what his “Shaun of the Dead” did to Romero-esque zombie flicks. “Hot Fuzz,” starring “Shaun” pals Simon Pegg and Nick Frost, skewers big-budget Hollywood “bullet festivals” with a witty script and a parade of winking and clever pop culture references. As parodies go, “Hot Fuzz” boasts a beefier budget than “Shaun,” and the movie wears its ambition on its sleeve. The greater scale translates into extra flab in the running time, but the overall impact should please fans of Wright’s bright, breathless intelligence.

Co-scripter Pegg plays Nicholas Angel, a fastidious London police officer who finds himself banished to a quaint rural village by his somewhat jealous superiors. The movie’s opening scenes, aided by a trio of delicious cameo appearances by Martin Freeman, Bill Nighy, and Steve Coogan, immediately set a tone of playfulness that Wright is eager to maintain. Once Angel arrives at his new assignment, an additional set of cleverly cast performers turns up to the delight of movie buffs. Jim Broadbent, Timothy Dalton, and Edward Woodward, among others, relish the opportunity to spoof favorite films from the past.

Like “Shaun,” “Hot Fuzz” takes its sweet time getting around to what passes for plot, and Angel’s introduction to the Sandford police force is a slow-burn workshop. All of the town’s constables are memorably inane, from the indecipherable old-timer to the sneering, comically mustachioed plainclothes detectives. Frost plays Danny Butterman, the dim-witted but thoroughly lovable son of Broadbent’s chief who takes an immediate shine to Angel. Much to Angel’s chagrin, the two are partnered for long shifts spent visiting the local convenience store or searching for a missing swan. The screenplay uses Danny’s passion for American cop movies of the Joel Silver/Michael Bay/Jerry Bruckheimer variety as a vehicle to skewer the boys’ not-so-latent “bromance. ” References to “Point Break” and “Bad Boys II” are particularly humorous and superbly integrated.

“Hot Fuzz” takes a turn toward the surreal when a series of outrageously gruesome murders grabs the attention of the suspicious Angel. Naturally, the townspeople argue that the deaths were mere accidents, and their increasingly odd behavior nods toward the original “Wicker Man” movie in several ways. Despite the more mundane dimensions of the mystery plot device, “Hot Fuzz” works because the filmmakers clearly relish the very movies they are sending up. Wright meticulously restages the smoldering, affectionate exchange of looks and the slow-motion “shooting in mid-air” tropes perfected in franchises like the “Lethal Weapon” series.

When the movie finally arrives at the mayhem required by the genre, it very nearly wears out its welcome. A grocery-store shootout, along with a car chase and the total obliteration of both the town square and a scale replica of the charming hamlet, subscribe to the more is more school of action filmmaking. The ear-splitting volume that accompanies the imagery does as much to inspire a headache as it does laughter. When things aren’t exploding or being shot up, “Hot Fuzz” boasts a standout soundtrack, with ace selections including T. Rex, The Kinks, and Jon Spencer and the Elegant Two.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

South Korean director Bong Joon-ho launches a madcap monster bash with “The Host,” an all over the map thrill-fest that boasts a beating heart to go along with its gaudy CGI. Making a few minor commercial strides in the United States, “The Host” calls to mind all sorts of low-grade creature features, but its breezily maintained political subtext directly invokes “Godzilla.” Fans of “bug on the run” movies will find much to cheer in Bong’s cleverly constructed world. The director knows that the creature will attract curiosity seekers, but sharp focus on a tightly knit, comically dysfunctional family provides the dramatic heft.

A brief prologue depicts a grim American military officer at a Korean base ordering an ill-advised down-the-sink disposal of what seems like a lifetime supply of formaldehyde. The noxious chemicals flow into the Han River, and before you can say “horrific mutation” a pair of fishermen discover something rather nasty in the water. Despite the nod to U.S. military hegemony, Bong is generally more interested in staging sensational kicks of action and excitement. For the most part, he gets to have his cake and eat it too, as a subplot cooks up a governmental plan to spray the frighteningly named Agent Yellow on the populace in order to contain purported contamination related to the monster.

“The Host” follows the well-worn rescue plot structure. After the grotesque tadpole-like beast demonstrates in spectacular fashion that it is as comfortable on land as it is in the water, it ensnares the young daughter of a riverside food stand proprietor. Gang-du (Song Kang-ho) is a phenomenally lazy clerk who sleeps on the job, sneaks food from customer orders, and takes lengthy breaks to watch his sister Nam-joo (Bae Du-na), a champion archer, compete on television. Despite his oafishness and sloth, Gang-du dotes on his daughter Hyun-seo (Ko A-sung), and Bong makes it clear that all in all, he’s not such a bad father. Once Hyun-seo has been captured by the icky critter, Gang-du and the rest of his family resolve to find her.

