Movie review by Greg Carlson

Only the most devoted Woody Allen fans are likely to find any joy in “Scoop,” the latest movie from the prolific filmmaker. Like his previous release, “Match Point,” “Scoop” utilizes many of the same crew members, leading lady Scarlet Johansson, and a London setting – not to mention a preoccupation with murder among the very well-to-do. Where “Match Point” was somber, intelligent, and often thought-provoking, “Scoop” tries to be madcap and zany. Instead, it is slack and devoid of any apparent ambition. It is not Allen’s worst film and neither is it a total bomb, but it is a far cry from masterful titles like “Annie Hall” and “Crimes and Misdemeanors.”

Allen’s enthusiasm for Scarlet Johansson is creepily implied in the movie’s opening, in which Johansson’s beautiful college journalist ends up sleeping with a much older film director she’s trying to interview. Our heroine, named Sondra Pransky, is naïve, bumbling, and not likely to win any Pulitzer Prizes. In a somewhat strained chain of events, Sondra befriends “Splendini,” a crotchety old magician whose actual name is Sidney Waterman. Allen, whose appearances in his own movies usually take one of two forms: the self-deprecating but sophisticated intellectual or the self-deprecating but uncouth lout, opts for the latter this time.

During one of Splendini’s performances, Sondra is selected from the audience to help out with a “dematerializing” trick. In the magician’s cabinet, she comes face to face with the spirit of recently deceased newspaper veteran Joe Strombel (Ian McShane, given merely a fraction of the scenes he deserves). From beyond the grave, Strombel has come into possession of information that might reveal the identity of the “Tarot Card Killer.” Even more astounding, if Strombel’s tip is correct, the murderer is none other than dashing nobleman Peter Lyman (Hugh Jackman, dashing and noble).

What ensues is another of Allen’s spins on “An American Tragedy” (even down to the rowboat), as Sondra, now posing as “Jade Spence” woos and is wooed by debonair Peter. As Sondra becomes more and more romantically entangled, compelling clues begin to emerge that implicate the too-good-to-be-true beau. All the while, Sidney pretends to be Sondra’s father in order to aid the investigation. Along with a nod to Hitchcock involving a locked music room next to a wine collection, “Scoop” seems content to play out a largely familiar series of turnabouts and complications as it heads toward a predictable conclusion.

Johansson is as underwhelming here as she was gripping in “Match Point.” Mostly masking her sexy appeal by hiding her under large glasses and frumpy togs, Allen squeezes only a bit of mileage out of the couple’s onscreen banter. Moving from potential romantic partner to fatherly pal, Allen contents himself with some good-natured jabs at his “daughter’s” learning disabilities, etc. The one-liners inspire a chuckle or two, but nothing like the spectacular interplay of Allen’s better pieces. How long Allen will make films on British turf is yet to be seen (his next project will be made there), but many longtime admirers hope that a return to New York City might inspire another set of memorable films as Allen cruises past the forty movie mark.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Even for many Kevin Smith fans, “Clerks II” will taste like canned goods as caviar. As uneven and frustrating as the career of its talented creator, “Clerks II” struggles to keep up with the legacy of its predecessor (not to mention the multiple interlocked incarnations of its primary characters). While the original 1994 outing earned plenty of audience goodwill for its D.I.Y. aesthetic and homemade grittiness, the update comes with baggage and much higher expectations. Unfortunately, “Clerks II” is far less ambitious than the original. Like many of Smith’s films, the technical direction is suspect, the acting substandard, and the writing scattershot. For many, this translates into a slog, while for self-described citizens of the View Askewniverse, it will be just what the doctor ordered.

More than ten years down the road, little has changed for perpetual slacker pals Dante Hicks (Brian O’Halloran) and Randal Graves (Jeff Anderson). A mildly amusing prologue sets up the circumstances that force the boys to leave the Quick Stop for low paying gigs at fast food joint Mooby’s, home of the Cow Tipper. From there, the movie takes its sweet time to deliver more of the same: Dante is still caught between two women (his controlling fiancée Emma (Jennifer Schwalbach) and his scrappy boss Becky (Rosario Dawson). Randal still holds court on a variety of vulgar topics. Jay and Silent Bob still peddle nickel and dime bags in the parking lot.

