Movie review by Greg Carlson

Based on the comic strip by Michael Fry and T. Lewis, “Over the Hedge” is a mildly entertaining diversion that will appeal to kids, despite its similarity to a heap of recent computer-animated movies with tenacious talking animals. Whether or not one enjoys the strange texture of pixel-spawned imagery, these new movies seem a far cry from the golden age of Walt Disney’s meticulous efforts. “Over the Hedge” ends up spinning a tale as bland as the suburban housing developments it purports to lampoon, with the added nuisance of mounting a half-hearted attempt at satire undermined by the film’s own existence as a commodity likely to rack up plenty of additional cash from the sales of “Over the Hedge” toys, books, and video games.

Adults are likely to enjoy the references made to films such as “Citizen Kane,” “A Streetcar Named Desire,” and “The Silence of the Lambs” more than the manic episodes that comprise the movie’s slim plot. A prologue introduces us to an enterprising raccoon named RJ (Bruce Willis), who finds himself in dire straits when he tries to pilfer from the food supply of surly bear Vincent (Nick Nolte). Given a limited period of time to replace Vincent’s stash, RJ hoodwinks an assortment of foraging critters led by cautious turtle Verne (Garry Shandling) into swiping goodies from the humans on the other side of the titular barrier that divides the wildlife from manicured lawns and swimming pools.

Only Verne is able to sense RJ’s duplicitous nature, and the turtle’s ego is bruised when his role as team leader is usurped by the smooth-talking omnivore. The other members of the group – including hyperactive squirrel Hammy (Steve Carell), father-daughter possums Ozzie (William Shatner) and Heather (Avril Lavigne), self-aware skunk Stella (Wanda Sykes), and a family of porcupines led by Lou (Eugene Levy) and Penny (Catherine O’Hara) – are charmed by RJ, especially when he introduces them to the addictive taste of artificially-flavored nacho cheese chips.

The movie’s stabs at America’s love affair with junk food and television fail to draw much blood, given the glorification of all things salty or sweet that come in bags and cans. In fact, with the exception of levelheaded Verne, all the animals are as hell-bent as human beings on amassing enough nutrition-free snacks to cause coronaries all around. The movie settles into a pattern in which the animal gang crosses the shrub boundary to raid backyard garbage cans. This continues until enough running time has been covered to constitute decent feature length.

By the final act, “Over the Hedge” grows tiresome, particularly given the shrill quality of the two-dimensional human characters voiced by Allison Janney and Thomas Haden Church. An extremely clever sequence, in which the already manic Hammy gulps an energy-boosting beverage, rises above the film’s remaining formulaic steps, but most of the later action lacks anything novel or noteworthy. While “Over the Hedge” is not a musical, Ben Folds contributes a handful of tunes that serve to kill time between action bits. Like the movie itself, the songs are pleasant without being terribly memorable.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Maybe its just not trashy enough to live up to its 1972 predecessor, but Wolfgang Petersen’s loose take on one of the essential disaster movies of its era fails to inspire more than a shrug. Dispensing with most of the plot of the original movie – as well as any indication that older people are realistically the most likely candidates to be found on a luxury liner – “Poseidon” ignores its thin characters in favor of a video game maze scenario in which a small band of passengers attempts to stay one step ahead of the rising water level. Despite Petersen’s skill with this milieu (“Das Boot,” “The Perfect Storm”), “Poseidon” leaves the viewer groping for dry land.

About the only thing “Poseidon” has going for it is its lean running time. Mark Protosevich’s script hastily sketches the set-up with near record speed: an opulent cruise ship en route to NYC on New Year’s Eve is inverted when a sneaky – and entirely ridiculous – “rogue wave” hits the vessel. Man of action Josh Lucas, a high stakes gambler with an unrelenting passion for self-preservation, ignores the wishes of the captain and begins a treacherous climb upward. Following Lucas are gorgeous single mom Jacinda Barrett and her son, suicidal millionaire Richard Dreyfuss, and retired fireman Kurt Russell, who also – for no good reason that the film can offer – used to serve as the mayor of New York.

