Movie review by Greg Carlson

Like Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu’s stunning “Amores Perros,” “City of God” embraces a sensational cinematic style – a tour de force of editing and camerawork complete with dizzying 360-degree tracking shots, split screens, handheld cinematography, bullet-eye-ricochets, and non-chronological storytelling. These moviemaking pyrotechnics are well-suited to the subject matter, an adaptation of a popular novel by Paulo Lins that chronicles the bleak fate of the inhabitants of Cidade de Deus, a government-sponsored housing project in Rio de Janeiro. Narrated by Rocket (Alexandre Rodrigues), a kid who sees news photography as his only way out of the ghetto, “City of God” is as beautiful as it is harrowing.

Co-directors Fernando Meirelles  and Kátia Lund smartly cast nearly every role with a non-professional (many of whom live in Cidade de Deus), and the result is a lean authenticity that merges fact and fiction, myth and reality. Because so many of the movie’s characters are young men pretending to be something or someone they are not, the performances appear effortless. Rocket, whose sweet nature and desire to avoid becoming a hood position him as an ideal observer, takes the audience back to the beginnings of major criminal activity in his world, when his older brother and two friends (who form the “Tender Trio”) graduate from holding up propane trucks to robbing a brothel.

Also involved in the brothel stick-up is Li’l Dice (Douglas Silva), a younger tag-along who turns out to be incredibly dangerous – both to his “friends” and to anyone he perceives as standing in his way. “City of God” jumps around in time, and Li’l Dice grows up to become Li’l Ze (the older version of the character is played by Leandro Firmino da Hora), a full-blown psychopath ready to kill over the tiniest provocation. Only Ze’s closest friend Benny (Phellipe Haagensen), an easy-going and likable hippie-type, manages to keep the cold-blooded enforcer in check.

Benny quickly emerges as one of the movie’s most charismatic figures. It nearly breaks your heart that this smart, kind-hearted teenager is just as comfortable around handguns and cocaine as he is hanging out at the beach and cuddling with his gorgeous girlfriend. Benny’s fateful decision to try to leave Cidade de Deus culminates in one of the film’s most dazzling sequences: a giant, strobe-lit, farewell dance party so packed with volatility and emotion the tension borders on unbearable. Even Carl Douglas’ goofy disco anthem “Kung Fu Fighting” manages to take on grand, sinister overtones via the expert direction of Meirelles.

Despite its decidedly grim tableau, “City of God” succeeds in part because of its stark sense of humor (established quickly in the opening, chicken-on-the-loose sequence and continued via Rocket’s witty, self-deprecating observations). Frequently employed to alleviate the misery of watching gangs of roving, trigger-happy preteens kill each other without mercy, the movie’s comic voice becomes its optimistic heart – sorely needed as the body count rises. Meirelles and Lund, however, never let the audience forget that the consequences of street life are devastating and real. The film’s closing credits even feature a curtain call in which the actors are juxtaposed with photographs of the real people upon whom their characters are based.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Following several successful pairings, Owen Wilson and Ben Stiller strike out in the big-screen adaptation of “Starsky & Hutch,” a name-only version of the 70s police series.  Directed by Todd Phillips, “Starsky & Hutch” is long on period detail and short on humor – a deadly equation considering the insignificance of the buddy-cop parody genre.  Wilson and Stiller were hilarious against all odds in “Zoolander,” and their effortless comic riffing seemed ideally translatable to another cartoon confection.  All the other elements for a sure-fire movie appeared locked into place: Snoop Dogg as Huggy Bear, and additional support from Vince Vaughn and Will Ferrell.  Too bad none of it works.

Phillips stumbles and trips through the obligatory exposition of the mismatched partners: in a slight inversion of the original personalities of the characters inhabited by Paul Michael Glaser and David Soul (who show up in a jaw-droppingly lame cameo), David Starsky (Stiller) is the by-the-book straight arrow and Ken “Hutch” Hutchinson (Wilson) is the on-the-take rule-bender, happy to rob Chinese bookies and lift cash out of the wallets of floating corpses.  Assigned to an uneasy partnership by Captain Dobey (Fred Williamson, flabbergasted), Starsky and Hutch quickly find themselves on the trail of big-time cocaine dealer Reese Feldman (Vaughn).

