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.

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.