On their ascent, the dogged group hooks up with jumpy stowaway Mia Maestro, Russell’s daughter Emmy Rossum, and her boyfriend Mike Vogel. Unfortunately, there is nobody to stand in for Shelley Winters’ Mrs. Rosen. Once the group is assembled, the movie shifts into thrill-a-minute mode, with a series of challenging perils hampering progress to the surface. Given the size of the group and the Herculean hazards in the way, it’s a safe bet to assume that not everyone is going to make it. But that’s what disaster movies do, and some of the death scenes of the core cast are staged with pulse-quickening effectiveness.

Weirdly, “Poseidon” squanders its rich opportunity to explore the darker aspects of human nature, offering instead a bland all-for-one and one-for-all mentality that celebrates cooperation and togetherness and absents cynicism and selfishness. While this temperament clearly rings with post-9/11 Hollywood guilt (and guile), “Poseidon” surely would have been a stronger film had it depicted mass casualties as something other than occasional shots of corpses floating face down or CG bodies tumbling through the air.

The fleeting exception to “Poseidon’s” grating bootstrap optimism is embodied in the character of Kevin Dillon’s “Lucky Larry,” a reptilian alcoholic who clearly doesn’t believe in women and children first. Dillon’s screen time is all too brief, especially since he’s the only performer who realizes “Poseidon” is trash, and hams it up accordingly. Had Lucky Larry survived long enough to provide a little bit of an antidote to the heroic do-gooders, the movie might have been a sight more enjoyable. As it stands, however, fans of the original adventure are not going to abandon ship for the new model.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Tame and tepid when it should be provocative and electrifying, “The Notorious Bettie Page” turns out to be just another dreadfully dull, fill-in-the-blanks biopic.  Deliberately choosing a tone, style, and point of view that conspire to hold the title character at a psychological and emotional distance, director Mary Harron falls far short of the success she had with her clever adaptation of “American Psycho.”  Working again with Guinevere Turner as co-screenwriter, Harron glides along on the surface, adamantly refusing to speculate about Bettie Page the person.

To her legion of admirers Page was the ultimate 1950s pin-up model.  With her dazzling smile, signature brunette bangs, and uninhibited enthusiasm for posing, Page virtually defined the look of an era.  Projecting a joyful personality, Page worked with a complete absence of anything resembling a sense of shame, probably the single-most cited reason for her transcendent popularity.  Following her retirement from modeling in the late 1950s, Page disappeared from the public eye.  Her silence only fueled interest and enthusiastic collectors continued to buy, sell, and trade all manner of Page memorabilia.

It is possible that some Page fanatics will be perfectly satisfied with Harron’s decision to portray Bettie as a blank slate, but most audience members would surely prefer to see the central character as a real person with a vivid inner dimension.  As Page, Gretchen Mol is well-cast, but the talented performer cannot overcome the script’s almost total lack of definition.  From nearly start to finish, Page seems content to bob along from one episode to the next, almost always at the suggestion of unknown men.

To the film’s credit, John Dunn’s meticulous costume design recreates literally dozens of Page’s outfits, from her own hand-sewn bikinis to the elaborate fetish corsets and footwear that accompanied her work for brother and sister photography team Irving and Paula Klaw (Chris Bauer and Lili Taylor).  The movie is at its most lighthearted and watchable during the restaged photo shoots, which range from the early amateur camera club sessions to the complex rope bondage scenarios favored by the Klaw’s loyal customers.  Particularly effective are several lush color sequences that vibrantly capture the nostalgic flavor of the post-World War II era.

