Movie review by Greg Carlson

Lower your expectations and David Koepp’s “Premium Rush” entertains as late summer junior varsity Hitchcock. The increasingly appealing Joseph Gordon-Levitt commits far more than is necessary to his role as daredevil, fixed gear, no brakes courier Wilee, the innocent man caught up in a dangerous cat-and-mouse chase with a crooked gambler and NYPD detective played by creep specialist Michael Shannon. Flirting with near real-time action (interrupted by some unnecessary juggling of chronology to provide surprises and critical information to the audience), “Premium Rush” constructs its suspense around the perfect bike messenger MacGuffin: a highly valuable package desired by good guys and bad guys alike that must reach a destination by a particular hour.

The screenplay, by Koepp and John Kamps, wisely focuses most of the attention on the lightning-quick decisions and split-second reactions of Wilee on two wheels as he races around densely populated and dangerous thoroughfares. Whenever the film slows down to elucidate character motivation or complicate the plot, the chain comes off. A distracting love triangle involving Wilee’s ex – fellow messenger Vanessa (Dania Ramirez) – and another courier, Manny (Wole Parks), suffers from clumsy integration and a baffling lack of logic. At one point, a simple phone call from Vanessa to Manny could have saved a heap of trouble. The presence of a bicycle cop continually thwarted by Wilee’s pedal skill is played for comic relief, but the movie never settles on a tone that feels right, careening from cartoon gags to brutal violence.

Given Koepp’s reputation as a writer, “Premium Rush” is littered with too much empty-headed filler and too many bone-headed plays, including a silly tavern flashback that rehashes Manny’s jealousy over Wilee and Vanessa’s connection, a bizarre decision in which the previously dedicated Wilee returns the envelope after he’s in too deep to change his mind, an impound lot switcheroo, and the head-scratching nature of the relationship between Vanessa and her imperiled roomie Nima (Jamie Chung), whose troubles are revealed in a tidal wave of mawkish and manipulative sentimentality involving the illegal immigration of an adorable child.

New York dwellers can argue about the extent to which Koepp’s understanding of Manhattan geography hews to realistic time frames (the Post’s Kyle Smith scoffs at the film’s ticking clock, arguing that the envelope could have been more efficiently taken by subway in the span allotted). For a majority of viewers, however, the movie’s bird’s eye view graphics mapping out routes will add a welcome dimension to the street level stunts. Publicity for “Premium Rush” has emphasized the production’s commitment to real riding (an end credit video of Gordon-Levitt following a nasty crash that required more than two-dozen stitches is better than most of the feature). The movie’s smartest visual effects, imaginative flash-forwards similar to the idea used in Tom Tykwer’s “Run Lola Run,” show sets of potential outcomes whenever Wilee cuts it too close for comfort.

The culmination of the action in “Premium Rush” flubs the expectations of a good chase, placing the protagonist in the back of an ambulance instead of ramping up the adrenaline. Wilee’s close quarters confrontation with Shannon’s dirty officer might consciously or subconsciously pay tribute to the showdown between James Stewart’s hobbled Jeff and Raymond Burr’s nothing-left-to-lose Thorwald at the end of “Rear Window,” but unlike the Hitchcock masterpiece, “Premium Rush” will most likely take its place in cinema history alongside “Quicksilver.”

Movie review by Greg Carlson

An optimistic, opposites-attract bromance polished to the kind of high-gloss sheen perfected by and valued in Hollywood, French box office smash “The Intouchables” defies viewers to resist its charming fantasy exploring the relationship between a fabulously wealthy white quadriplegic and the streetwise black immigrant hired to provide around-the-clock personal care. Based on Abdel Sellou’s non-fiction account “You Changed My Life,” the adaptation alters the ethnicity of the assistant from Algerian to Senegalese, a change that has been noted by critics who defend as well as critics who denounce the portrayal of the camaraderie between the movie’s principal odd couple, Driss (played by Omar Sy, the first black actor to be awarded a Cesar) and Phillippe (played by Francois Cluzet).

