Movie review by Greg Carlson

A preposterous slice of military escapism, “Stealth” is so far removed from reality that it might best be considered a work of science fiction. Whipping up a head-scratching concoction of such disparate influences as “2001: A Space Odyssey” and “Top Gun,” “Stealth” works up a sweat over the moral cost of high-tech war while simultaneously making sure to blow things up every few minutes. Penned by cult fave W.D. Richter, “Stealth” might have been a more interesting film had it been realized by a different director. In the hands of Rob Cohen, however, the order of the day is vertigo-inducing action that bears a stronger resemblance to a video game than to a well-plotted novel.

Flinty naval officer George Cummings (Sam Shepard, whose talents might have been put to better use on a script rewrite), eager to cement his legacy, introduces an artificially intelligent fighter jet to his cocky trio of super-pilots. Ben Gannon (Josh Lucas), Kara Wade (Jessica Biel), and Henry Purcell (Jamie Foxx) are skeptical; their prowess in the skies depends on intangible nuances and “big picture” thinking that cannot be replicated by a computer, no matter how well it has been programmed. The robot aircraft, nicknamed EDI, proves its mettle during a test run, in which a Rangoon-based terror cell is neutralized without any collateral damage.

EDI is able to learn from Gannon and company, and coupled with an electrical storm that rewires the plane’s “brain,” develops an attitude that makes Tom Cruise’s Maverick look like a slavish follower of orders. EDI also appears to enjoy music, and downloads every song on the Internet. With unlimited access to Mozart, Nina Simone, Bob Dylan, and Miles Davis, one really begins to question EDI’s sanity when Incubus gets cranked every time the jet takes flight. Voiced by Wentworth Miller, EDI sounds an awful lot like Douglas Rain’s HAL 9000, and the similarities precariously straddle the line between homage and parody. “Stealth” even apes the famous “2001” lip-reading scene, and Kubrick fans will either smile or grimace at the nod.

In the tradition of the volleyball scene in “Top Gun,” “Stealth” offers a picturesque interlude set against the beauty of Thailand. Frolicking about in swimsuits, Gannon and Wade pose for pictures in front of gorgeous waterfalls, and spend the majority of the time making eyes at each other. Cohen skips out on a love scene, however, preferring instead to escalate the romantic tension. Purcell hooks up with a local beauty, but Foxx’s scenes serve only as a reminder that he is not likely to be playing thankless supporting roles in his next few movies.

Surprisingly, “Stealth” manages a few excellent sequences, and a gripping rendering of Wade ejecting from her ruined cockpit and plummeting to earth surrounded by flaming debris breathes life into the beginning of the third act. Despite the similarities to “Behind Enemy Lines,” Wade’s crash landing in North Korea sets up a secondary plotline that offers some relief from the shenanigans surrounding EDI, Gannon, and EDI’s Seattle-based designer, Keith Orbit (Richard Roxburgh). Sure, “Stealth” is dunderheaded, loud, and humorless, but several of the CG-aided aerial dogfights offer enough punch to satisfy thrill seekers, and the simplistic, black and white, good-versus-evil depiction of the United States is a throwback to movies of the Reagan era.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“March of the Penguins,” a grand nature documentary one might expect to find on the Discovery Channel, Animal Planet, or PBS, makes itself right at home on the big screen, due in large measure to its breathtaking, powerful images. Directed by Luc Jacquet, and originally titled “The Emperor’s March,” the movie is premised solely on the mating and reproductive cycle of emperor penguins in Antarctica. While the story strains a little too vigorously to humanize the fascinating creatures, the Herculean struggle of the birds to survive in the harshest conditions imaginable typically results in reactions ranging from wonderment to admiration.

The American version of the film, which is a few minutes shorter than the original French language edition, features a new score by Alex Wurman as well as new narration by read by Morgan Freeman. Fans of Gallic culture will want to seek out the earlier cut, as it uses actors Romane Bohringer and Charles Berling as the voices of two “romantically involved” penguins. Strange as that sounds, the technique diverges significantly from the calming, sober, and reassuring presence of Freeman. Freeman, as usual, is impeccable, but on occasion Jordan Roberts’ writing goes over the top in ascribing human emotion to the intriguing subjects of the film.