Harron never offers viewers a hint about Bettie’s emotional needs, opting instead to saddle the character with a naiveté that would seem to contradict Page’s intelligence and drive.  Like so many biopics, “The Notorious Bettie Page” skips over huge sections of the subject’s life, gliding past a number of significant relationships.  Art Amsie, generally acknowledged as one of the key Page photographers of the camera club years, is reduced to vapor.  Page’s collaboration with Bunny Yeager is treated with maddening superficiality.  Even Page’s religious awakening functions as a thematic sin-versus-redemption device that grossly oversimplifies Page’s spirituality by suggesting a single reason for her decision to leave modeling.  “The Notorious Bettie Page” might earn some new converts to the Page cult on the strength of Mol’s impression, but for a film dealing with the struggle between 1950s repression and sexuality, Harron’s movie is a major disappointment.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A half-hearted take on the rebellious teen formula, “Stick It” fails to deliver much of anything, landing with a resounding thud and a zero-point-zero from the judges. Set in the world of elite women’s gymnastics, writer-director Jessica Bendinger’s film rehashes much of “Bring It On” (which Bendinger wrote and co-produced), only to tremendously diminished effect. Saddled with flat dialogue that most often treats the characters as types and afterthoughts, “Stick It” never picks up enough speed to deliver on the promise of its flashy opening credits sequence, a colorful montage of dripping graffiti more exciting than everything that follows.

A very wooden Missy Peregrym plays Haley Graham, a one-time national gymnastics contender who walked away from the sport for mysterious reasons (which are naturally explained on cue at a crucial moment late in the proceedings). Spending most of her time hot-dogging with a pair of BMX pals, Haley lands in court following a botched freestyle bike stunt that causes heaps of property damage. Given very little choice courtesy of her battling parents, Haley avoids juvenile detention by agreeing to attend VGA – the Vickerman Gymnastics Academy – where she is expected to return to her training.

“Stick It” nearly flickers to life once Haley arrives at VGA, thanks to the participation of Jeff Bridges, a tremendous actor who demonstrates that his gifts don’t fail him even when he’s chosen less than stellar material. As Burt Vickerman, the academy’s owner and head coach, Bridges infuses a thinly written role with a wellspring of dignity, charm, warmth, and humor (none of which would seem apparent on the page). The audience is offered very little background detail on Vickerman, but Bridges runs with what the screenplay gives him, filling in the rest with dexterity.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the other performers, who struggle valiantly to bring even a tiny glimmer of authenticity to Bendinger’s wretched writing. Peregrym is stuck playing the wounded kid with the chip on her shoulder, and her range toggles between sarcastic indignation and haughty defiance (always physically accompanied by a flash of the “devil horns” gesture). It doesn’t help that costume designer Carol Ramsey puts Peregrym in a grown-up’s idea of what a tough teenager would wear: mismatched tomboy togs accented by rock t-shirts of bands like the Ramones, Motorhead, Bad Brains, and AC/DC. One imagines the character would be hard pressed to name a single album by any of the artists, let alone actively listen to their music.

Outside the central conflict between Vickerman and Haley, “Stick It” paints by numbers. A weird scene in which Busby Berkeley-esque overhead shots accompany gymnasts in action cannot mask the film’s complete lack of intelligence and depth. Especially odious are Kellan Lutz and John Patrick Amedori as Haley’s close male pals. Their unfunny banter botches every scene in which they appear. Of the supporting cast, only Vanessa Lengies (overcoming line after line of inanities like “it’s not called gym-nice-stics”) manages to charm the audience. The final meet also contains a surprising turn that criticizes the arcane scoring system of competitive gymnastics, and the sequence is likely to win the hearts of many of the younger viewers.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A creaky political thriller that plays like a throwback to an earlier era of moviemaking, “The Sentinel” still manages to entertain via mostly brisk pacing and audience goodwill toward the cast’s familiar faces. Michael Douglas, clinging to the alpha-male virility he’s milked for ages, plays a veteran Secret Service agent caught up in a plot to assassinate the president. Dispensing almost entirely with any 9/11 nods to Middle Eastern terrorist cells, “The Sentinel” – based on Gerald Petievich’s 2003 novel – proposes that a threat on the life of the Commander in Chief will come from within the highest ranks of the security detail itself.

Despite the preposterousness of the movie’s premise, director Clark Johnson (who gives himself a nifty little cameo as a doomed agent) makes terrific use of Washington D.C. location photography as well as authentically styled interior sets. Not as much can be said for the development of the film’s key relationships, which regularly take a back seat to the impressive scenery. Douglas’ Pete Garrison, who took a bullet for Ronald Reagan, is fastidious about every aspect of his job with a singular, outrageous exception: he’s having an affair with First Lady Sarah Ballentine (Kim Basinger, struggling through a grossly underwritten role).