Feldman has figured out how to manufacture an odorless, undetectable type of coke, and he is eager to unload the product to the underworld of Bay City.  “Starsky & Hutch” lurches from one dull scene to the next, setting up a series of tiresome undercover operations that allow Stiller and Wilson to dress up like Hopper and Fonda in “Easy Rider” and try on other pointless disguises in their pursuit of Feldman.  At some point, the boys hook up with foxy cheerleaders Holly (Amy Smart) and Stacey (Carmen Electra), but Phillips is far more interested in mining the homo-eroticism of Starsky and Hutch’s love-hate coupling, and the women are treated as if they are only getting in the way.

Along with his team of screenwriters, Phillips strains to find one funny gag in the entire movie, but most everything fizzles out without ever really igniting.  “Starsky & Hutch” gives itself too much credit for being clever: the boys do a mime act that results in the death of a pony, Starsky accidentally gets high on his own supply and faces off against Har Mar Superstar in a disco dancing contest that goes on forever, and the iconic red-with-white-stripe Gran Torino barely breaks a sweat.

Nothing in “Starsky & Hutch” feels fresh or interesting, and the plot is so linear and lacking in the development of anything resembling character or subtext that one feels inclined to nod off several times throughout the bloated proceedings.  Packed with wall to wall AM staples, like the Carpenters, Dazz, Chicago, and Bill Withers, the soundtrack to the movie proves more enjoyable than anything that happens onscreen.  By the time the final credits roll, a weird feeling settles in that you cannot really remember anything about the movie, aside from its costumes and pop hits.  Audiences have come to expect more from Stiller and Wilson team-ups, and hopefully their next one will be a return to form.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The newly minted Academy Award winner for Best Documentary Feature is Errol Morris’ “The Fog of War,” a thought-provoking character study of Robert S. McNamara, one of the best and brightest of his generation, and a figure who remains controversial to this day. Now well into his 80s, McNamara is remembered primarily as one of the chief architects of the Vietnam War, which he helped to orchestrate while serving as the Secretary of Defense. Morris spends plenty of time addressing McNamara’s decisions and mistakes while serving under Lyndon Johnson, but the far-reaching film also digs in to McNamara’s recollections of both World Wars (his earliest memories go all the way back to WW I), his tenure as president of the Ford Motor Company, and his relationship with JFK.

Eschewing any other talking heads in favor of solo, direct eye contact with McNamara (achieved via Morris’ Interrotron technique, which essentially involves the use of teleprompters reflecting video images of faces instead of text in order to create the illusion that the filmed subject is looking directly at you), Morris culled his impressively edited final cut from more than twenty hours of footage. McNamara is no stranger to media manipulation, and while the crafty elder statesman recounts horrifying descriptions of the Tokyo firebombing of WW II and the use of Agent Orange in Vietnam, he remains largely aloof, refusing at any point to apologize.

But then, what would be the point of an apology? McNamara, who chokes up several times in the course of the movie (when he describes the selection of Kennedy’s gravesite, for example), certainly reveals a sense of painful regret, particularly when he ruminates on “counterfactuals,” or the what-might-have-been scenarios preferable to the death and destruction resulting from combat. McNamara is always happy to scapegoat others, however, and hawkish General Curtis LeMay – who honestly does not require much assistance in being painted as a cold-hearted warmonger – takes the brunt of McNamara’s criticism in the recounting of WW II military strategy.

“The Fog of War” is a film that invites immediate comparison to the current military climate (although Morris had been planning the movie prior to the invasion of Iraq), but Morris covers plenty of other turf. Some of the most compelling moments deal with McNamara’s tenure as Ford Motor Co. chairman (the corporation’s first non-family member in that role, McNamara proudly notes). McNamara lays claim to the development of the seat belt, and the reenactment of Ford’s early, crude “safety tests” provides Morris with the golden opportunity to show slow motion shots of human skulls bouncing down stairwells. The images are simultaneously gruesome and hilarious.