For the most part, Jacquet merely needs to witness the penguins’ fascinating rituals in order to provide the film with its central narrative. Waddling some seventy miles of glacial ice in single file in order to find a mate, the penguins immediately earn our attention and respect for their seemingly stubborn determination. It is difficult not to locate parallels between the penguins and ourselves, no matter how great the stretch. By the time the birds have produced eggs, which must be constantly protected from the bitter cold, most audience members will be caught up in the drama.

The cooperation of penguin mates in order to protect their offspring is another principal element of “March of the Penguins.” Once the females lay eggs, the parent birds perform a complicated ballet in which the delicate package is transferred from atop the feet of the mother to the feet of the father, who will warm the shell until it is ready to hatch. We are informed that the females have lost a third of their total weight in the process of producing the egg, and must return to open water in order to avoid starvation.

While the mothers are miles away filling their bellies in order to feed their progeny (a section of the movie that includes a series of jaw-dropping underwater shots of the aquatic birds effortlessly gliding after their prey), the chicks begin hatching, and the site of baby penguins proves difficult to beat in the cute department. Jacquet goes overboard with endless shots of the tiny comics learning to balance on the smooth ice, and no opportunity to musically punctuate the hilarious antics is wasted. Sophisticated viewers and ornithologists might take issue with the director’s liberal construction of continuity out of disjointed footage, but when the credits roll, and the filmmakers are shown braving the impossible, sub-zero conditions, one tends to cut them some slack.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

According to popular lore, author Roald Dahl didn’t care much for Mel Stuart’s 1971 film version of his most famous story, so one begins to wonder what he might make of director Tim Burton’s spin on “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” had he lived to see it. A solid cult has developed around Gene Wilder’s eccentric portrayal of confectioner extraordinaire Willy Wonka, but if any current performer can rival Wilder’s blend of self-involved whimsy and bleak disdain for spoiled children, it is Johnny Depp, who clearly takes great pleasure in stretching almost all of his screen characterizations to their outer limits. As Wonka, Depp is a wonder to behold, turning “Charlie” into one of this disappointing summer’s few must-see movies.

In its original literary incarnation as well as its status as a perennial television and home video staple for several generations, the basic story is so well known it needs little recounting: decent, thoughtful, but near-destitute Charlie Bucket joins four other children for a tour of Wonka’s factory upon finding a golden ticket tucked in a chocolate bar. Charlie exhibits none of the character flaws (gluttony, ambition, greed, and petulance) embodied by his colorful companions, who are taken out Agatha Christie-style for their sins. Burton’s update, penned by his “Big Fish” collaborator John August, adds a new backstory involving Wonka’s strict dentist father.

Burton has always been in his element when depicting large-scale set pieces of exhilarating caliber, and “Charlie” provides the perfect opportunity for the filmmaker to outdo himself. Along with production designer Alex McDowell, Burton envisions a spectacular series of environments, which should satiate even the most demanding audience members. From the chocolate waterfall to the nut-sorting chamber populated by trained squirrels, the movie’s rainbow-hued imagery is quirky, intelligently assembled, and unique enough to stand apart from the earlier rendering. The same can be said for the Oompa-Loompas, all played by Deep Roy.

Roy’s various Oompa-Loompa guises offer a delightful complement to the action, and one marvels at the sheer amount of time and work the actor must have spent in the rehearsing and photographing of the amusing dance sequences. The new “Charlie” ditches the tunes from the original film in favor of Danny Elfman compositions using Dahl’s rhymes as lyrics, and each of the numbers incorporates a different pop music genre to make its point. Purists might blanch at Burton’s willingness to contemporize elements of the story (for example, Mike Teavee, not merely content to watch the boob tube, is a video game maniac obsessed with a first-person shooter). For the most part, however, the updates do not get in the way of the central story, and the new film displays an almost surprising amount of emotion when it counts.