Garrison’s indiscretion makes him a perfect target for a frame-up, and before you can shout “Hitchcock!” the wrong man scenario kicks into overdrive. Desperate to clear his name and protect the life of the nation’s leader, Garrison leaves the grid, going on the lam after he’s been misidentified as the mole. Aside from a couple of amusing “MacGyver” moments, the middle section of “The Sentinel” concentrates on a rehash of “The Fugitive,” with the arrival of Kiefer Sutherland’s gravelly David Breckinridge. One time best friends, Breckinridge and Garrison suffered a falling out and the younger agent seems hell bent on bringing in his one-time mentor.

Sutherland seems to enjoy playing the perpetually grouchy lawman, but his pairing with Eva Longoria – whose major feature film credits are virtually nonexistent – is as undernourished as Garrison’s infidelity with the president’s wife. Despite television stardom on “Desperate Housewives,” Longoria is untested in big budget waters, and her rookie agent Jill Marin is a largely thankless part. When she’s not suffering the stern criticism of Breckinridge, she’s being ogled and hit-on by other agents, which turns out to be “The Sentinel’s” most unoriginal running gag. Given very little to do, one hopes Longoria will have better luck in the future.

One’s enjoyment of “The Sentinel” will depend largely on a willingness to set aside a rooting interest in character relationships. Johnson’s handling of the action sequences fares a bit better, although the impact of the tense climax at the G8 in Toronto is muted by an earlier, largely unmotivated shootout in a mall. Overall, “The Sentinel” is well crafted and notably efficient in the execution of its plot. Johnson excels at maintaining focus on unraveling the intrigue, even though most audience members will be able to identify the double agent immediately.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Eugene Jarecki’s sobering documentary will remind many viewers of Michael Moore’s “Fahrenheit 9/11,” but “Why We Fight” trumps Moore’s film on several counts, not the least of which is a steady journalistic style devoid of over-the-top stunt humor. Certainly Jarecki shares a great deal of Moore’s convictions regarding the George W. Bush administration, and “Why We Fight” includes the “War on Terror” among its concerns. “Why We Fight,” however, succeeds by focusing its primary attention on the central thesis that America has become – and will remain – a nation dependent on the business of war.

Adorning the film’s poster and serving as its thematic lodestar, the image of Dwight Eisenhower delivering his farewell address as president in 1961 sets up the film’s haunting refrain. In that speech, as many high school students (ought to) know, Eisenhower introduced the ominous term “military-industrial complex,” guarding future leaders against unchecked armament and weapon fortification. That Jarecki manages to make Ike out to be a sage prophet for peace is certainly one of the movie’s cleverest accomplishments. Once the numbers that describe current defense contracting are rolled out, the viewer is left with the queasy feeling that Eisenhower’s warning was never heeded. Instead, it seems to have been steamrolled.

Jarecki intercuts plenty of tasty archival footage with loads of talking heads. Some argue for the right, and many for the left. A few, including Senator John McCain, who practically jumps out of the interview chair when he’s told Dick Cheney is on the phone, aren’t terribly convincing in either capacity. Along with McCain, Jarecki speaks with Joseph Cirincione, Chalmers Johnson, Richard Perle, William Kristol, Dan Rather, and Gore Vidal, among others. One of the most compelling figures to appear in “Why We Fight,” however, is retired NYC police officer Wilton Sekzer, whose son was killed in the 9/11 attacks.

Sekzer’s earnest, heartfelt outpourings of frustration and rage manifest in his unflagging support of the invasion of Iraq, which he is convinced represents “payback” for 9/11. As soon as Bush began to downplay the link, Sekzer’s response takes a flabbergasted turn. It is too bad Jarecki didn’t use more civilians as case studies in the film, as Sekzer’s screen time is riveting. The director also elicits an emotional response from retired air force colonel Karen Kwiatkowski, but most of the interview subjects stick with their well-practiced soundbites.