Audiences unfamiliar with Morris might feel unsatisfied with the level of evasiveness the film’s subject is allowed (and clearly the film would have been much stronger had it included more details about McNamara’s personal life: the allusions to the sacrifices of his wife and children leave one hungry for more information). Morris, however, is a master provocateur, and relishes the nuances and ambiguities of complex questions. Along with the gripping interview material, “The Fog of War” contains a haunting score by Philip Glass, top-notch archival footage, and revealing declassified audio of Pentagon and White House conversations. So regardless of your take on McNamara’s relative level of truthfulness (or for that matter, Morris’ own agenda), “The Fog of War” is a worthwhile experience, and a must-see for 20th century history buffs.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“EuroTrip” resembles so many other recent teen sexploitation comedies, like “Road Trip” and “American Pie,” one is initially inclined to dismiss it on principle. The thing is, the better movies in this subgenre have an intrepid stubbornness about them – perhaps because any intelligence and creativity tends to disappear under the sex and alcohol-fueled debauchery. So while it seems like faint praise to say that “EuroTrip” is amusing despite itself, fans of outrageous humiliation and over-the-top sight gags will no doubt feel completely satisfied after viewing the film.

Our story begins with Scotty, (Scott Mechlowicz, who cribs heavily from the Brad Pitt school of enunciation) on the day of his high school graduation. His longtime girlfriend gives him the boot immediately following the ceremony, and to make matters worse, he believes his German email pen pal Mieke has made romantic overtures in the most recent correspondence. Never mind how Scotty has been able to sustain an intimate epistolary relationship without a command of the foreign language – “EuroTrip” demands that you suspend disbelief if you are to enjoy even one second of its running time. Scotty is so inept, he doesn’t realize that Mieke is a girl, and sends a return email so coarse and dismissive, Mieke deletes Scotty from her address book.

Desperate to track down Mieke in Berlin in order to make amends, Scotty enlists best pal Cooper (Jacob Pitts) to help him, and the pair hooks up with “worst twins ever” Jenny (Michelle Trachtenberg) and Jamie (Travis Wester), who were already backpacking through several countries. Stories in which two characters are destined to meet up demand that the complications that stand in the way take up a massive amount of energy and effort, and “EuroTrip” is no exception. Following a roundabout path pregnant with diversions, the bumbling American quartet finds plenty of time to engage in experimental behaviors.

The strongest comic elements of “EuroTrip” emerge out of stereotypical Yankee xenophobia. Director Jeff Schaffer co-wrote the screenplay with Alec Berg and David Mandel, and the trio gets plenty of mileage out of thuggish British soccer hooligans, a lopsided Eastern Europe exchange rate, the mind-altering properties of absinthe ingestion, and the seamier consequences of choosing the wrong Amsterdam sex club. “EuroTrip” operates like many road movies – the travel serves to set up one outrageous episode after another – and one of the best throwaway gags is a goofy showdown between Scotty and a French “robot” mime who takes his “art” very seriously.

Executive producer Ivan Reitman must also have some charisma when it comes to convincing stars to do cameos. Matt Damon is hysterical as a pierced and tattooed rock singer who performs a rousing song about Scotty. Lucy Lawless struts and snarls as the proprietor of an S/M society and Fred Armisen gleefully portrays a very creepy Italian train passenger who enjoys taking advantage of dark tunnels. Vinnie Jones is Mad Maynard, Manchester United’s number one fan, and Joanna Lumley, as a seen-it-all youth hostel clerk, ends up in the outtakes that play during the end credits. The entire cast, veterans and newcomers alike, appears to have a ball, and whether or not you’ve ever been to Europe, the jokes and gag sequences (many of them tremendously off-color – we’re talking Hitler, incest, and the Pope for starters) are broad enough to elicit plenty of hearty laughter.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Making her feature film directing debut, Patty Jenkins swings for the fences with “Monster,” a fictionalized account of Florida serial killer Aileen Wuornos, a prostitute who shot and killed several of the men who paid her for sex.  Already the subject of a pair of documentaries by sensationalist Nick Broomfield (the second of which was co-directed by Joan Churchill), Wuornos gained international media attention following her arrest because female serial killers are so rare.  Encouraged by Broomfield, Wuornos claimed that the police allowed her to keep killing in order to be able to sell a juicy story to Hollywood.  Whether or not you believe her, there is something profoundly sad about the fact that Wuornos predicted correctly that her story would end up on the silver screen.