Throughout the labored proceedings, one gets the feeling that on certain levels, Smith is a prisoner of the dickheads and dolts he expertly depicts. Pop culture academics will surely be able to squeeze a conference presentation or two out of Smith’s real life parallel to Dante’s predicament. Just as Emma wants Dante to accept a comfortable – dare we say mature – change of both lifestyle (by tying the knot) and scenery (by moving from Jersey to Florida), the siren song of fantasy girl Becky spins Dante in a different direction. You don’t need to wait until the last reel to realize this is no contest, for Dante or Smith.

Somewhat surprisingly, “Clerks II” is missing the parade of interesting customers that populated the first movie. Mooby’s is almost always empty, and the few patrons who do wander through the door manage to provide Randal an opportunity to unleash his thoroughly corrupt thought process (from rants about “Star Wars” versus “The Lord of the Rings” to a revelation of epic racial naivete). Smith has never been one to shy from even the most scatological topics, and makes sure to include a full-blown donkey show, a discussion of the merits of anal to oral contact, and a tribute to Jame “Buffalo Bill” Gumb’s penis-tucking trick from “The Silence of the Lambs.”

Even with these, and other coarse offerings, Smith works hard to wedge in some heartfelt sweetness and nostalgic whimsy. Trevor Fehrman, as counter jockey and nerdy virgin Elias, elicits sympathy much in the way that Todd Louiso did in “High Fidelity.” Becky and Dante also engage in a rooftop dance lesson (set to the Jackson 5) that turns into a colorful John Hughes tribute. A handful of other tracks, including well-chosen numbers by Talking Heads and Soul Asylum, complement the visuals. Like “Clerks,” the sequel will find new life once it disappears from cinemas for the friendlier terrain of home video.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Reactions to writer-director David Jacobson’s “Down in the Valley” will be all over the map, given the movie’s ambitious intentions and its often frustrating disappointments. A weird love letter to the romance of the Old West, the film buries its allusions to classic Westerns like “Red River” in a plot that rehashes the familiar conflict of a psychotic outsider desperately trying to worm his way into a family. Channeling movies like James Foley’s “Fear,” “Down in the Valley” is visually striking but ultimately airless. The routine story simply cannot keep pace with Jacobson’s ruminations on the attraction of cinematic cowboy mythology.

Edward Norton, who was also one of the film’s producers, plays an “aw shucks” loner who goes by the name Harlan Caruthers. In his dusty Wranglers, his weathered cowboy hat, and his snap-button shirts, he moves, speaks, and acts like he belongs to another era entirely. Meeting up with a free-spirited teenager named Tobe (Evan Rachel Wood), the much older Harlan plunges headlong into an intense romantic relationship with the girl, much to the dismay and displeasure of Tobe’s hardworking corrections officer father Wade (the always impressive David Morse).

Given the substantial credentials of his cast, Jacobson is able to sustain – if only briefly – the notion that the strange, creepy Harlan would be able to get away with dating a girl roughly half his age. The red flags go up quickly, however, as Harlan runs afoul of the police when he “borrows” a horse from a cantankerous old man he claims is his pal. As Harlan’s ardor for Tobe intensifies, he even turns his attention to Tobe’s little brother Lonnie, teaching the boy how to fire a cherished single-action Colt .45 revolver.

Few critics will be able to resist pointing out the movie’s debt to ‘’Taxi Driver,” if only because the link is so obvious. Like “God’s lonely man” Travis Bickle, Harlan can be heard in voiceover writing letters to long lost loved ones and seen drawing his pistols in the mirror while he acts out his simmering rage. As the drama ramps up to an inevitable showdown, or series of showdowns, Jacobson piles on the Western accoutrements, even setting one of several climactic moments on an Old West movie-set main street, where the cameras are literally rolling.