Several prominent film reviewers including David Denby have accused “The Intouchables” of reinforcing racial stereotypes, and the movie does not shy away from the well-worn thematic construction in which an attuned but economically impoverished or working class black man guides a wealthy white grouch to an understanding of fuller personhood (as in “Driving Miss Daisy” and “The Bucket List”). Writing for “Slate,” Daphnee Denis defends the film against the charges of racism, developing an argument that insists French audiences see past the master/servant relationship and the old cliches. Denis additionally observes that “The Intouchables” operates as a political allegory, concluding her essay with the statement, “White France is paralyzed; immigrant France has become its arms and legs,” a thought that gives the film an awful lot of credit.

“The Intouchables” is filtered through the experiences of Driss, a strategy that allows the filmmakers a premium opportunity to present the protagonist’s wonderment at his employer’s vast wealth as automobile/clothing/real estate porn that can be simultaneously ogled by the filmgoer. Although it may have made for a much stronger and more balanced view of the class disparities between Phillippe and Driss, we spend as little time as possible inside the crowded, lower class neighborhood that Driss escapes in favor of his new boss’s opulent, gated mansion. Directors Olivier Nakache and Eric Toledano mirror a shot of Driss folded into his cramped shower with one in which he luxuriates in the massive private bath provided as part of his employment. The juxtaposition is as obvious as the contrast between Phillippe’s interest in opera and Driss’s passion for the R&B sound of Earth, Wind & Fire.

The chemistry between Sy and Cluzet is terrific, which alleviates any resentment the ninety-nine percent may have when peeking in on the world of a man who can spend the annual salary of a middle class professional on a single painting. The filmmakers insist that we thrill to Driss’s literal escape into a reality that puts him behind that wheel of a Maserati Quattroporte and outfits him in a hand-tailored suit. The tactic nearly succeeds, although a half-hearted subplot concerning Driss’s family occasionally pops up to remind everyone what’s at stake. “The Intouchables” is easily and accurately described as a “feel good” movie, and more often than not, it reinforces the idea that it’s much better to have the problems of a rich person than the ones experienced by the poor.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Judging by the vibe of the “Skyfall” trailer that ran before “The Bourne Legacy,” Mr. Bourne has made a lasting impression on the architects of Her Majesty’s Secret Service. There were plenty of political-espionage-action movie junkies who made the claim that the Bourne series upped the ante for the long-lived but out-of-touch James Bond franchise, which cannily rebooted in 2006 with “Casino Royale” and Daniel Craig as a new 007 for an attention deficit audience. The vertiginous camerawork, quasi-intellectual spook gamesmanship, and the supercharged hand-to-hand combat present in Doug Liman’s and Paul Greengrass’s visions of Robert Ludlum’s black ops fantasy were rapidly assimilated by the Bond team, who also paid attention to Bourne’s grim determination and less overtly idealized and decidedly unglamorous take on globetrotting.

Matt Damon only appears in a still photograph on a video screen in “The Bourne Legacy,” and the star passes the torch if not the moniker to Jeremy Renner, whose pill-popping Aaron Cross brings a hint of “Flowers for Algernon” pathos to a character whose artificially enhanced physical self is treated with one set of chemicals and his intellect with another. Identity operates as a central thematic concern in each of the Bourne features, and the fascinating revelation that Renner’s one-time military recruit originally failed to meet the government’s minimum IQ threshold could have been a more potent plot point as Cross and scientist Marta Shearing (Rachel Weisz) race to Manila to prevent the diminishment of Cross’s intelligence.

Weisz essentially fulfills the Smurfette Principle as far as the core cast goes, unsurprising given the movie’s target demographic but disappointing all the same. Other than Joan Allen in a loose-end tie-up, only a couple of women act in parts with dialogue and unfortunately Julia Stiles does not return as key contact Nikki Parsons, one of the most sympathetic and humanizing participants in the first three Bourne movies. It would be interesting to see a female Treadstone or Blackbriar or Outcome agent in a commanding role, a possibility that would enliven any future installments of a presumably Damon-less Bourne universe. Short of a Damon-Renner team-up, couldn’t someone convince Damon to at least participate as the Georgetown linguistics professor persona of Bourne/David Webb?