Burton appears to be having a great deal of fun, and his enthusiasm is often transferred to the audience. Adults will enjoy the series of allusions to Kubrick, Hitchcock, Busby Berkeley, and other great filmmakers. The exterior of Wonka’s factory resembles something out of Lang’s “Metropolis,” and the Bucket dwelling, with its severe angles and gravity-defying construction, seems like it was plucked from “The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.” The cast, which includes Freddie Highmore, David Kelly, Helena Bonham Carter, Noah Taylor, and Christopher Lee, is expertly assembled, and even bit players with few or no lines have memorable faces. Burton and Depp will continue their successful collaboration with “Corpse Bride” this September. Given their strong track record together, fans will no doubt crave even more in the future.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Given the end result, 20th Century Fox might have saved plenty of time and energy had it merely dusted off the ill-fated 1994 version of “Fantastic Four” and slipped that into theatres this week. Widely bootlegged, Oley Sassone’s low-budget disaster has kept FF fans’ hopes alive for a decade that a lavish, major studio treatment of the legendary Marvel Comics superhero team would erase the memory of a colossally inept misfire. No such luck. Tim Story’s splashy version, crammed with special effects, flops hard. The new “Fantastic Four” has the texture and vibe of a corny television series, and considering the backgrounds of its actors, it will play much better on the small screen than the large one.

Tinkering with the mythology that hardcore fans cherish as sacred text, the Mark Frost and Michael France script sends the quartet of future champions into space along with soon-to-be nemesis Victor Von Doom (Julian McMahon), who has agreed to finance the mission in exchange for a wicked cut of the potential spoils. Reed Richards (Ioan Gruffudd), Sue Storm (Jessica Alba), Johnny Storm (Chris Evans), and Ben Grimm (Michael Chiklis) abort the odyssey following a cosmic tempest that blasts the space station with radiation. Upon their return to terra firma, the gang discovers that they have been blessed – or cursed – with superhuman powers.

At one end of the spectrum is the flashy Johnny, whose ability to combust into flames (and eventually fly) triggers his understanding that shouting “Flame On!” will, contrary to expectations, serve as a magnet to gorgeous young women. At the other end is Ben, whose appearance takes on the external properties of a collection of orange rocks. In one jaw-dropping demonstration of the film’s foolishness, Ben’s fiancée rejects him by placing her engagement ring on the ground immediately following an unprecedented act of heroism and self-sacrifice on his part. Apparently to some people looks really matter.

Johnny’s sister Sue turns invisible – especially when her emotions get the better of her. Reed discovers he can stretch his body like rubber, which comes in handy when he needs to reach a roll of toilet paper across the hall. Story spends so much time explaining the origins of the group members, nothing of interest is left over for the development of the narrative. Victor, whose vanity leads him to don an iron mask as Dr. Doom, is so underplayed by McMahon (in a performance that often calls to mind Kevin Spacey), the dull villain feels like an afterthought.

Arguably the only thing the movie has going for it is the devil-may-care attitude of Evans’ Human Torch. Endowed with a head full of air and insouciance to spare, Johnny provides just the tiniest bit of relief from the dreadful, thudding mechanics that lurch and sputter to keep the film moving. Story might like to think that the movie has its tongue planted in cheek, but the audience spends more time laughing at the film than with it. Alba, who has become every fanboy’s dream girl following her gyrations in “Sin City,” has yet to prove she can really carry a movie, and the dialogue in “Fantastic Four” doesn’t do her any favors. Chiklis struggles mightily against the layers of prosthetics that only serve to bury him, and Gruffudd is thoroughly forgettable as Richards. There is little doubt that the filmmakers were betting on “Fantastic Four” as a franchise, but here is hoping that we don’t see the Baxter Building for at least another ten years.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Loosely based on a popular novel by Diana Wynne Jones, “Howl’s Moving Castle” is the latest Hayao Miyazaki feature to manage a wide theatrical release in America. Not since Walt Disney’s golden age has a particular style of storytelling been so indelibly identified with a unique and beloved animation auteur. Rightly or wrongly (according to many of his fans), Miyazaki invites regular comparison to Disney, and the parallel is apt, considering the simultaneous awe and frustration aroused by both masters. “Howl’s Moving Castle” certainly ranks with Miyazaki’s finest films, and despite the often crude dubbing from Japanese to English, the movie should be enjoyed on the big screen.

Taking place in a fantasy realm that evokes aspects of Great Britain as well as other Western European locales, “Howl’s Moving Castle” presents a war-torn kingdom crippled by punishing air raids. Miyazaki’s well-known pacifism might be the movie’s most consistent theme, and the spectacle of gigantic ships raining down bombs hauntingly recalls WW II-era newsreels. Despite the hostilities, a teenage milliner named Sophie (voiced by Emily Mortimer and Jean Simmons) runs afoul of a seemingly wicked witch (Lauren Bacall), who transforms the beautiful youngster into a stooped nonagenarian. Initially seeking an end to her curse, Sophie becomes the housekeeper of Howl (Christian Bale), a vain, brooding wizard.