Not all of Jacobson’s visual statements are quite as obvious. With the aid of Enrique Chediak’s widescreen cinematography, Jacobson manages to mournfully frame the contrasts of past and present. In one scene, Harlan maneuvers on horseback through houses under construction in a suburban development, underscoring Jacobson’s wistfulness for untamed, open spaces that have been paved over for some time. “Down in the Valley,” which refers to its San Fernando Valley setting, begins to drag at the halfway mark, and the film would have benefited from a bit more focus on Tobe. Additionally, some of the action in the final reel strains credulity, slipping in and out of melodrama – which just might be the ticket for viewers seeking yet another turn with one of American film’s most durable genres.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The snazzy sequel to “Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl” glides into port bigger, louder, and (slightly) longer than the original, which will please as many viewers as it annoys. Loosely based on the beloved Disneyland theme park attraction, the “Pirates of the Caribbean” franchise has turned into a juggernaut for producer Jerry Bruckheimer and director Gore Verbinski. Owing more to magnetic star Johnny Depp than any other single element, the second part of the trilogy, subtitled “Dead Man’s Chest,” tries to blend the charming presence of its leading man with bombastic computer generated effects – not always with brilliant results.

As pirate movies go, there’s nothing “Dead Man’s Chest” seems to fear. From the fabled Kraken to Davy Jones to the corporate evils of the East India Trading Company, the movie is just getting warmed up. There’s also the Flying Dutchman, enchantments and curses, a voodoo priestess, a tribe of hungry cannibals, and plenty of swordfights and swashbuckling for good measure. The film’s plot exists merely as a pretext to observe Depp in his element, cranking up the swishy persona of the colorful Captain Jack Sparrow.

Keira Knightley and Orlando Bloom, reprising their roles as ill-fated lovers, are merely along for the ride, but both performers have the opportunity to shine in a handful of entertaining gags. The movie is too busy, however, to allow our protagonists even a moment in which to share any meaningful personal affection. In the “Pirates” universe the supporting players are often the most outlandish, and “Dead Man’s Chest” delights in its gruesome gallery of beasties and baddies. Bill Nighy, virtually invisible under a squirming CG beard of tentacles, makes an impression as Davy Jones, proving every bit as dangerous as Sparrow’s first nemesis, Captain Barbossa. Naomie Harris is ideally cast as Tia Dalma, the bewitching voodoo sorceress.

Visually splendid, “Dead Man’s Chest” is a feast of costume and set design. Highlights include Jones at his magnificent pipe organ (which he plays with his facial appendages, naturally), Sparrow on the run as a personified melon kebab, and a spirited duel atop a giant Keaton-esque rolling wheel. While these treats are all welcome sights, the movie makes the critical error of subscribing to the more-is-more philosophy of summertime blockbuster filmmaking. Without question, the viewer would be better served – and probably just as happy – with a version significantly shorter than the two and a half hour marathon being presented.

“Dead Man’s Chest” also suffers a bit from “Part 2” syndrome, in that its function as the middle section of a three part saga forces it to leave several messes to be cleaned up in the final installment. It is probably too much to hope that the final chapter of “Pirates of the Caribbean” will focus on the kind of human interaction that stirs emotions as opposed to the skull-crushing action set pieces that dominate the threadbare plotting. If the franchise has a fatal flaw other than the bloated running times, it is certainly the mistaken notion that viewers do not appreciate depth and dimension alongside the explosions.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The Last Son of Krypton enjoys a mostly triumphant homecoming in Bryan Singer’s version of one of the most durable of superhero mythologies. “Superman Returns” is earnest, heartfelt, and stately, which are not necessarily bad things in the context of a storyline that has traditionally embraced fairness, civility, and helping others (not to mention “Truth, Justice, and the American Way”). Singer’s Man of Steel reveres key elements of D.C. comic book iconography and the Richard Donner film of 1978, which is consistently mined for both style and inspiration in this new incarnation, especially in the employment of John Williams’ familiar theme music.

A credit at the end of the movie dedicates the picture to Christopher and Dana Reeve, and many will note the remarkable physical similarities between Reeve and Brandon Routh, who dons the cape and tights with more dignity than one might imagine. Routh is not given a great deal to say – this Superman definitely prefers action to words – but his performance is better than passable. Not enough time is devoted to Clark Kent, however, and Routh’s humorous wet-noodle expressions when he appears as the “mild-mannered” Daily Planet reporter earn audience laughter and goodwill.