Several of the previous Bourne players return in varying levels of brevity and import, including David Strathairn’s Blackbriar Director Noah Vosen, Allen’s CIA Deputy Director Pamela Landy, Scott Glenn’s CIA Director Ezra Kramer, Paddy Considine’s Guardian reporter Simon Ross, and Albert Finney’s sinister Albert Hirsch, but all are subordinate to the presence of Edward Norton as Eric Byer, a retired air force colonel who seemingly possesses the nation’s highest security clearance. Norton uses his considerable skill set to lace Byer with a level of commitment and resourcefulness that overcomes the limitations of being perpetually stationed in windowless situation rooms.

Does the loss of Damon deal a devastating blow to the future of Bourne, or can Renner convince viewers to see more of these films? James Bond has enjoyed the luxury of regular reinterpretation through the revolving door policy toward its leading man, but the Bourne series has thus far been dependent on the combination of amnesia/memory loss as a chief story motivator and the deliberately complex machinations of the United States government’s patriot games, perfectly tuned to be read apolitically, so long as everyone agrees that motorcycle chases and punches to the face are cool.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Memorable and stirring, “Beasts of the Southern Wild” snaked through the Sundance Institute screenwriting, producing, and directing labs on its way to some of the best reviews of the year and the Camera d’Or at Cannes. Overwhelming critical support, however, has not prevented several pointed jabs at filmmaker Benh Zeitlin’s debut feature from writers skeptical of a white director’s treatment of black characters. Richard Brody and A.O. Scott tangled in a Twitter skirmish that Roger Ebert re-posted as a screen cap on Facebook, and their arguments effectively summarize the film’s resistance to one interpretation. Like many great stories, “Beasts of the Southern Wild” invites reflection.

Whether one believes Zeitlin’s film subverts stereotypes or perpetuates them, there is no question that “Beasts of the Southern Wild” treats its characters with a reverence that emphasizes attributes frequently associated with cinematic traditions and conventions surrounding the poor and the black. For Brody, and for Tim Grierson of “Deadspin,” Zeitlin teeters into condescension by patronizing and oversimplifying the inhabitants of the Bathtub, the bayou setting where the ghost of Hurricane Katrina looms large without ever being identified by name. This cynical reading, however, will surprise anyone who embraces the irrepressible heart and spirit of central protagonist Hushpuppy (Quvenzhane Wallis), a six-year-old navigating the treacherous depths of her father Wink’s (Dwight Henry) encroaching, terminal illness.

Based on the one act play “Juicy and Delicious” by Lucy Alibar, who co-wrote the film adaptation with Zeitlin, “Beasts of the Southern Wild” takes a deep interest in the ideas of home and family. In a “Film Comment” interview with Scott Foundas, Zeitlin describes his desire to understand why people would choose to stay in a precarious place made all the more dangerous by an overwhelming natural disaster. The element of mandatory evacuation orders from government authorities sounds an additional thematic note that powerfully alludes to ways in which self-identity can be threatened by agents in positions of power. The residents of the Bathtub share a raucous camaraderie, bonhomie, and loyalty to community and the social body.

Hushpuppy’s poetic voiceover immediately conjures the haunted, preternatural, non sequitur-heavy wisdom of Linda Manz’s similar musings in Terrence Malick’s “Days of Heaven,” and Zeitlin’s interest in elliptical expression and reliance on image over dialogue invite a positive comparison to the master filmmaker whose “The Tree of Life” reaches out to ask some of the same massive questions about the very nature of existence through the vessel of a young child. Because Hushpuppy is too young to articulate her thoughts with the logic and detachment that comes with adulthood, the viewing experience is filtered through her imagination in the contours of magical realism furnished by the grain of Ben Richardson’s 16mm photography.