Alternating between scenes of familial squabbling and slapstick action, “The Host” somehow manages to mix elements of creepiness, comedy, and poignancy. Some viewers might need to take in a few scenes to adjust to the director’s antic style, but the freewheeling attitude of the movie turns out to be a major asset, since its combination of moods prevents it from bogging down in something akin to the oppressiveness of tone common to so many horror-themed stories. Despite the movie’s relatively small budget, Bong also shows how one can do much with little, as the sweeping, apocalyptic scale of the film’s final movement demonstrates a near epic grandiosity.

The pluck and determination of Gang-du’s family, which in addition to Nam-joo and Hyun-seo includes brother Nam-il (Park Hae-il) and patriarch Hie-bong (Byeon Hie-bong) is the glue that holds everything together. Bong, like Steven Spielberg, shows a particular flair for crafting recognizable human relationships amidst a supernatural backdrop. Also like Spielberg, Bong can stage feverish, dexterous set-pieces notable for spatial coherence. When the ugly behemoth attacks, it is clear where everything is in relation to the environment. “The Host” might not be a masterwork, but it virtually guarantees Bong employment for the foreseeable future.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The most brilliant aspect of the Robert Rodriguez-Quentin Tarantino double feature “Grindhouse” is that it is almost impervious to negative criticism. By crafting a meticulous homage to the 1970s exploitation movies that fueled their young imaginations, the filmmakers can get away with literally anything. From missing scenes that carve out gaping plot holes to a nearly palpable hostility toward narrative development and coherence, the constituent elements of “Grindhouse” thrive on sensationalism and excess. As an experiment for the multiplex generation, some measure of the experience of attending this sort of film in an appropriately disgusting venue will be missing, but that will not stop hipster fans from dropping their jaws at the audacity and showmanship of the moviemakers.

Presented in the United States as a complete multipart program, “Grindhouse” sandwiches its pair of features in between all manner of nostalgic genre re-creations, including ratings certificates, outré trailers for coming attractions, and a host of telling imperfections that replicate scratched and banged-up prints chugging through occasionally malfunctioning, poorly maintained projectors. Accompanied by a gorgeously designed series of posters and lobby cards, as well as a promotional stockpile of t-shirts, soundtracks, actions figures, and the like, the modern day vertical integration of ancillary “Grindhouse” merchandise parts company with the gutbucket flicks that inspired it.

Following a terrific trailer for a revenge picture called “Machete,” Rodriguez launches a rocket with “Planet Terror,” a gory, goopy, bloody, toxic-waste monster romp in which an ensemble of miscreants and malcontents fends off the advances of a disgustingly infected populace hell-bent on crashing the local barbeque shack. Juggling several corny storylines, Rodriguez’s penchant for the utterly repellent is manifested in a nauseating motif revolving around testicular trauma. It is a small miracle that a number of the segment’s actors, including Rose McGowan, Freddy Rodriguez, and Marley Shelton, manage to breathe some life into their cartoonish characters.

Viewers will split their arguments regarding the superior half of the “Grindhouse” bill, but Tarantino’s “Death Proof” is a far more ambitious and impressive piece of filmmaking than “Planet Terror.” Filled to bursting with Tarantino’s signature loquaciousness and unabashed foot fetishism, “Death Proof” features Kurt Russell as psychotic road devil Stuntman Mike, a warped misogynist who hunts young women from behind the steering wheel of his reinforced Detroit muscle. Essentially divided into two sections that could practically operate as self-contained short movies, “Death Proof” shifts into high gear during its final car chase sequence. A marvel of old-fashioned, adrenaline pumping stunt-work, the intense road race features hair-raising exploits performed by real life daredevil Zoe Bell. The climax recalls aspects of Russ Meyer’s “Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!,” delivering a knockout punch during a blazing steel pipe free-for-all.