Following years of complicated development difficulties, the Singer vision of Superman is much stronger on special effects than it is on developing the well-known characters who interact with the Man of Tomorrow. Kate Bosworth’s Lois Lane, now romantically involved with another man and the mother of a young son, has won a Pulitzer for an article titled “Why the World Doesn’t Need Superman.” If her writing isn’t indication enough, Lois is angry and bitter about Superman’s disappearance, and the movie never allows her an opportunity to recover. Kevin Spacey, as nemesis Lex Luthor, turns in a restrained performance, and with one or two exceptions, nibbles the scenery more than chomps it.

Notwithstanding the inevitable tweaking of the character’s continuity (which yields at least one major alteration this time out), hardcore fans will be anxious to see whether Singer’s imagination can conjure up some worthy set-pieces. A mid-flight rescue of a space shuttle and jumbo jet more than fills the bill. The early sequence is exhilarating, and also manages to demonstrate that despite his almost infinite abilities, being Superman is not easy. The flying effects are top notch, and many of the hero’s other powers, including x-ray vision and super hearing, are included for good measure.

Some viewers might find limitations in the serious tone of “Superman Returns.” The movie is certain to inspire an outpouring of discussion on the extent to which Singer utilizes elements of Christian theology. Perhaps more salient is Superman’s status as an outsider, reinforced by Marlon Brando’s beyond-the-grave dialogue. Secret identities almost always insist on some degree of loneliness in our costumed crusaders, and Singer clearly relishes playing up the somber sacrifices Superman constantly makes. If there is any significant complaint to be made about “Superman Returns” (other than its running time), it is that our suffering demi-gods and champions should be allowed to experience a little more joy in their extraordinary abilities.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Young writer-director Rian Johnson’s “Brick” is one of the year’s must-see movies for cinephiles, a love-it-or-hate-it homage to classic film noir, complete with fussy dialogue sprinkled with period allusions and plot points virtually lifted from Hammett and Chandler. The source of the movie’s considerable attention – it won a special jury prize at Sundance for “Originality of Vision” – stems from its setting, a California high school. Johnson begs the viewer to suspend disbelief immediately (no teenager would call female acquaintances “Angel” ala Bogart, or be referred to as “shamus”), jumping into a world largely devoid of adults. The kids in “Brick” might show up for class occasionally, but if they do we never see it. It is much more interesting to tangle with shady hoods and solve mysteries.

The increasingly excellent Joseph Gordon-Levitt, who improves with nearly every role, plays Brendan, a bespectacled loner who carries a torch for his addict ex-girlfriend Emily (Emilie de Ravin). An enigmatic phone call, littered with a string of clues that will lead Brendan into dangerous waters, sets into motion the plot, which veers and curves like “The Maltese Falcon” and “The Big Sleep.” Determined to uncover the truth surrounding Emily’s disappearance, Brendan crosses paths with The Pin (Lukas Haas), a baby-faced drug lord who still lives with his mom. The Pin, decked out with cape and cane, would be ludicrous if not for Haas’ expert treatment.

Some of the other stock noir types, particularly the femmes fatale, don’t fare as well. Johnson might be sticking close to classic noir’s misogynistic streak, but “Brick’s” spin on sexuality is all talk and no play. The abundantly talented Meagan Good, playing a drama queen in every sense of the word, tosses steamy one-liners like sharp firecrackers, but barring her predilection for underclassmen (in a lame running gag), she’s all dressed up with no place to go. Even harder to swallow is the character of Laura (Nora Zehetner), in what might be called the Mary Astor role; she lacks the gravitas to be taken as seriously as her leading man. It doesn’t help that Johnson ignores her when she is needed most.

“Brick” is at its very best when Gordon-Levitt is chomping through the miles of stylized tough talk. Noir’s nihilism proves to be well-suited to the milieu of navel-gazing teens, and Brendan’s slicing put-downs and withering sarcasm fit the movie like a glove. Johnson is as much inspired by recent filmmakers – especially the Coens and David Lynch – as he is by the likes of Hawks and Huston, and “Brick” must be credited for achieving an impressive look and feel on an extremely limited budget (it reportedly cost only 500,000 dollars).

