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.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“Black Snake Moan,” writer-director Craig Brewer’s follow-up to his surprise hit “Hustle & Flow” appears eager to flaunt its obvious politically incorrect pitfalls. As if its racism and sexism aren’t enough, the movie operates from a simplistic social conservatism that argues in favor of marriage as a cure-all for even the deepest psychic scars. The film’s expertly designed poster is better than the movie, and equally as provocative. A scantily clad young white woman is held on a chain by a much older black man in a mock dime store pulp novel cover complete with creases, tatters, and stains.

Brewer’s visual sensibility injects those paperback imperfections directly into the style of his movie. Taking place in a rural Tennessee backwater seemingly frozen in the 1970s, “Black Snake Moan” intertwines the lives of two wildly different people. Rae (an underfed Christina Ricci) is a sexual abuse and rape victim whose only comfort is a jittery National Guardsman shipping out to Iraq. Lazarus (a weathered-looking Samuel L. Jackson) is a hardscrabble produce farmer and once-upon-a-time blues musician whose wife has left him for his own brother. Following a chemically-enhanced evening that sees Rae and Lazarus separately messed up, their paths finally cross when Laz discovers a bloodied, incapacitated Rae outside his shotgun shack.

What happens next belongs to the tradition of vintage exploitation cinema, as the grieving Lazarus takes it upon himself to “cure” Rae of her outrageous, misplaced nymphomania. Despite Jackson’s fine effort, his character is reduced to the age-old stereotype of the spiritual, self-sacrificing African American who corrects a deficiency in an undeserving white person. Brewer’s decision to have Lazarus chain Rae to his radiator lacks the necessary groundwork to achieve any kind of verisimilitude, but Ricci and Jackson turn the shocking scenario into a battle of wills laced with an off-kilter humor. Many viewers, however, will not find laughs of any kind in the situation.

To make matters even more salacious, Rae is periodically gripped by an uncontrollable desire to couple with any man within arm’s reach. Brewer initially seems smart for sidestepping any real sexual tension between the two principals, but Lazarus’ steadfastness also eliminates the film’s arguable primary thematic opportunity. Instead, the filmmaker widens the circle of folks who know about Lazarus’ reluctant captive to include a local adolescent and a sensible minister who takes the shocking situation in stride.

“Black Snake Moan” never manages to reconcile its over-the-top improbability with its pedestrian platitudes about salvation and redemption. Its final overtures are so odd and awkward that they veer dangerously close to ridiculousness. Only a last minute coda manages to return matters to earth. Brewer bookends the movie with footage of Son House explaining the connection between sex and the blues, and his appearance simply serves as a reminder that the film’s take on music works much better than its corny sex, age, and race-transcending friendship angle. Even though the best scene in the movie is a slow-motion gutbucket juke-joint jam and dance session, “Black Snake Moan” is too long and not nearly insightful enough to demand much respect or attention.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Followers of the career of director David Fincher have come to expect big things of the filmmaker. A stylish craftsman with a muscular command of storytelling and a ferocious appetite for impeccable technical specs on his films, Fincher has a rabid fanbase of moviegoers who enjoy journeys that explore the darker side of human nature. “Zodiac” is certainly Fincher’s most complete cinematic experience, even if it will never achieve the same kind of cult that surrounds “Fight Club.” At two and a half hours, it comes dangerously close to wearing out its welcome, but Fincher’s obvious interest in the material, combined with his smart sense of pacing, elevates “Zodiac” to the front rank of its director’s impressive resume.

While the movie focuses on the events surrounding the still-unsolved Zodiac serial killer case that began as the 1960s came to an end, Fincher’s thematic concerns transcend a simple cat-and-mouse exploration of good guys out to catch a very, very bad guy. The screenplay’s obsessive attention to a dizzying array of details immerses the viewer in the maddening process of chasing a ghost who ironically seems to recede as the facts and clues and case file folders pile up. It has already been suggested that “Zodiac” works best as a study of life in the information age, and this may be true. The film is also a study of the odd lengths to which people will go in order to achieve some kind of recognition. This eerily applies to the Zodiac himself as well as the men who hunt him.