Howl dwells inside an incredible invention. Perched atop a set of mechanical legs that resemble the feet of a chicken, Howl’s castle is a triumph of design. Equally inviting and foreboding, the castle seems cobbled together out of scrap pieces of metal, glass, and wood. Inside, the dimensions often suggest a homespun domesticity, just as the exterior can bring to mind a cloudbank fashioned of steel and rivets. The cherry on this keep’s sundae is a color-coded dial that allows its operator the magical ability to open the door and suddenly arrive in any number of different locations.

Once Sophie takes up residence inside the ambulatory manse, her aging-curse takes a backseat to several other stories, not all of them particularly satisfying. Miyazaki’s films often bobble the ball when it comes to narrative coherence, and younger viewers (along with plenty of older ones) will have a difficult time sorting out exactly what is supposed to be important. Miyazaki’s vision, however, is so stunning, it is easy to forgive the inconsistencies that confuse the primary events as they unfold. It is a shame that more is not done with Sophie’s dilemma, considering the depth of potential commentary on the positives and negatives of growing old.

Miyazaki die-hards and purists will elect to purchase the DVD with the original Japanese soundtrack, and it is little wonder given some of the awkward voiceovers in the American version. While Bacall and Simmons are almost always right on the money, Christian Bale occasionally overdoes it (adopting tones not unlike his weird, robotic Batman voice). The biggest deficit is Billy Crystal as Calcifer, a fire demon who serves as a sort of pilot and furnace in the moving castle. Crystal shows off more than is necessary, and his spin on the character lacks a great deal of Miyazaki’s usually delicate touch. To be fair, Miyazaki did not direct the voice acting in the English language version of “Howl’s Moving Castle.” The filmmaker’s visuals, so wondrous and so fabulous, have no trouble stealing the show.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

While there are plenty of things to say about George Romero’s legendary horror franchise, new entry “Land of the Dead” disappoints more than it delights. Almost forty years after the director’s masterpiece “Night of the Living Dead” rewrote the cinematic bible on the ins and outs of flesh-eating ghouls, Romero has yet to top the unsettling vibe of his 1968 classic. While many Romero devotees argue on behalf of the macabre satire of “Dawn of the Dead” (1978), “Night” is still the most powerful, its low-budget look enhancing the foreboding feeling that this sort of nightmare could actually take place. “Land of the Dead” does not measure up to the other movies in the series, but it offers enough gore and almost enough humor to satisfy the hardest of the hardcore Romero fan-base.

Following an intense opening credit sequence, “Land of the Dead” quickly sketches out the political and physical territory of present day zombie-human relations, which are predictably poor. Only the well-heeled have managed to secure relative safety inside the razor wire of Fiddler’s Green, a community led by greasy businessman Kaufman (Dennis Hopper, in a nicely twitchy, nose-picking performance). Outside in Uniontown, the less fortunate struggle to make ends meet, while yet another social class composed of citizen-soldiers moves back and forth across the moat that separates them from the undead in order to blast out the brains of the dangerous animated corpses.

Among the warriors are Riley (Simon Baker), a matter-of-fact veteran looking to hang up his rifle, Riley’s sidekick Charlie (Robert Joy), the angry Cholo (John Leguizamo), and tough, assertive Slack (Asia Argento). Tooling around on “Mad Max”-esque motorcycles and in a steel-plated, missile-launching behemoth called Dead Reckoning, the mercenaries take turns with zombies in the role of predator and prey. While most of the zombies are distinguished only by their occupation-identifying attire (a well-loved genre hallmark) – butcher, cheerleader, clown, priest, ballplayer, etc. – a former mechanic/gas station attendant named Big Daddy (Eugene Clark) stands out. Struggling to participate in the normal routine of his former life, Big Daddy shuffles around looking for cars to fill with fuel.

Functioning at a higher level than most of the other meat puppets, Big Daddy turns out to be a rather resourceful corpse. Crudely organizing nearby zombies into a functional mob, Big Daddy teaches his fellow cadavers how to use weapons, an evolutionary quantum leap that poses serious problems for the not-yet-departed. Romero has a great deal of fun building sympathy for his lumbering stiffs, and his apocalyptic vision offers glimpses of the grotesque ways in which people have turned zombie-killing into grisly carnival amusements. The filmmaker’s almost sly critique of segregation and class division is too thin to hold up to much scrutiny, but Romero deserves some credit for trying.