Historians often contend – with the benefit of hindsight – that governments lie and cover up in times of war and peace. Even so, the movie’s inclusion of footage of Donald Rumsfeld meeting with Saddam Hussein retraces America’s hapless relationship with Iraq. The current Bush administration – as has been argued in mainstream publications like “Newsweek” and “Time” – is one of the most secretive presidencies in United States history. One of the questions raised, but not answered, by Jarecki’s documentary moves past the movie’s title to inquire why more common folks don’t demand greater accountability from our leadership when the answers that we are given don’t entirely add up.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A flashy coming-of-age tale with miles of charm, “ATL” plays largely like a cross between “American Graffiti” and “Boyz N the Hood.” Following the fortunes and misfortunes of a close-knit group of friends about to graduate from high school in Atlanta, “ATL” marks the feature directorial debut of music video wizard Chris Robinson. Despite a slapdash screenplay by Tina Gordon Chism based on a story by Antwone Fisher (who already turned his own life story into the script for the same-named film of 2002), “ATL” coasts by on the charm of its attractive cast, which includes several untested Atlanta-based thespians.

Juggling an array of characters and subplots, “ATL” sticks mainly with Rashad (Tip Harris, a.k.a. T.I.), a sullen young man who has been looking out for younger brother Ant (Evan Ross) since the death of their mother and father. Rashad and Ant live with their irritable uncle George (an engaging Mykelti Williamson), a wise-cracking janitor who spends an unreasonable amount of time trying to keep his sugary cereal hidden from his nephews. Rashad’s best friends include Esquire (Jackie Long), who is just an eyelash away from getting into an Ivy League school, Brooklyn (Albert Daniels), who never lets his pals forget he hails from NYC, and Teddy (Jason Weaver), who appears poised to finally earn his diploma following several attempts.

The quartet hangs out every Sunday evening at the Cascade, an old-school roller rink, where they cruise girls, slurp sodas, and work on their team skate routine in preparation for an annual contest. Robinson initially builds up the roller skating angle, introducing a variety of teams with colorful costumes and nicknames, but unlike the similar “Roll Bounce,” ditches the competition as a major plot point. Instead, the movie sets up a melodramatic sidebar involving Ant’s decision to deal drugs for the frightening Marcus (perfectly embodied by Antwan “Big Boi” Patton of OutKast).

“ATL’s” most successful storyline revolves around Rashad and the beautiful New-New (Lauren London), who keeps a secret that threatens the stability of their budding relationship. New-New is one of the film’s strongest characters, but Robinson waits far too long to address her predicament, which overlaps with Esquire’s own difficulties with local millionaire John Garnett (Keith David). “ATL” hints at more interesting commentary on upward mobility and the challenge of holding on to one’s credibility when traveling between slums and mansions, but Robinson is content to merely keep it on the surface.

Robinson does a credible job of capturing the vibe of Atlanta, and the movie benefits from an excellent soundtrack. Visually, however, the director falls back on too many music video tricks – especially the reliance on a multitude of rapid cuts – which burdens scenes with a busy, distracting quality when calm is required. Robinson also rushes the resolution, which sticks with a comfortable predictability cutting across the numerous story threads that require closure. Defying the odds, however, “ATL” manages to step nimbly around many of its potential pitfalls, and the end result is an entertaining diversion buoyed by fresh performances across the board.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Even though its opening titles indicate that “Inside Man” is a “Spike Lee Joint,” it is certainly one of the most conventional of the talented director’s features. This is not a bad thing, given that many of Lee’s wildly inventive films buckle under the strain of the filmmaker’s wide-ranging ambitions and devil-may-care, damn-the-torpedoes attitude. Produced by Brian Grazer and crafted from a script by newcomer Russell Gewirtz, “Inside Man” is immediately identifiable as studio fare – particularly in the toplining trio of Denzel Washington, Jodie Foster, and Clive Owen – who give delicious star turns.