Wallis delivers the kind of performance that instantly ranks with several of the cinema’s most memorable turns by the very young, including Victoire Thivisol in “Ponette” and Ana Torrent in “The Spirit of the Beehive.” In one critical motif, Hushpuppy prepares for the arrival of monstrous aurochs. All the wonder contained in the extinct, primitive ancestor of cattle (seen in the film as horned and tusked pigs), and imagined by Hushpuppy and the filmmakers as omens of the anxious unknown, is perfectly realized via a combination of inventive costuming, puppetry, forced perspective, and green screen photography. Spike Lee’s “When the Levees Broke” remains the definitive cinematic document of the Katrina catastrophe, but “Beasts of the Southern Wild” makes a worthy fictional companion.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A lushly photographed and finely acted adaptation of Haruki Murakami’s 1987 novel, Anh Hung Tran’s “Norwegian Wood” labors to balance its central poles exploring sexuality and death. Embracing the most melodramatic aspects of a story tracing the late teens and early twenties of Tokyo student Toru Watanabe (Ken’ichi Matsuyama), Tran’s measured, elegiac contemplation combines the instincts of Douglas Sirk and Robert Bresson without quite capturing the former’s keen interest in and understanding of women and the latter’s ability to reveal the contours of the human soul. Grim, determined, and austere, “Norwegian Wood” succeeds in illustrating the numbing grief experienced by the living following a loved one’s suicide without attempting a clinical or logical explanation of that unthinkable circumstance.

Following a prologue that ends with the carbon monoxide poisoning death of Toru’s close friend Kizuki (Kengo Kora), Toru connects with Kizuki’s closest companion and childhood sweetheart Naoko (Rinko Kikuchi), celebrating her birthday with an intense evening culminating in the loss of Naoko’s virginity. Tran captures the thanatotic and erotic nexus of Toru and Naoko’s shared guilt, painting a moment that instinctively blends the characters’ carnal hunger for one another with their mutual impulse to be close to the memory of Kizuki. Sex does not, however, heal the gaping emotional wounds of Naoko, whose feelings of responsibility for Kizuki’s suicide lead her to a nervous breakdown and an extended stay in a mental health sanitarium.

With a sense of obligation to the memory of Kizuki, Toru promises to wait for Naoko during her exile from everyday life, but the long separation and the interest of the free-spirited and candid Midori (Kiko Mizuhara) complicate the pledge. Tran fails to adequately express Toru’s conundrum by favoring the ethereal and angelic Naoko over the sprightly and vivacious Midori, and the disparity is one of the movie’s most frustrating imbalances. Toru’s resolute silence doesn’t help, but the viewer is often frustrated by Toru’s unwillingness to open up, making it difficult to believe that a person as stimulating and expansive as Midori would put up with Toru’s moody brooding.

Tran envisions the late 1960s setting with a deliberate resistance to foreground placement of the political movements embraced by scores of young people seeking measurable social change. In one scene, Toru is carried along on a wave of street demonstrators, but the protest does not register for him; he remains self-absorbed and lost in the thoughts of his romantic crisis even as he becomes enveloped in the din. Tran introduces other markers of the era, most notably the inclusion of a trio of fantastic cuts by Can associated with Toru’s part time job in a record store, but the production and costume design evoke a timelessness that allows the film to exist independently of period.

In spite of the leisurely running time of the film, Tran’s screenplay makes substantial alterations and omissions from the novel, especially concerning the characters of Midori and Naoko’s roommate Reiko. Even so, the movie adaptation has several compelling factors that strongly recommend a viewing, including the vivid score by Johnny Greenwood and the sensational photography by Mark Lee Ping Bin, both of which surprise and impress in scene after scene. In one tour de force sequence, an elaborate back-and-forth tracking shot follows Toru and Naoko as they pace through tall, windswept grass during one of Naoko’s rare verbal confessions. If Tran does one thing exceptionally well, it is in the construction of a metaphor likening Naoko’s fragility and inner turmoil with the natural elements and the changing seasons.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Written as a gag by John Silveira for Backwoods Home Magazine in 1997, a short classified advertisement read, “Wanted: Somebody to go back in time with me. This is not a joke. P.O. Box 322, Oakview, CA 93022. You’ll get paid after we get back. Must bring your own weapons. Safety not guaranteed. I have only done this once before.” The intriguing invitation, Tweet-like in its brevity, bounced around on television and the Internet before Silveira signed a contract allowing the idea to be made into a feature film. The resulting movie capitalizes effectively on the premise, and writer Derek Connolly and director Colin Trevorrow, aided significantly by their principal cast, construct a mostly appealing blend of science fiction and romantic comedy.