While the actors acquit themselves admirably in their roles, “Zodiac” is decidedly not a performer’s showcase. Because the narrative focus is shifted among a group of key players in the unfolding Zodiac saga, the audience has the opportunity to follow along with both Jake Gyllenhaal in his turn as Robert Graysmith, the cartoonist who ended up authoring more than one book on the Zodiac, and Mark Ruffalo as David Toschi, the police detective who spent a considerable amount of time and energy in the initial investigation. We also cross paths with a gallery of intriguing folks who might lack in screen time, if not the ability to leave an impression. Robert Downey Jr. lightens the mood as SF Chronicle writer Paul Avery, Brian Cox makes a perfectly pompous Melvin Belli, the high-profile lawyer, and John Carroll Lynch, as suspect Arthur Leigh Allen, inspires nightmares.

Many true crime buffs agree that the allure of the Zodiac lies in his personal relationship to the press and the police, and Fincher lovingly re-imagines the newsroom of the San Francisco Chronicle in the early 1970s. The killer was fond of sending encrypted messages and other missives to the Chronicle and other newspapers, and the correspondence established a ghoulish connection between the murderer and the media. As for the murders themselves, Fincher keeps the most graphic violence to a minimum, although the film’s opening set piece, along with a daylight attack on a pair of lakeside picnickers, is visceral and unsettling. While the Zodiac case remains open in some jurisdictions, it is inevitable that Fincher would have to find an alternative resolution to the film. That he succeeds in satisfying his viewers is a mark of his increasing skill as one of the industry’s most fascinating moviemakers.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Robert Hanssen, currently serving a life sentence for selling classified information to the Soviets, is a fascinating figure. In “Breach,” Hanssen is portrayed by Chris Cooper as a bitter, conflicted individual whose contradictions make little sense to Eric O’Neill (Ryan Phillippe), the young FBI clerk assigned to help take Hanssen down. Director Billy Ray relishes the schism in Hanssen’s character, and builds a movie that neatly balances the imaginative intrigue of post Cold War-era espionage with the dreary, corporate reality of government desk jockeys frustrated with their lot in life. “Breach” is certainly not a great movie, but its sensational subject matter will interest history buffs and spy movie aficionados.

Hanssen was the person responsible for arguably the worst security breach in the history of the United States. During the course of at least fifteen years, he traded secrets for diamonds and cash that ultimately totaled well more than one million dollars. Among his ignominious activities, he sold out a trio of KGB agents who were working for the U.S., he revealed the course of action for U.S. officials in the event of a nuclear attack, and he offered up the names of American double agents. One can only speculate as to the reasons Hanssen decided to betray his country, and for the most part, “Breach” avoids simplistic generalizations.

Instead, the filmmakers reveal Hanssen as seen through the eyes of O’Neill, which allows viewers to discover the stupefying extent of the traitor’s duplicity with the same incredulousness as the young FBI man. At first, O’Neill is, in the parlance of the bureau, not even completely “read in” to the case; he believes he has been assigned to his new desk because Hanssen is a sexual deviant. While Hanssen’s secrets-for-cash deals with the Russians turn out to be much worse than O’Neill realizes, Hanssen’s other behaviors can make the hairs on one’s neck stand on end.

Cooper, a tremendously gifted actor, manages to make Hanssen a richly textured, thoroughly engrossing character, despite the man’s creepiness. Hanssen’s political double-dealing is mirrored in his personal life. A devout Catholic who virtually never misses Mass, Hanssen also videotapes himself having sex with his wife and mails copies to a friend. Ray makes a choice to abstain from a psychological exploration of Hanssen’s unusual peccadilloes, and one wonders how different the movie might have been had it been filtered directly through the consciousness of Hanssen as opposed to O’Neill.

Phillippe is well cast as O’Neill, and brings to his role a nicely tuned mixture of arrogance and naivete. Despite the withering sarcasm and criticism he suffers daily from his new “boss,” O’Neill comes to admire Hanssen for a time, and Phillippe brings the audience with him. O’Neill’s attitude only shifts for good once the extent of Hanssen’s violation is revealed. “Breach” has very few scenes that would appear in a fantasy spy movie, but it makes the most of its opportunities to cook up suspense. For a story with a well-known outcome, it is a movie that generates a fair share of tension in its telling.