Charlize Theron, already honored with several major awards for her performance as Wuornos, turns in a stunning portrayal.  Physically transforming herself with a combination of significant weight gain, dark contact lenses, prosthetic dental appliances, and elaborate makeup to simulate freckled, damaged skin, Theron pulls off the near impossible: she doesn’t allow the disguise to get in the way of a phenomenal understanding of the subject.  In so many cases, actors who bury themselves under mountains of latex and spirit gum allow the costume to emote for them.  Instead of falling prey to this trap, Theron finds a balance between Wuornos’ desperation to remain optimistic in the face of unspeakable pain and her ability to commit murder after murder.

Jenkins frames her take on the Wuornos story around the relationship shared between Wuornos and Selby Wall (renamed for the film), a seemingly naïve young woman with whom Wuornos developed an intense bond.  Christina Ricci plays Wall, and while her performance is nowhere near as flashy or as dominant as Theron’s, she manages to walk the very fine line that separates Selby’s genuine gullibility from feigned ignorance of her partner’s horrible crimes.  Several major critics have not been kind to Ricci in their assessment of her work in “Monster,” but her acting is as strong as it has ever been, and she continues to demonstrate that she is one of the most interesting faces in cinema.

Because the movie’s acting has received the most critical attention, Jenkins’ direction can sometimes feel like an afterthought.  Despite its tabloid pedigree and the story’s residence on the true crime shelves of America’s bookstores, “Monster” is attentive and observant.  The details of its period setting – most obviously manifested in the thrift store t-shirts, acid-washed jeans, wallet chains, and pleather jackets favored by the characters – feel authentic, and the soundtrack is packed with several memorable tunes from the era, including work by INXS, Duran Duran, REO Speedwagon, and Journey.  Music fans will note the anachronistic inclusion of the haunting Chemical Brothers/Beth Orton collaboration “Where Do I Begin,” which feels slightly out of place.

While Jenkins remains resolutely focused on the Aileen/Selby relationship, the male characters are more often than not well-drawn and compelling, despite their brief screen time.  Solid performances are added to the mix by Bruce Dern, Scott Wilson (who appears in one of the movie’s most wrenching scenes), Lee Tergesen, and Pruitt Taylor Vince.  “Monster” belongs to Theron, however, and her riveting, forceful performance makes the film an absolute must-see.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Elmore Leonard’s “The Big Bounce” has been made once before, in 1969 with Ryan O’Neal and Leigh Taylor-Young, and the new version is just as forgettable as the old one. With a great director like George Armitage, who made the fantastic “Miami Blues,” one expects to enjoy clever dialogue, smooth plotting, and sharp performances, but none of these are on display this time around. Instead, the audience suffers through scene after endless scene of model-turned-actress Sara Foster struggling to be taken seriously while comic-savant Owen Wilson struggles to take her seriously.

Even bad caper movies usually yield some kind of satisfying element, but “The Big Bounce” cannot muster a single entertaining moment. The hit-or-miss storyline follows the crooked path of small-time hustler and layabout Jack Ryan (Wilson), an aimless wiseass with a knack for breaking and entering and a penchant for toothsome beach bunnies. While working for unscrupulous real estate developer Ray Ritchie (Gary Sinise, snarling), Ryan smacks his foreman (Vinnie Jones) with a baseball bat, which attracts the attention of local justice Walter Crewes (Morgan Freeman). Besides presiding over a courtroom, Crewes owns a beachfront resort, and figures he might be able to use Ryan in a plot against rival Ritchie.

Enter Nancy Hayes (Foster) a wicked bombshell with trouble on her mind. While her allegiances are not entirely clear, she manages to be the mistress of Ritchie at the same time she is playing both Ryan and Bob Rogers (Charlie Sheen, sporting impressive facial hair), Ritchie’s toady. Of course, one immediately realizes she is also in cahoots with Crewes, but none of the connections proves terribly important or interesting. Instead, the movie sets up a series of aimless sequences in which Foster can tempt the poor suckers with her barely-clothed body. Despite an abundance of exposed flesh, zero chemistry exists between Wilson and Foster, which makes for a long slog.