“Safety Not Guaranteed” begins with the familiar conundrum of bright, under-employed twenty-something Darius (Aubrey Plaza) drifting into an undefined future. As an intern at Seattle Magazine, Darius volunteers to accompany fellow underling Arnau (Karan Soni) and coarse, chauvinistic writer Jeff (Jake Johnson) to track down the time travel classified author for a feature story. Staking out the small post office while Jeff seeks out the company of a long-ago girlfriend, Darius eventually makes the acquaintance of Kenneth (Mark Duplass), perfectly serious about his offer and cautiously optimistic that Darius might qualify as a worthy time travel companion. The viewer assumes that the skeptical Darius won’t buy into Kenneth’s plan, but the more time they spend together, the more Darius opens up to her new friend.

Plaza, whose blistering sarcasm, well-timed eye rolling, and trenchant retorts arc and crackle in a way that brings to mind Barbara Stanwyck, is a welcome big screen presence, but Darius often feels underwritten – reacting to the questionable behavior of the men in her orbit rather than being allowed to make the decisions and take the actions that drive the movie. Even with its wild concept, which eventually culminates in a gutsy conclusion that will delight some and disappoint others, “Safety Not Guaranteed” meanders with a leisurely self-assurance in its characters, but Connolly and Trevorrow withhold a great deal of personal information about them in favor of mildly comic training montages and the well-worn romantic comedy device in which Darius’ original reason for befriending Kenneth is positioned as a lie of omission destined to be a shocking revelation.

Conceptually, time travel brings with it a universe of possible story pathways. From “A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court” to “Back to the Future” and the hundreds of short stories, novels, TV episodes, comic books, and films in between and beyond, the notion of being able to see the future or interact with – and maybe even change – the past surpasses most logical concerns over paradoxes that would arise from the employment of a time machine. Kenneth’s desire to travel to an earlier year in order to prevent something from happening depends on the possibility that history can be altered, but the filmmakers make it clear that their interest is not in refuting the Novikov self-consistency principle but rather in exploring time travel as an elastic metaphor for taking chances, for dealing with disappointments, for coping with loss, for moving forward, and for making the most of the time we have.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A period comedy riffing on the highly fictionalized origins of the vibrator, “Hysteria” musters a few chuckles at the outrageousness of its subject matter without ever being outrageous itself. Sidestepping any and all opportunity to thoughtfully investigate the gender inequalities of the Victorian age, Tanya Wexler’s movie instead focuses on a lukewarm, screwball-style romance between proto-feminist social crusader Charlotte Dalrymple (Maggie Gyllenhaal) and Mortimer Granville (Hugh Dancy), a young doctor in the employ of Charlotte’s father. Fuzzy, feeble, and flighty, “Hysteria” unfolds like a hastily produced episode of a mediocre television series, providing just enough amusement to prevent one from dozing off.

The matter-of-fact methodology employed by physicians to treat women with symptoms ranging from faintness to insomnia included pelvic massage, and “Hysteria” imagines the examination room of Dr. Robert Dalrymple (Jonathan Pryce) as a comfortable parlor. With a velvet curtain-framed divider providing the necessary level of modesty for the ladies seeking relief, Dalrymple’s practice explodes once word of Granville’s dexterity spreads. In between appointments, Granville sheepishly initiates a courtship with Dalrymple’s demure, beloved daughter Emily (Felicity Jones), even though he cannot seem to keep away from the poverty-stricken settlement house where sister Charlotte volunteers.

The title of the movie obviously refers to the dismayingly common diagnosis applied to women for hundreds of years, but provides little indication that the content will be so chaste. “Granville’s Hammer,” the real-life moniker of the device, is a more evocative name, but would have required a far stronger film. The patients who visit Dalrymple’s office for treatment are grouped together in ridiculous montage sequences that support rather than critique the medical establishment’s infantilizing and condescending attitudes about feminine fragility, and even though one satisfied customer belts an aria in the throes of ecstasy, none of the women emerge as interesting characters.