It is unknown if “Brick” will improve or diminish with multiple viewings. Given the success story of its film school tyro, the movie is destined to become required viewing for wannabe auteur moviemakers, at least in the short term. By no means does “Brick” ever feel like a great film, though its dazzling moments outnumber its self-consciously cute ones. Like the best of the original noir movies, it traffics in cynicism and angst. That the characters are teenagers only adds to the ache of its pessimistic, isolated worldview. If that is your sort of thing, “Brick” is the ticket.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Terry Zwigoff has cultivated a decent career as a filmmaker profiling the disaffected and trolling the margins for the offbeat and the outcast. The same could be said about the graphic novelist Daniel Clowes, whose stories of desperation and depression resonate with a bittersweet nostalgia for better (or at least more tolerable) times. “Art School Confidential” is the second collaboration between Zwigoff and Clowes, but it isn’t anywhere near as good as “Ghost World.” The failures of “Art School Confidential” are many, but chief among them is the complete contempt shown by Zwigoff for virtually the entire cast of characters.

It is one thing to present an outsider or an anti-hero as a central figure, but Jerome Platz (Max Minghella) is far too bland, naïve, and emotionally vacant to merit the affection of even the most jaded viewer. In his earlier work, Zwigoff has managed to identify with nerdy protagonists like Enid and Seymour in “Ghost World” and R. Crumb in “Crumb” (although some would debate whether or not Willie in “Bad Santa” belongs in that company). Minghella’s Platz, who genuinely wants to be the “greatest artist of the 21st century,” dresses up like Picasso for a masquerade party. He is always earnest, and he never once holds the respect of the filmmakers.

Without a character to identify with on some level, “Art School Confidential” is easy to dislike. Zwigoff’s tone is so glib and full of bile, the entire exercise constantly teeters on the verge of full-bore misanthropy. Even the humor, which lurches from ugly caricatures of undergraduate stereotypes to clever put-downs that cut pretentious wannabes to the quick, depends upon the idea that we will laugh at the inhabitants of the film and never with them. Unquestionably, a strong argument could be made that says making fun of art students is easy pickings. If one agrees with this sentiment, watching “Art School Confidential” is the cinematic equivalent of kicking a puppy.

Both Clowes and Zwigoff are cult figures, beloved by just the sort of people they set out to lampoon. Many ardent admirers are likely to become disillusioned when the best that “Art School Confidential” has to offer are wafer-thin jabs at Kevin Smith-esque filmmakers and vain, predatory professors who despise their students. To make matters worse, the character with the greatest potential for substantive commentary, a washed up souse who used to be a promising art world star, is saddled with the lamest and most predictable elements of a conventional plot device that perpetually distracts our attention from anything like character depth or development.

That boozehound is played by the brilliant Jim Broadbent, whose acting ability is first among equals in a cast that includes John Malkovich (one of the movie’s producers), Anjelica Huston, and Steve Buscemi. Broadbent’s disgusting Jimmy comes the closest to the type of character Zwigoff might ordinarily hold in some esteem, but the mechanics of the story insist that he too, is a miserable – and possibly worse than miserable – human being. “Art School Confidential” is sadly forgettable as a movie experience. Clowes’ illustrated world remains a far superior rendering of this milieu.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A pleasant, amiable assemblage of many of the best things about Garrison Keillor’s long-running radio series, “A Prairie Home Companion” is almost certain to do better than average business in Upper Midwestern markets. Under the direction of the legendary Robert Altman, the movie version of the show glides back and forth between sparkling songs and the backstage antics that are just as interesting. Framing the story around a fictionalized final performance, the majority of the action unfolds in close-to-real time at the Fitzgerald Theater in St. Paul, Minnesota. Keillor’s screenplay incorporates several of his memorable creations, and it is great fun to watch well-known film stars freshen up familiar characters like investigator Guy Noir and cowpokes Dusty and Lefty.