By the final act, “The Big Bounce” has descended into slapstick farce, heralded by the arrival of Ritchie’s brittle wife Alison (Bebe Neuwirth), another player who knows much more than she lets on. Double and triple crosses rocket by at lightspeed, but by this time nobody cares. At one point, Walter cryptically explains to Ryan that sometimes, things “are exactly as they appear” – and in “The Big Bounce,” those things are listless, dull and devoid of any energy.

This version of “The Big Bounce” is set in Hawaii, and the stunning locations try to mask the fact that nothing much ever happens. The bulk of Sebastian Gutierrez’s screenplay feels improvised, but the sluggish pace of the action undermines any wit and charm that might otherwise have emerged from the writing. Weirdly enough, Willie Nelson and Harry Dean Stanton are on hand to crack wise and play dominoes with Crewes. Both of these salty veterans seem better suited to the type of characters that populate Leonard’s colorful world, but their fleeting screen time offers only a glimpse at what might have been. Everything else in “The Big Bounce” is so unfocused that the screen looks practically blurry.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

At first, “50 First Dates” looks like just another Adam Sandler vehicle, but the presence of Drew Barrymore immediately neutralizes Sandler’s typical focus on the scatological and infantile. The result is a sweet-natured romantic comedy that shows off the beauty of the Hawaiian islands far more successfully than the recent stinker “The Big Bounce.” Directed by “Tommy Boy” and “Anger Management” helmer Peter Segal, “50 First Dates” refreshingly shifts the vulgarity (mostly) to the background – though Sandler fans will be pleased to know that torrential walrus vomit, baseball bat smackdowns, and testicle jokes remain on the menu.

Sandler plays commitment-phobic Henry Roth, an affable veterinarian whose closest friends include a host of marine mammals and Ula (perpetual sidekick Rob Schneider), a native Hawaiian with one good eye and a small herd of children. Even though Schneider’s character exists exclusively for the sake of puerile humor, there is a slight offensiveness about his depiction – audience members might call to mind Mickey Rooney’s gruesome stereotype Mr. Yunioshi in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” While Ula lives vicariously through Henry’s sexual conquests (one of the sourest notes in George Wing’s screenplay), Henry’s life takes a new turn when he happens upon the girl of his dreams at a local diner.

The course of true love, especially in an Adam Sandler movie, is not terribly likely to be smooth. The girl spotted building a tiny house out of her waffles is Lucy (Barrymore), and she suffers from a weird kind of short-term memory loss: she can remember everything in her life up to moment she suffered serious head trauma in a car crash. Each morning, however, she wakes up thinking it is her father’s birthday – the day of the accident – and starts all over again. Locked into a never-ending loop of the present, Lucy’s loved ones play along, and the results are surprisingly clever and interesting.

Conceptually, “50 First Dates” resembles a kind of cross between “Memento” and “Groundhog Day,” though it is nowhere near as satisfying as either of those titles. In trying to desperately to win Lucy’s affection, Henry devises a series of inventive interactions that transcend the typical expectations one might have for a movie of this type. In fact, his unwavering dedication to making things work with Lucy resembles the more thoughtful, deeper Sandler of “Punch Drunk Love,” and this is a most pleasant surprise, because the older model’s strident braying and smug narcissism always wore out its welcome quickly.

Barrymore and Sandler were good together in “The Wedding Singer,” and they continue to sparkle with terrific chemistry in “50 First Dates.” Barrymore is a gifted comic, and she takes sly pride in delivering several of the movie’s funniest jokes. She also manages to find the sadness in Lucy, which is no mean feat considering the ridiculousness of the far-fetched premise. In addition to the warm conviviality of the leads, the supporting cast, which includes Dan Aykroyd, Sean Astin, and Blake Clark, is memorable and well utilized by the director. “50 First Dates” projects a winning combination of humor and charm, and should satisfy moviegoers eager for romance and laughter.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Sadly sentimental and nauseatingly pleased with itself from beginning to end, Tim Burton’s latest exercise in magical (sur)realism fails to enthrall in the manner of the director’s best work – potent stuff like “Ed Wood,” Pee-wee’s Big Adventure,” and “Edward Scissorhands.” Adapted from Daniel Wallace’s novel, “Big Fish” is one of those sprawling quasi-epics where two movie stars are needed to perform each major character: one for the early years version and one for the aging, getting-on view. In this case, Ewan McGregor and Albert Finney play the young and old halves of Edward Bloom, a tireless blowhard who spins fabulous yarns every time he opens his mouth.