The film’s special effects are superb, if the sight of rotting flesh and decomposing features doesn’t turn your stomach. Greg Nicotero, Howard Berger, and their talented team from KNB EFX Group have created arguably the most phenomenal zombie makeup designs to date. Beyond the grim visages, however, the film’s modest budget prevents Romero from fully realizing the upper limits of his profound imagination. Hopefully, “Land of the Dead” will meet with enough success at the box office to merit another installment. It would be something to see what Romero could do with more substantial capital at his disposal.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Chris Nolan, an inspired choice to revamp the flagging cash machine that D.C. Comics has tapped for nearly seven decades in one form or another, makes sure that his Batman is as serious as seeing your parents murdered. Solidly built, admirable, and occasionally enjoyable, “Batman Begins” spends so much time taking itself seriously that it bogs down under the weight of its own oversimplified pop psychology. Batman is a resilient character (consider the graduated scale that includes Adam West’s 1960s cheekiness and Frank Miller’s gritty Dark Knight), and Christian Bale’s committed performance manages to write a new chapter for at least the movie incarnations of the famous caped crusader.

Wisely starting over with a nearly clean slate, Nolan lavishes considerable time and attention on Bruce Wayne’s tragic back-story. Comic book hero origin mythology almost always purchases a solid first act, and this time the young billionaire rejects his privilege for a soul-searching tour of duty in remote corners of the globe. Landing in Asia (with Iceland standing in as the actual shooting location), Wayne undergoes arduous martial arts training with the deadly League of Shadows, led by the mysterious Ra’s al Ghul (Ken Watanabe) and Henri Ducard (Liam Neeson, once again channeling his “Star Wars”-style mentor role). The script, penned by Nolan with David Goyer, reveals its first major weakness, pummeling the audience with endless discussion about fear (why it is important, how it can be addressed, harnessed, and conquered, etc.) that seemingly peppers every other line of dialogue.

The film is decidedly more interesting once Wayne returns to Gotham and decides to fight criminals, vigilante-style, in the guise of his newly hatched nocturnal alter-ego. With the help of loyal valet Alfred (Michael Caine, making it look easy) and Wayne Industries tech expert Lucius Fox (Morgan Freeman, also making it look easy), Bruce/Batman puts the rest of the well-known puzzle together: the cape, the cowl, the utility belt, the Bat Cave, and the Batmobile are all given just enough spin by Nolan to feel fresh. Soon enough, Batman crosses paths with childhood crush Rachel Dawes (Katie Holmes), now an assistant district attorney, cop Jim Gordon (Gary Oldman), who seems like the last honest man on the force, and Dr. Jonathan Crane (Cillian Murphy), a psychiatrist who moonlights as the fiendish Scarecrow.

More than enough snoozy plotting about an attempt to destroy the city with chemical agents in the water supply sets up the final act pyrotechnics, and frankly, Nolan can usually be counted on to avoid this kind of stuff in favor of subtler, smarter choices. “Batman Begins” is, however, a summertime super hero flick, and it’s a sight better than other comic book translations helmed by acclaimed directors (see: “Hulk”). In terms of physical action, Nolan also shoots far too few masters, and the closeness of the photography makes it impossible to tell exactly what is going on in the fight and action scenes.

“Batman Begins” tags on an epilogue that sets up the sequel and the sequel’s central villain (fans certainly won’t need more than a single guess). Hopefully, the next movie will allow for an even deeper examination of Bruce Wayne, the person. In “Batman Begins,” Nolan offers any number of promising suggestions that we will get to see Wayne struggling with his role as Gotham’s most prominent citizen, but most of the time, the screenplay quickly resorts to the troubled character’s disdain – and near contempt – for his out-of-costume, public persona. And despite the fact that nobody in town seems to make the connection that Batman starts cracking skulls at exactly the same time Bruce Wayne returns after a lengthy hiatus, the secret identity dialectic could be child’s play for someone with Nolan’s talent.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Several reviews of “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” relate the film to Ernst Lubitsch’s masterpiece “Trouble in Paradise,” and the comparison – while decidedly unfavorable toward the newer movie – is more than apt. Fans of the 1932 classic will certainly wonder if writer Simon Kinberg studied the brilliant scene in which two expert thieves seduce one another during a showcase of mutually spectacular pick-pocket skills; a similar sequence shows up in “Mr. and Mrs. Smith,” minus the deft, light-fingered touch that was Lubitsch’s signature. Of course, the characters Mr. and Mrs. Smith are world-class assassins, which provides the filmmakers with an opportunity to crank up the action at the expense of witty, sophisticated dialogue. Had the movie borrowed more from “Trouble in Paradise,” it might have been on to something.

