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.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Neither as exuberant as one might hope nor as fulfilling as it needs to be, “Dave Chappelle’s Block Party” nevertheless blows into theaters as a breath of fresh springtime air. A music and comedy-based homage to Mel Stuart’s “Wattstax,” “Block Party” features a tantalizing lineup of hip-hop artists, including Kanye West, Mos Def, Talib Kweli, Common, Erykah Badu, Jill Scott, Dead Prez, the Roots, and the reunited Fugees, among others. Planned by Chappelle as a free neighborhood get-together in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, Michel Gondry’s documentary constructs a breezy, affable, and mostly lighthearted behind-the-scenes look at the planning and execution of the big event.

Purportedly bankrolled in some measure by Chappelle, the project immediately presents the viewer with the impression that a host like Chappelle can and will make just about anything happen. Kicking off in and around Dayton, Ohio, just a few days prior to the September 2004 concert, “Block Party” follows the comedian around town as he distributes golden tickets to a variety of folks – some thrilled, some gracious, some just plain perplexed. The chaotic spirit that accompanies Chappelle’s spontaneous invitation sets the tone for the film, which mostly fails to follow-up later on the average Ohioans who agreed to take the bus ride to NYC. After the promising set-up, the highlight of which is Chappelle’s recruitment of the ecstatic Central State University Marching Band as performers for the show, “Block Party” spends the remainder of its running time cutting primarily between the concert and Chappelle’s preparations for it.

It’s likely that “Block Party” will work better on DVD than at the cinema, assuming that the musical performances will be presented intact. The theatrical version’s single greatest deficiency is a marked attention-deficit disorder, as many of the finest numbers are interrupted to present some other business. While this tactic will disappoint hip-hop fans, viewers hoping for a big-screen version of Chappelle’s television series will not find that either. Instead, Chappelle’s flavorful musings (as he interacts with regular people and stars) range from the blisteringly funny to the slightly bittersweet.

“Block Party” goes out of its way to remain focused on the fun (even if the inclement weather forces Badu to remove her fantastic Angela Davis afro), but Gondry and Chappelle include several tastes of political commentary, including a conversation between Ahmir Thompson and Chappelle in which they talk about having to perform for mostly white audiences. Chappelle also invites Fred Hampton Jr., the son of the slain Black Panther, to address the crowd, and Wyclef Jean appears in a moving scene where he performs “President” with some of the CSU student musicians.

Chappelle’s infectious energy and deep wellspring of talent course through “Block Party,” even if the finished product doesn’t hit a grand slam. Chappelle’s dizzy rollercoaster career feels like it can go anywhere, and “Block Party” only hints at the future possibilities for the dynamic performer. Like his inspiration Richard Pryor, who appeared in “Wattstax” and whose face graces one of the t-shirts he wears onstage, Chappelle is an innovator whose sharp wit and vivid imagination have put him on the path to potential legend status.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A robust melodrama that mixes its dark tale of upward mobility with a streak of black humor, Woody Allen’s “Match Point” is both attractive and involving. Recalling Allen’s “Crimes and Misdemeanors,” as well as the director’s long-standing thematic preoccupation with Ingmar Bergman, “Match Point” explores guilt, infidelity, morality, and the function of luck. Set in the London equivalent of Allen’s fairytale Manhattan, “Match Point” focuses on Chris Wilton (Jonathan Rhys-Meyers), a social climber who uses his job as a country club tennis pro to gain access to a fabulously wealthy family.

In the blink of an eye, Chris seduces Chloe Hewett (Emily Mortimer), the eager sister of his tennis student Tom (Matthew Goode). Invited one weekend to the Hewett’s opulent country house, Chris encounters Nola Rice (Scarlett Johansson), the dangerous and beguiling American fiancée of Tom. Unable to resist the allure of Nola, Chris chases her outside during a rainstorm and they have torrid sex, even though his future with the Hewett family is all but secured. Before things get out of hand, however, fate intervenes and Nola and Tom call it off. Nola disappears from Chris’ new life.

Nola’s absence from the scene is only temporary, and a chance encounter at the Tate Modern many months later – and following Chris’ wedding to Chloe – rekindles his lust. Like “An American Tragedy,” and its cinematic cousin “A Place in the Sun,” “Match Point” puts its central character in an impossible bind that can only yield devastating results. Allen relishes the opportunity to make his audience squirm, and a close-up of Chris’ reading material, “Crime and Punishment,” additionally alludes to a potentially horrific outcome. The more Nola pressures him to abandon his wife, the more Chris realizes he has grown far too accustomed to his elite lifestyle to want to leave it.