Edward’s son, the deliberately-named Will Bloom (played with a clenched jaw by Billy Crudup) has grown to resent his father’s falsehoods and reluctantly flies home from France when he learns that his old man is dying. The two have not spoken in years, and Edward’s impending demise presents the textbook device that allows for copious flashbacks and an inevitable deathbed reconciliation. If nothing else, viewers can take comfort in Burton’s eagerness to dig in to Edward’s colorful fibs, as they offer the only relief from dullsville that “Big Fish” can muster.

Like Mark Twain with plenty of P.T. Barnum thrown in for good measure, Edward’s phantasmagoric biography plows through a series of vivid vignettes, which McGregor handles with a goofy grin and a not-too-horrible Southern twang. We get to meet a cyclopean witch, whose milky dead eye can reveal one’s manner of death. We learn how Edward befriends a hungry giant. We see Edward join a circus led by a lycanthropic ringmaster (played by Danny DeVito). We visit an enchanting hamlet named Spectre in which all the citizens walk barefoot on a lush carpet of bluegrass. There is virtually no limit to the number of impossible images Burton can conjure.

There is, however, a pall that settles over the movie rather quickly when it becomes painfully apparent that Bloom’s fish stories are going to add up to absolutely nothing. Will’s desperate attempt to learn the “truth” from his father is obscured by Edward’s relentless storytelling. Not a single character is given anything resembling dimensionality – and that goes for the key supporting cast, which includes Alison Lohman and Jessica Lange as the young and old Sandra Bloom, Edward’s patient and devoted wife. Both wonderful performers are utterly wasted and spend the balance of their screen time gazing lovingly at Edward.

“Big Fish” would have been much more engaging had it allowed us to glimpse some measure of humanness in Edward, but he remains an inveterate fabulist to the bitter end. Not even Will’s phony epiphany – a hamhanded sequence that practically bursts a blood vessel trying to choke up the audience – can instill warmth to the character, and Edward goes out as enigmatic and frustratingly unknowable as he arrived. Weird subplots, including the possibility that Edward might have been unfaithful to Sandra, are given scant development. In addition to DeVito, supporting parts are given to Steve Buscemi, Robert Guillaume, and Helena Bonham Carter, but like all the characters in the movie, they are as cold as the oversize carp that stars in Edward’s signature tall tale.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Winner of numerous critical accolades, including Best Director and Palme d’Or honors at the 2003 Cannes Film Festival, Gus Van Sant’s “Elephant” is one of the year’s most thought-provoking movies, and also one of its most frustrating. Inspired by the 1999 Columbine school shooting (as well as taking cues from several other high profile instances of inexplicable teenage violence), “Elephant” is not the sort of cinematic experience one typically claims to enjoy watching – even though seeing it is disturbing, engrossing, and occasionally harrowing. With its cast of unknown non-actors (most of whom essentially play themselves, or rather, characters that share their real names), “Elephant” bears the mark of an experiment, and like many experiments, its results can be simultaneously exhilarating and disappointing.

Along with cinematographer Harris Savides, Van Sant uses his camera to merely observe the commonplace events that unfold daily at public and private high schools across the nation. During the entire first act of the drama, long takes (often provided by intimate, floating tracking shots that follow individuals as they traverse the grounds and hallways of the high school setting) introduce us to a series of young people. There’s John (John Robinson), an angelic, golden-haired boy who arrives late to class thanks to his irresponsible, alcoholic father (Timothy Bottoms). We meet Elias (Elias McConnell), an aspiring photographer who develops pictures in the school’s darkroom. Nerdy Michelle (Kristen Hicks) is chastised by the gym teacher for failing to wear the required uniform to class. And so on.