While both Altman and Keillor have previously been accused of withering condescension toward both performers and audience members, “A Prairie Home Companion” displays very little acid. Surprisingly, the egocentric Keillor seems reasonably happy to share the movie with the other players, hovering over the proceedings like an absent-minded grandfather lost in reverie. Altman and Keillor lavish a great deal of attention on the Johnson Sisters, Rhonda and Yolanda (Lily Tomlin and Meryl Streep), who spend most of their time bantering about days gone by, much to the chagrin of Yolanda’s teenage daughter Lola (Lindsay Lohan), who prefers to pen suicidal poetry.

Between the musical numbers, “A Prairie Home Companion” breezily details several threads, practically all of which ring with a wistfulness that alludes to the brevity and frailty of life. Credited as the Dangerous Woman, Virginia Madsen literally embodies an ethereal angel whose presence is a constant reminder that the last curtain could fall at any time. Keillor shares a terrific sequence with Madsen, deconstructing the penguin gag that has become a classic since it was first related during one of the real-life “Companion’s” annual joke shows. Keillor’s explanation – or non-explanation – of the penguin story offers a delicious taste of the absurdity with which GK approaches his livelihood.

Altman, who spoke about his lifesaving heart transplant surgery at the Academy Awards, is now in his 80s, and he clearly relishes the opportunity to bring life to Keillor’s doom-filled scenario. Both humor and sadness attend Keillor’s refusal to deliver any eulogies – for the show or for human beings, and Altman crafts a visually appropriate accompaniment to Keillor’s stoic acceptance of the inevitable. Along with directory of photography Ed Lachman, Altman’s rich compositions invite the viewer to be a part of the ensemble.

Many of Keillor’s regular “Prairie” contributors appear in the film, including Tom Keith, Tim Russell, Sue Scott, Robin and Linda Williams, and the Guys All-Star Shoe Band, among others. The supporting cast, which includes Kevin Kline as Guy Noir, Maya Rudolph as assistant stage manager Molly, and Woody Harrelson and John C. Reilly as Dusty and Lefty, blends together smoothly. Kline and Rudolph play out a hilarious telephone bit that effortlessly balances physical and verbal humor. Altman often cuts away from the musical performances to focus on something taking place backstage, so fans should be made aware that a limited edition version of the soundtrack CD comes with a DVD containing complete versions of several wonderful tunes.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Despite two solid performances, “Hard Candy” is a thoroughly unlikable, nearly unwatchable exercise in unpleasantness. Presented initially as a thoughtful examination of online luring, the film rapidly disintegrates into a sensationalized cat-and-mouse shocker no different from dozens of equally empty-headed revenge scenarios. Positing a grisly “what if?” fantasy that turns the tables on the pedophiles who prowl chat rooms for gullible minors, “Hard Candy” fails largely because it asks the audience to spend its duration in close quarters with two completely awful human beings.

Ellen Page (currently on the big screen as Kitty Pryde in “X-Men: The Last Stand) plays Haley Stark, a bright 14-year-old who convinces flirtatious instant-message acquaintance Jeff Kohlver (Patrick Wilson) to meet in the real world. A blandly handsome fashion photographer, Jeff is instantly identifiable as a danger: a persuasively reassuring predator who knows exactly what to say to put young girls at ease around him. While the majority of “Hard Candy” is hermetically sealed – confined to Jeff’s ultramodern Hollywood Hills den – the movie’s fateful pair meet face to face in a coffee shop called, just a bit obviously, Nighthawks. Even in broad daylight, the presence of Haley and Jeff at Nighthawks triggers alarm bells for the viewer. This sequence, taut and well-written, hints at a much stronger film than the one that follows.

Haley ends up at Jeff’s house in a queasy tableau representative of every parent’s nightmare. Slurping screwdrivers under the watchful gaze of the much older man, Haley appears to struggle mightily to exude confidence and sophistication. Before Jeff can pounce, however, Haley is revealed as the uber-threat. She drugs the big bad wolf and secures him to a table. Once consciousness is regained, her grisly agenda takes center stage. Haley’s backpack contains some portentous elements, including surgical scalpels and a medical textbook detailing the procedure for castration.