A classic bank heist/hostage negotiation movie that makes several nods to Sidney Lumet’s “Dog Day Afternoon,” “Inside Man” ably fulfills its genre expectations as Dalton Russell (Owen) directly addresses the camera at the film’s outset with a promise that he has planned and will execute the perfect robbery. Descending with a team of accomplices on a Wall Street-area savings and loan, Russell cleverly forces the hostages to dress in the same painter suits and masks worn by the thieves, which makes telling the victims from the perpetrators hopeless. By the time detectives Keith Frazier (Washington) and his partner Bill Mitchell (Chiwetel Ejiofor) arrive on the scene, it’s clear that Russell has an arsenal of tricks up his sleeve.

The cat-and-mouse game between Russell and Frazier becomes very sticky once the mysterious Madeline White (Foster) gets a pass from the mayor to the middle of the unfolding action. A power-broker with connections to seemingly every wealthy and influential person in New York City, White appears to make her living by solving impossible problems with the utmost discretion. Frazier resents the intrusion of this civilian “fixer,” but his hands are tied, and White also possesses knowledge of an internal affairs investigation of Frazier over some missing evidence loot.

Lee’s films often depict an electrifying blend of social commentary and engrossing performances, and “Inside Man” is no exception. The movie’s supporting cast, which includes Willem Dafoe and Christopher Plummer, also brims over with memorable bit players. Woody Allen aside, few filmmakers are as closely identified with the Big Apple as Lee, and the diversity of characters who parade through “Inside Man” offers the director prime opportunities to comment on race and class. Additionally, Lee largely eschews any focus on media coverage of the standoff, cannily sticking with the personalities at the heart of the emergency (and anchored by an outstanding Washington).

Longtime Lee admirers are provided with all sorts of eye candy, especially by way of cinematographer Matthew Libatique’s dazzling camerawork. Terence Blanchard, who has collaborated with Lee more than fifteen times, provides yet another beautiful and robust score, and Wynn Thomas (10+ projects with Lee) captures all sorts of pleasing details with his stellar production design. Sharp-eyed fans will spot several visual nods to Lee’s own body of work, including stacks of pizza boxes from Sal’s Famous and some “Bomb” malt liquor that appeared in the ferocious satire “Bamboozled.” While Lee is not likely to become a regular director for hire, “Inside Man” is so much fun that one hopes he’ll occasionally take a studio assignment between his own originally developed ideas.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A plucky if empty-headed teen romp, “She’s the Man” loosely updates Shakespeare’s “Twelfth Night” as a gender-bend-it-like-Beckham tale of a soccer-mad lass talented enough to best her male competitors. Penned by Ewan Leslie, Karen McCullah Lutz, and Kirsten Smith, “She’s the Man” provides just enough diversion to satisfy its running time, despite its breezy superficiality. The latter two screenwriters scored considerably better marks with their previous Bard-borrowing teen flick “10 Things I Hate About You,” which coasted through a fair amount of the plot of “The Taming of the Shrew.” Younger audience members certainly won’t care – or notice – that “She’s the Man” jettisons as much Shakespeare as it can while hanging on to the central cross-dressing conceit.

Headstrong, tomboyish Viola (Amanda Bynes) sees her soccer season slip away when Cornwall Prep cuts the girls’ squad. Taking advantage of her brother Sebastian’s decision to sneak off to play in a rock music festival in London, Viola disguises herself as her sibling in order to try out for the men’s team at rival school Illyria. A monster-sized suspension of disbelief is needed to buy Bynes as a male, but the game performer makes the most of a thinly written role – even though it requires a few too many throat-clearings and broad behavior corrections (such as what to do when nailed in the groin by an errant soccer ball).

Naturally, Viola-as-Sebastian ends up bunking with the handsome Duke (Channing Tatum, whose wooden delivery is often rendered unbearable by lame line readings), and must figure out how to keep her biology a secret at the same time she is proving herself on and off the soccer pitch. Complicating matters is the romantic attention of Olivia (Laura Ramsey), who finds the new “boy’s” empathetic demeanor totally irresistible. Jealous Duke, who has the hots for Olivia, agrees to coach his new roommate in soccer in exchange for help from Viola/Sebastian in wooing Olivia.