A dark cloud hangs over the introduction of these young people, and Van Sant intensifies the focus of the audience by doubling back and repeating several moments from different points of view. This repetition colors the details with an eerie sense that many of the faces we are seeing will be lost to the impending assault. At the end of these languid, quiet intros Van Sant shows another long tracking shot – but this one, a low-angle, from-behind look at two boys dressed in paramilitary fatigues carrying duffel bags weighed down by firearms – shatters the serenity of Van Sant’s preceding “fly on the wall” surveillance. The effect of the shot is dizzying, as it finalizes the director’s refusal to “explain” the shocking violence that will unfold in the latter sections of the movie.

Sadly, Van Sant’s strongest risks prove to be the film’s major liabilities, and the weakest aspect of “Elephant” is the offhand way in which the two killers are portrayed. While one brief scene shows Alex (Alex Frost) being humiliated by some bullies who shower him with spitballs, most of the time we spend with him is opaque: he plays the Moonlight Sonata on the piano, he eats pancakes with his friend (and fellow conspirator) Eric (Eric Deulen), he watches documentaries on Nazi Germany and Hitler, etc. Van Sant is totally correct in assuming that any attempt to account for the killers’ motivations would fall short of the intrigue provided by remaining aloof and enigmatic. Therein, however, lies the rub – “Elephant” leaves us disoriented and more than a little bit nauseous, but the detachment and disaffection instills a sense of helplessness that teeters on the edge of hopelessness.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Along with his daughters Naomi and Kirsten, filmmaker Jim Sheridan wrote the semi-autobiographical heart-string tugger “In America,” an occasionally worthwhile family portrait burdened by odd anachronisms and too-obvious plays for audience sympathy.  “In America” follows the fortunes and misfortunes of the Sullivans, a desperate Irish clan composed of father Johnny (Pady Considine), mother Sarah (Samantha Morton), and daughters Christy and Ariel (engrossingly played by real life sisters Sarah and Emma Bolger).  Missing from the portrait is little brother Frankie, who died from the complications of a brain tumor that resulted after a spill down some stairs back in Ireland.

The Sullivans arrive in the New York City of celluloid dreams: they marvel at the neon carnival of Times Square, they take up residence in a drug-infested tenement, and they make fast friends with a multicultural rainbow of fellow immigrants who, like them, came to the Big Apple filled with hopes for a better life.  In some ways, Sheridan strains to depict the city as a sweltering utopia, where neighbors throw parties for each other and even knife-wielding dope fiends apologize for their attempted assaults.  Despite its sweaty look, excellently conveyed through the lens of cinematographer Declan Quinn, “In America” dons its thematic rose-colored glasses too often to earn any credibility for authenticity.

Of course, the grim memory of Frankie’s death has followed the group to NYC, and Christy, who constantly documents her world with the family camcorder, explains how she believes Frankie can grant three wishes from the great beyond.  Sheridan takes plenty of time to demonstrate how the loss of their son has nearly destroyed Johnny and Sarah, but he tends to overstate the case – no wonder, then, that even Christy understands that her dad is going to have to find a way to move on if things are ever to return to some semblance of a happy life.  The answer appears in the chiseled form of Mateo (Djimon Hounsou), a dying painter who rages against his own looming end.

As Mateo, Hounsou turns in a strong performance, probably one of the best of his career.  The downside, however, is that Mateo is a character caught in a cinematic double-bind.  Not only is he saddled with the “scary Black man who turns out to be a gentle soul” cliché, he joins the long list of ridiculously attractive actors who only seem to become more radiant as the grim reaper closes in.  As expected, Sheridan pins the inevitable Sullivan family epiphany on the strong shoulders of Mateo, and the third act features a heavy-handed birth/death “circle of life” scene that feels like it belongs in the short story collection of a high school student.

“In America” is not without its charms.  Morton is a fantastic performer, and instinctively finds ways to make even underwritten characters sparkle with intensity.  The Bolger sisters are adorable; it’s a shame more of the story wasn’t told from their childhood perspective.  The movie seems to spend a great deal of its running time, however, creating impressionistic sketches depicting the emotional adjustments made by the Sullivans to their new life.  These scenes can be of interest, and are sometimes vivid, but they never really seem to add up to much.