The custom movie trailers shown during the “intermission” comprise a crowd-pleasing trio of spot-on spoofs. Rob Zombie’s “Werewolf Women of the S.S.,” channels Dyanne Thorne’s Ilsa series and sports a few cameo appearances guaranteed to earn a laugh from the audience. Edgar Wright’s haunted house movie parody is even funnier, peppered by emphatic but incomprehensible voiceover narration by Will Arnett that offers absolutely nothing to explain the plot. To print the title, which doubles as the trailer’s payoff, would not be fair. Eli Roth’s “Thanksgiving” is a blood-splattered gem, crafting yet another holiday-themed horror flick. Featuring parade mascot decapitations, humans trussed like stuffed turkeys, and a killer dressed as a pilgrim, “Thanksgiving” pulls no punches, and is not for the prudish or squeamish. But then, neither is anything in “Grindhouse.”

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Will Ferrell has made an almost effortless transition from “Saturday Night Live” to feature film stardom, but it is no surprise that he is often superior to the movies in which he plies his trade. “Blades of Glory,” in which Ferrell plays one half of the world’s first same-sex ice skating duo falls squarely in the aforementioned category. Ferrell is consistently funny, but the movie itself leaves a great deal to be desired. Borrowing heavily from the “Zoolander” playbook, even down to the short video biographies that introduce the central characters, “Blades of Glory” scrapes up just enough laughs to make the whole enterprise bearable. The movie is a far cry, however, from Ferrell at his best, falling short of the absurdity of “Anchorman” and even “Talladega Nights.”

As the wolfish, egotistical, and sex-addicted Chazz Michael Michaels, Ferrell reheats some of the same oafish masculinity that has served him well in previous outings. Sporting a dark mop of hair and a closet filled with studded, fringed leather, Chazz relies on a lethal combination of shoot-from-the-hip improvisation on the ice and brain-dead non-sequiturs whenever he opens his mouth. His rival is the effeminate Jimmy MacElroy (John Heder), a former child prodigy adopted by a billionaire for the sole purpose of winning medals. Following an award ceremony scuffle, both men are banned for life from the singles division, but a rulebook loophole allows for the possibility of a partnered team-up.

As improbable as that sounds, the former opponents end up needing each other to revitalize their shattered skating dreams, and a weird alliance is forged under the direction of a seasoned coach played nicely by Craig T. Nelson. “Blades of Glory” scurries along at a mostly brisk clip, alternating between computer-assisted ice dancing routines and the behind-the-scenes politics of Jimmy and Chazz’s odd coupling. The movie also struggles mightily to squeeze some mileage out of a half-baked subplot involving an incestuous brother-sister team and their put upon younger sibling.

Real life couple Amy Poehler and Will Arnett play Fairchild and Stranz Van Waldenberg, but the anemic screenplay affords neither of the gifted comics much of a chance to show the kind of brilliant comedy for which they are known. Their characters are scarcely recognizable as human beings, despite a handful of funny bits, including a number scored by Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch’s staple “Good Vibrations.” As their younger sister, Jenna Fischer fares better, striking a balance between sweet innocence and naïve confusion as she navigates between her domineering siblings and a budding romance with Jimmy.

Viewers not expecting a great deal should be pleased, as “Blades of Glory” skewers a variety of expected figure skating clichés. From the sexually charged physicality of the complex choreography to the outré spandex costumes, the movie takes pleasure in good-naturedly chuckling at a sport that is ripe for parody. Cameo appearances by a gallery of skating stars add to the movie’s credibility, and nearly all of the routines, especially Chazz’s outlandish number set to Billy Squier’s “The Stroke,” deliver the goods.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The latest Oscar winner for Best Foreign Film, “The Lives of Others” is a well-observed and often suspenseful drama that manages a satisfying payoff despite a leisurely pace and an overstuffed running time. The feature debut of Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck, “The Lives of Others” reconstructs mid-1980s East Germany, where the Ministerium für Staatssicherheit, or Ministry for State Security, has embarked on an Orwellian project of intimidation and surveillance against any citizen suspected of disagreeing with the official policies of the GDR. Naturally, artists and writers are frequent targets of the Stasi creeps, and “The Lives of Others” powerfully links together predators and prey.

In an eerie eavesdropping mission, by-the-book agent Gerd Wiesler (Ulrich Muhe) sets up an elaborate network of bugging equipment in the apartment that playwright Georg Dreyman (Sebastian Koch) shares with his lover, acclaimed stage actor Christa-Maria Sieland (Martina Gedeck). Wiesler’s attitude begins to shift, however, once he discovers that a high-ranking official has authorized the operation merely because he intends to sexually blackmail Sieland and move Dreyman out of the way. As he listens to each and every intimate detail coming from the tapped dwelling, Wiesler finds himself taken with the private lives of his subjects, and he begins to alter his reports even as the stakes begin to escalate.