One looking for Allen’s customary approach to comedy won’t find much of it here, although “Match Point” isn’t as far off the Allen track as one might initially think. One of “Match Point’s” underlying themes, the desire of someone from the working class to get a ticket to untold riches, illuminates Allen’s longtime fascination with the good life. “Match Point” overflows with eye-popping material grandeur, from chauffer-piloted sedans to apartments with floor-to-ceiling views of Westminster Abbey. Even as Michael Atkinson calls Allen an “unapologetic wealth pornographer,” the director’s fascination with privilege seduces the audience right along with Chris, implicating the viewer when Chris begins to contemplate the unthinkable.

Continuing his knack for superb casting, Allen’s ensemble forms a perfect company. The director purposefully feeds his viewer very little background information regarding Chris or Nola, which has the direct effect of making us wonder exactly what each character is plotting to do. Johansson continues her run as one of cinema’s most desirable personalities, injecting Nola with a dazzling combination of pouty-lipped, doe-eyed sexuality and fragile, needy, insecurity. Rhys-Meyers is equally good as Chris, and Mortimer, Goode, Brian Cox, and Penelope Wilton all register memorably in their roles.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A modest diversion that coasts by on nostalgia, “Mrs. Henderson Presents” displays nowhere near the level of quality that defines veteran director Stephen Frears’ strongest work. A backstage comedy loosely based on “true events” (whatever those might be), “Mrs. Henderson Presents” blends widowhood, World War II, and the West End into a mildly engaging period piece. As Laura Henderson and Vivian Van Damm, Judi Dench and Bob Hoskins are terrific in their roles, but the low budget and the script’s lack of ambition conspire to give the film the air of a made-for-TV time-filler. Surely the fascinating history of London’s Windmill Theater merits a deeper look than this one.

Beginning in 1937 with the funeral of Mrs. Henderson’s husband, the movie trots along at a brisk clip. Mrs. Henderson tires immediately of typical dowager pursuits, and trades her needlepoint and charity work for a boarded-up Soho theater, which she transforms almost overnight into a successful musical revue house. Mrs. Henderson also forms an unlikely partnership with Van Damm, an old pro who insists on artistic autonomy as the theater’s creative director. Naturally, Van Damm and Henderson don’t see eye to eye on every matter concerning the Windmill, and the witty sparring that attends virtually all of their conversations is at the heart of the movie’s charms.

When other theaters begin to copy the Windmill’s successful formula, Mrs. Henderson insists that Van Damm begin preparations to stage revues featuring nude women. A visit to the snooty Lord Chamberlain (a restrained Christopher Guest, just on the verge of being funny) clears the legal hurdles, although the Windmill must limit its fleshly displays to artfully lit tableaux. The movie’s middle section largely concerns itself with the casting and staging of the Windmill’s new stock in trade, and several of the musical numbers showcase clever, kitschy ways to titillate the audiences composed largely of young soldiers on their way to the front lines.

Frears also settles on a mostly unfocused – and completely rushed – subplot revolving around the nude revue’s star attraction, played by Kelly Reilly, who recently appeared as Caroline Bingley in the vastly superior “Pride & Prejudice.” Reilly is a fine performer, but the character she plays in “Mrs. Henderson Presents” entirely lacks definition, which prohibits the audience from making the necessary emotional investment in her fortunes. This is surely too bad, since Martin Sherman’s screenplay asks the viewers to find some time to brush aside some tears when the below-ground Windmill becomes a shelter during the punishing Nazi air raids.

Frears mixes in stock footage of bombed out London, but the grainy images cannot compensate for the lean production values displayed following the Blitz. By the time Mrs. Henderson delivers a rousing speech to a mob of troops looking to crowd inside the Windmill, the sentimentalism is shifted into the highest gear. The revelation of why Mrs. Henderson chose to feature nudity on her stage is pure corn, but the irrepressible Dench manages to get through the lines without complete embarrassment. In fact, Dench’s spirit of fun rescues “Mrs. Henderson Presents” from total disaster; she’s as delightful to see as the undressed attractions at her music hall.