At this point, “Hard Candy” begins its irreversible descent into rote cinematic exploitation. Director David Slade shoots too much of the material in close-up, a decision likely made to force the audience into close proximity with the characters. The result, however, is a dull repetition compounded by the movie’s primary interior setting. Slade never transcends the frustrating script by playwright Brian Nelson, and “Hard Candy” feels stage-bound when it should have a nimble sense of filmmaking to balance the two-person narrative.

Worse yet, Slade falls back on too many ineffective music video techniques that serve only to highlight the movie’s visual disjointedness. By the time the movie approaches its conclusion, an unnecessary explanation for Haley’s vengeance has trampled any intrigue and depth suggested by the film’s premise. Short of the coffee shop scene, Haley and Jeff don’t register as real people either, eliminating any opportunity for audience identification. Instead, they rear up like ghastly figments of the imagination. With its name-dropping references to Jean Seberg, Zadie Smith, and Roman Polanski, “Hard Candy” wants to be taken more seriously than it deserves to be. Once the film reaches an improbable climax (a hilariously awful exercise in crosscutting that would make D.W. Griffith blush), viewers will only feel a sense of relief that it is over.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Despite his reputation as a shallow hack who weakens the big-budget movies he helms, Brett Ratner possesses enough skill as a filmmaker to not only connect the dots, but also to keep things moving briskly, even when character is sacrificed for special effects-driven action. “X-Men: The Last Stand” is the sort of movie that manages to resist Ratner’s directorial shortcomings, given the title’s status as a massive franchise and its placement as a “final chapter” (at least for now) in a trilogy. For all the griping about Ratner’s suitability to replace Bryan Singer, X-fans should be relieved, thrilled, and arguably overjoyed that the reins weren’t handed to someone like Joel Schumacher, who virtually took a pile driver to the “Batman” series.

In many ways, including some of the most important ones, “X-Men: The Last Stand” equals if not surpasses the Singer-directed movies. In this installment, the government reveals a so-called cure for mutants, an announcement that deeply divides the fringe community largely composed of two camps: Professor Charles Xavier’s (Patrick Stewart) nurturing academy and the underground collection of outcasts led by Magneto (Ian McKellan). Like many other superhero sequels, “X3” labors to adequately divide its attention evenly among the myriad characters, a task made all the more difficult with the tacit requirement that a handful of new faces be added to the mix.

Fans of the long-running comic always have their favorite characters, and several new faces appear onscreen in varying levels of prominence. Kelsey Grammer works perfectly as Dr. Hank McCoy/Beast, the furry blue acrobat who heads the Department of Mutant Affairs. Ben Foster plays the winged Angel, but despite the script’s best intentions, his screen time amounts to little more than a bit part. Much more fun is the appearance of Kitty Pryde (Ellen Page), whose fetching allure attracts the attention of Iceman (Shawn Ashmore) and the ire of Rogue (Anna Paquin). Kitty, who can walk through walls, is given a terrific scene in which she plays hide-and-seek with Vinnie Jones’ Juggernaut.

The film makes room for the new inhabitants by essentially dispensing with a few of the older participants. While the diminished role of the bland Cyclops (James Marsden) is no great loss, the movie misses a great opportunity to explore the complex relationship between Magneto and Mystique (Rebecca Romijn). Following a gripping prison-convoy rescue sequence, Mystique vanishes, even though the outcome of her liberation melee sets up a potentially engrossing character dimension. To reveal more would be unfair, but Mystique deserves a bit better than to be the subject of a hammy line-delivery of the “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” chestnut.

Like the previous two “X-Men” movies, “The Last Stand” alternates between CG-enhanced battles and the soapy machinery of multiple relationships. A spectacular dismantling of the Golden Gate Bridge provides plenty of eye candy, and the most prominent figure in the series, Hugh Jackman’s Wolverine, finds himself at the center of much of the action. As Storm, Halle Berry struggles to assume the role of Xavier’s second in command, but her character has always been underwritten. McKellan and Stewart are wonderful as always. This leaves the conundrum of Famke Janssen’s Jean Grey, whose rebirth in “X3” drives much of the plot. The richness of the Phoenix saga in the original comic would require several films, making the severely altered and truncated version presented here a somewhat confusing disappointment.