Following the suicide of one of Dreyman’s close artistic collaborators, the writer pens a biting editorial that is subsequently smuggled past the border, causing a minor media stir that embarrasses Wielser’s superior. The Stasi reels in Sieland for interrogation, forcing Wielser to make a series of dangerous decisions revolving around the film’s MacGuffin, a portable typewriter with a red ink ribbon. Even though the movie doesn’t trade much in action, the terrifying intrusions of government heavies expressionlessly rifling through personal property has a chilling effect.

One of the movie’s unique thematic linkages revolves around the shifting emotional allegiances of Wieland and Dreyman as the two men unwittingly find themselves at the center of a sticky web. Frustratingly, the movie struggles to unlock the emotional core of either man, leaving viewers to wonder to some degree how they arrive at their risky decisions. Sieland functions on some level as a muse for both, and “The Lives of Others” wryly suggests that both Wieland and Dreyman depend on the artistry of their writing ability to make their way through a Kafkaesque bureaucracy where saying the wrong thing could cost someone his or her freedom.

While the movie begins just a few years prior to the fall of the Berlin Wall, an extended post-climax coda knits together a few story threads that take place after the Wall’s collapse. These scenes resonate with the viewer, provoking thought about how people, and particularly artists, intellectuals, and dissidents, manage to make meaning of their lives and work when residing in an oppressive society. The film’s strongest stroke resides in Wiesler’s profound change from hardcore loyalist to compassionate sympathizer, and the film really takes flight once Wiesler involves himself directly with those he has been monitoring. That Wiesler’s portrayer Muhe was spied upon by the Stasi adds a fascinating layer to the drama.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

In one of the most poignant scenes in “Venus,” aging thespians Maurice (Peter O’Toole) and Ian (Leslie Phillips) pay a visit to St. Paul’s Church in Covent Garden, which is popularly known as the “Actor’s Church.” The two gaze at memorials for the likes of Laurence Harvey, Robert Shaw, and Boris Karloff while some chamber musicians practice behind them in the otherwise empty chapel. Just as it begins to dawn on the audience that O’Toole’s own name is as well known as any of his departed peers, and that his finest hour as a performer might be behind him, Maurice and Ian share a sweet little dance. Death might be around the corner, but these indomitable actors will dance until the doorbell rings.

Credit a moment like this as much to director Roger Michell and writer Hanif Kureishi as to the legendary O’Toole. Without the deft choices of the collaborators, a movie like “Venus” could easily curdle into mawkish melodrama or invite an overload of scenery chewing. Instead, the movie is a small gem. By description on paper, “Venus” sounds unlikely to avoid “dirty old man” status, as a geriatric Humbert Humbert pursues the grandniece of his best pal. Fortunately for all, the physically libidinous elements largely take a back seat to a variety of other concerns, particularly the indescribable élan and zest for life that can occur at any age.

When Jessie (Jodie Whittaker), a nineteen year old with vague plans to pursue modeling, moves in with her granduncle Ian, the old grouch detests her laziness as much as her lack of culinary skill. Ian’s good friend Maurice, however, flatters her in the same way he has flattered countless women through the years, and Jessie initially doesn’t know what to do with his attention. Once the young woman realizes that she might be able to extract some kind of recompense from Maurice in exchange for small physical favors, they begin an odd courtship in which each person achieves both expected and unexpected satisfaction.

Occasionally, Maurice attempts to move beyond the allowable realm of innocent kisses on Jessie’s shoulders, and the consequence is typically a sharp jab in the ribs. One of the movie’s small joys is that it manages to effectively balance the sit-com-like humor of an old lothario with a measure of sympathy when one begins to realize that Maurice’s interest in Jessie has a genuine depth to it. Late in the movie, an excellent scene outlines pangs of ruefulness when Maurice feels betrayed by his youthful companion. It is a testament to O’Toole’s skill as a performer that scenes like this work at all. Even more impressive, he manages to do it entirely with his eyes rather than words.

“Venus” is not the sort of movie that will likely inspire impassioned philosophical discussion, but the film does raise enough questions to pique the interest of any viewer willing to invest in the experience. Is Maurice’s affection for Jessie some kind of apology for the way he ended things with his ex-wife (beautifully played by Vanessa Redgrave)? Redgrave and O’Toole are smashing in their moments together, and the movie surely would have benefited from another scene or two exploring Maurice’s wintry regret. “Venus” ultimately fails to measure up to O’Toole’s golden-era performances, but as a fond valentine to one of cinema’s beloved marvels, it is as pleasant as a summer day.