Director Doug Liman, whose clever handling of energetic material in “Go” and “The Bourne Identity” proved that he could skillfully integrate brains and bullets, coasts by this time on the effortless charisma generated by topliners Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. The marquee players have been catnip to the tabloids of late, which will undoubtedly heat up the box office receipts – at least initially. It’s too bad the movie is not as scorching as its leading duo. As it is, viewers have to settle for a toned-down PG-13 rumpus that emphasizes cartoonish violence, when the movie would have been significantly better had it focused on the trickier sexual politics attending the wild central conceit.

Well-documented as the subject of Kinberg’s master’s thesis at Columbia, the premise of “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” would have us believe that this impossibly good looking couple, married for at least a half decade, have been able to keep their parallel livelihoods as contract killers secret from one another. The preposterousness of the situation hints at a rich subtext exploring the strains of routine and the perils of blocked intimacy, but “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” largely ignores its opportunities to say something about marriage. It turns out to be much easier to muzzle the talk and break out the machine guns instead.

There is no question Pitt and Jolie have appeal to spare, and one certainly expects that they will dominate the show, but “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” fails to develop any other important characters (sidekicks Kerry Washington and Vince Vaughn, doing his cute “Swingers” riff for the umpteenth time, barely register), which leaves the second half of the film desperately empty. Following a terrific knock-down melee in which the Smiths destroy their beautiful home en route to some tantalizing make-up sex, the movie settles for the commonplace sight of big-ticket car chases and shoot-outs.

With all this talent coming together, “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” should have resisted playing to the lowest common denominator. At the beginning and end of the movie, Pitt and Jolie are posed in a two-shot, directly facing the audience. As each partner responds to questions, Liman’s coy, therapy session set-up hints at a hipper, sexier movie than the one we get when the Smiths aren’t visiting with their counselor (nicely voiced off-screen by William Fichtner). These scenes are worth so much more than the third-act pyrotechnics that stand-in for what passes as plot. “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” is worth seeing, but one gets the feeling that underneath the hype, it’s just another big budget movie far too dependent on special effects and razzle-dazzle.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Director Catherine Hardwicke’s follow-up to her edgy “Thirteen,” “Lords of Dogtown” covers similar territory in its depiction of angst-ridden young people struggling with issues large and small. A fictionalized re-imagining of the rise and fall of Venice Beach’s legendary Zephyr skateboard team, “Lords” already enjoyed big screen success in Stacy Peralta’s 2001 documentary “Dogtown and Z-Boys” – not incidentally a much stronger film. While Peralta’s movie did a better job of profiling the personalities of the skaters, Hardwicke (working from a script by Peralta) settles in on the key trio: chronicler Peralta, flashy Tony Alva, and troubled Jay Adams. Ultimately too conventional to accurately account for the seismic pop-culture shock spawned by the Z-Boys, “Lords of Dogtown” is just intriguing enough to merit a look.

Like Peralta’s original, “Lords of Dogtown” traces the birth of skateboard culture to the Pacific Ocean Park pier, where hardcore surfers formed a tightly-knit group of friends committed to the “locals only” philosophy. Led by Zephyr surf shop owner Skip Engblom (colorfully portrayed by Heath Ledger in a performance that immediately calls to mind Val Kilmer as Jim Morrison in “The Doors”), a gang of younger wannabes latches on to the dubious role model in what proves to be an interestingly symbiotic relationship. With the introduction of urethane wheels, which enable the skaters to emulate surfer moves on asphalt, Engblom launches a competitive team – along with a plan to sell skateboards with the Zephyr logo to kids who want to imitate the radical youngsters in Engblom’s somewhat elite company.