It is too early to tell whether “She’s the Man” will ever develop a large enough following to equal the cable television potency of “Just One of the Guys,” the durable 80s teen flick which employs a great deal of the same plotting. Bynes alternates between adorable and irritating (and that goes for her appearance as either sex), but most of her cast-mates are forgettable. The chief exceptions are Julie Hagerty as Daphne, Viola’s debutante-obsessed mom, and David Cross as Principal Gold, an earnest if out-of-touch headmaster given to off-center reveries and misplaced advice. Cross is brilliant in his fleeting onscreen moments, even if his character in “She’s the Man” resembles “Arrested Development’s” Tobias Funke.

Several of the film’s subplots – especially one involving a snarky, uptight, goody-two-shoes who sets out to ruin Viola – go absolutely nowhere. Additionally, the movie often strains to manufacture complications for Viola’s ruse (a frantic and nonsensical interlude at a carnival, in which Viola changes back and forth between boy and girl, belongs in a sitcom). “She’s the Man” should have exchanged its mugging and slapstick for some intelligently presented ideas about the ups and downs of gender expectations during high school. But this is teen-movie territory, which tends not to aim too high, and as a result, “She’s the Man” is indistinguishable from dozens of other movies with titles like “She’s All That,” “Get Over It,” “”Bring It On,” and “Can’t Hardly Wait.”

Movie review by Greg Carlson

While Felicity Huffman deserves praise for her impressive portrayal of a pre-op male-to-female transsexual in “Transamerica,” the film itself is a mess – a grab bag of road movie clichés and finger-wagging self-importance that’s a chore to watch from start to finish. Marking the feature filmmaking debut of writer-director Duncan Tucker, “Transamerica” is preachy when it aims to be moving, flat when it aims to be funny, and shrill when it aims to be emotionally charged. Earnest to a fault, “Transamerica” places its central character in a maelstrom of grotesquery and intolerance, with practically the entire supporting cast stuck playing two-dimensional stereotypes as opposed to fully formed people.

Los Angeles waitress Bree (Huffman) is just a week away from a long-awaited sex change operation when she is informed that an ages-ago sexual encounter yielded a son, Toby (Kevin Zegers), now a troubled teenager in lockup in New York City. Despite her great reluctance to deal with the situation, Bree is cajoled by her therapist (Elizabeth Pena) into bailing the kid out of jail. Naturally, Bree chooses not to tell Toby about her status as the boy’s father, and the pair embarks on a cross-country road trip that gives the movie its titular pun.

Why someone as determined as Bree would agree to drive her son to rural Kentucky (in a junky, dodgy old station wagon purchased from a drug dealer, no less) is not satisfyingly explained by Tucker, who seems hell bent on providing the audience with a wacky journey filled with colorful vignettes and lessons learned. The movie’s success depends on the challenging relationship that develops between Bree and Toby, but Zegers’ role is both underwritten and underplayed: Toby is an addict and a hustler, but rarely if ever does Tucker make an effort to get under the surface of Toby’s anger and disillusionment.

Like nearly all road movies, “Transamerica” suggests that the vast spaces between the coasts are filled with oddballs – especially when the traveling takes place along rustic backroads peppered with greasy spoon diners and souvenir-shilling gas stations. Bree seems to find a sensitive soul in a rancher played by Graham Greene, but the great performer’s screen time is limited to a few clunky scenes bogged down by exactly the type of spiritual mysticism that reinforces stereotypes about Native Americans (as opposed to dispelling them).

“Transamerica” amps up the dramatic fireworks when Bree and Toby stop in Phoenix to visit Bree’s parents and sister. One of the film’s longest and most sustained interludes, the Arizona stopover provides Huffman with the opportunity to explore the limits of Bree’s sense of self. Fionnula Flanagan, as Bree’s garishly dressed, difficult mother teeters on the brink of parody as she humiliates and belittles her offspring. The one-sidedness of Bree’s familial antagonists unfortunately results in a black-and-white simplicity that erases any possibility of subtlety. “Transamerica” is not likely to be remembered for much beyond Huffman’s performance, and in a sense that is too bad. Huffman does a great deal with a role of a lifetime – even if it means playing a character who deserves a much stronger story.