What follows is a fairly standard series of scenes that recounts the history of street skating at ground zero. Southern California’s mid-70s water shortage opened up a concrete ocean of drained swimming pools, and the Z-Boys were quick to invent and perfect the jaw-dropping moves that are now familiar to millions of kids. Hardwicke manages to recreate much of the electrifying awe that accompanied the very first sightings of Tony Alva (Victor Rasuk) going vertical over the lip of the bowl, and many other well-known photographs by Craig Stecyk and Glen E. Friedman are also lovingly, faithfully reproduced.

The skating is much better than the melodramatic renderings of the central characters’ personal lives, which all end up reduced to recognizable screen tropes. As Jay Adams, Emile Hirsch leaves the strongest impression. Adams was never able to ride his board to commercial success (both Peralta and Alva quickly capitalized on their skills, despite the fact that Adams was every bit their equal on a deck), and his story arc hints at the frustration and pain he experienced, even as it mostly sidesteps his substance abuse problems. Perhaps erring on the side of modesty, screenwriter Peralta has himself portrayed by beautiful, golden-haired John Robinson as a pretty square, straight shooter. Despite Robinson’s pleasantness, Peralta fails to give himself anything approaching complexity.

Alva’s role is just as underdeveloped, despite Rasuk’s best efforts to mimic the famous pro’s penchant for fast cars and attractive young women. Nikki Reed teams again with Hardwicke, playing Alva’s sexy sister, who ends up as one of the points in a love triangle with Peralta and Adams. Compared to the version of history presented in “Dogtown and Z-Boys,” “Lords of Dogtown” applies a nostalgic gloss, concocting composite characters and ignoring several influential figures. As a summer diversion and with the help of a great soundtrack, however, the movie often capitalizes on its youthful energy. That said, it would be criminal to see “Lords” without taking in “Dogtown and Z-Boys” as a companion piece.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A politically charged documentary that joins several recent entries in criticizing the current Bush administration, “Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room” manages to be simultaneously entertaining and enraging. Bringing to life the book by “Fortune” magazine writers Bethany McLean and Peter Elkind, director Alex Gibney builds his movie around articulate talking heads, the clever counterpoint of stock footage, and damning, Enron-produced corporate video. The result is a jaw-dropping expose of financial and moral bankruptcy.

While its central characters are too shuddersome to merit comparison to figures in Greek tragedy, the movie details a colossal exercise in the worst possible hubris. Enron founder Ken Lay (“Kenny Boy” to George W. Bush) teams with oily Ivy Leaguer Jeffrey Skilling to run an energy company that exploits so many legal loopholes, one wonders why the government bothers to regulate these business behemoths at all. Along with numbers wizard Andrew Fastow, Lay and Skilling made voodoo out of the ridiculous practice called “mark-to-market,” which allowed Enron to report potential future earnings as current profits. While their stock price indicated nothing but blue skies, the company was in actuality hemorrhaging cash and spiraling into unimaginable debt.

Of course, this did not stop the top dogs from pocketing millions on their personal stock options, even as the rank and file invested in retirement funds that would quickly turn out to be worthless. The story of Enron, which is sadly familiar to so many people, is a David and Goliath tale without a happy ending. It is difficult to say whether Lay and friends were truly evil, but the movie provides more than enough evidence to suggest that Enron’s top executives ought to be locked up for a long time. The film directly links California’s energy crisis (which led to Schwarzenegger’s successful bid to recall Gray Davis and seize the governorship) to Enron, and the audio of traders salivating over how much money they stand to make sickens the stomach.

As a director, Gibney is at his best when he reminds us that greed thrives on co-dependency. Rather than point out that Enron’s bookkeeping was a clear case of the Emperor’s New Clothes, the whole gamut of participants – from traders to reporters to accounting firms – happily congratulated the company even when logic suggested that things were more than a little off. Whistle-blower Sherron Watkins is interviewed, but strangely, the movie doesn’t spend enough time with her to make her out to be a hero. She is, however, a reminder of sanity and reason – something nonexistent at the company’s highest echelon.

Actor Peter Coyote narrates the film, and his slightly arch tone adds the perfect amount of principled superiority to the story. The facts justify this kind of attitude: Skilling refused any responsibility for his actions, walking away from Enron with millions of dollars and the knowledge that the walls were closing in. Following his departure, Lay has the disgusting temerity to compare “attacks” on Enron to September 11, 2001. One thing the movie overlooks is the behind-the-scenes relationship of Skilling and Lay. It would have been intriguing to know whether and to what extent the pair plotted separately or together. Even so, “Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room” offers more than enough food for thought.