The notion that male doctors were unable to recognize – or more likely, unwilling to admit – the sexual dimension of one of the most common treatments for hysteria represents another totally missed opportunity for Wexler, and a bummer for anyone expecting more from the capable Pryce. Prevailing attitudes let practitioners off the hook by affirming that female sexual pleasure derived from vaginal intercourse and not external stimulation. Granville’s early success helping patients achieve therapeutic paroxysms quickly gives way to the muscle cramping and pain associated with repetitive strain injuries, setting up the simplified solution courtesy of inventor Edmund St. John-Smythe’s (an underused Rupert Everett) modified electromechanical feather duster.

A movie about the vibrator deserves – pun completely intended – a more stimulating climax than the moth-eaten courtroom testimony chestnut that hinges on Mortimer’s expert opinion in the matter of Charlotte’s mental health. Institutionalization and a forced hysterectomy are only one rap of the gavel away! A friend pointed out that Charlotte could have been committed to an asylum by her father, but that would have negated the suspense-free moment at which our hero delivers his crucial speech. Instead of genuine interest in the exploration of sexual fulfillment, “Hysteria” rushes toward the commonplace conclusion strongly implying that any young woman – even independent firebrands who rebel against the patriarchy – will swoon at a marriage proposal.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Alighting only a decade after Sam Raimi’s big budget feature and a mere five years since the awful conclusion of the trilogy (if you want to call it that), director Marc Webb’s “The Amazing Spider-Man” simply refuses to be described by critics without some measure of comparison to the 2002 version. Of course, various media incarnations of Marvel’s marquee hero have been retelling Peter Parker’s origin mythology since the character took off in 1962, and like DC’s juggernaut Batman, one assumes we will have fresh incarnations as long as ticket buyers are willing to line up.

Music video whiz Webb, whose debut feature “(500) Days of Summer” immediately marked him as an unorthodox choice to take the reins of a massive franchise film when the decision was first announced, effectively handles most of the human elements and adequately dispatches the complex special effects, although to my eye, Rhys Ifans in full-blown Lizard mode is ridiculously oversized – three or four feet taller and more than one hundred pounds heavier than he appeared in “The Amazing Spider-Man” #6 in 1963. Ifans, like Dylan Baker before him, is a great choice to play the yearning, Jekyll/Hyde-like Dr. Curtis Connors, but the role is predictably malnourished and utterly humorless and could have used a lot more of Ifans’ wit.

Beyond the uninspired plot machinery that grinds toward the staple entire-city-in-peril climax, “The Amazing Spider-Man” is far from ideal, and for truehearted fanboys and fangirls, there was no need to meddle with a backstory linking Peter’s parents to whatever shocking revelations await us in the sequels. Less charitable critics have denounced the reboot as a desperate legal requirement allowing Sony Pictures to keep the movie rights from reverting to Marvel, but the outcome – superior to Raimi’s vision in some places and subordinate in others – suggests that enough care was taken to distinguish the new material (lame Stan Lee cameo notwithstanding).

Among the most inventive applications of the point-counterpoint debate mulling the merits of Tobey Maguire versus Andrew Garfield in the title role was laid out by Linda Holmes for NPR. Playing with the finer distinctions between the nerd and the geek, Holmes argues that Webb’s film improves on Raimi’s work by providing Peter with a set of conditions allowing him to operate outside the boundaries and expectations of the future Spider-Man as a bullied nebbish. Holmes astutely points out that Garfield’s Peter Parker chooses to isolate himself from the cliques and peer groups that dominate life in high school.

Holmes goes on to pinpoint another key argument in favor of Webb’s edition: Garfield and Emma Stone share a genuine chemistry with one another and Stone’s Gwen Stacy is not obliged to follow the Lois Lane trope in which so much tension in the developing romantic relationship between the protagonists revolves around her ignorance of Spidey’s secret identity. Holmes claims that the omission of “mistaken identity misdirection” makes Gwen “substantially more conscious as a character,” and this is certainly true up to a point. While Stone’s performance is warm and earnest, the script never satisfactorily determines what to do with Gwen during the climax (spoiler: she has to stand around waiting for an antidote to synthesize). One admires the effort to avoid making her the more typical damsel in distress, but given the de rigueur battle showdown between the super hero and the super villain, I for one would have loved to see Gwen do something totally unexpected.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

While Steven Soderbergh continues to postpone his self-proclaimed “retirement” to the surprise of absolutely nobody who goes to the movies, “Magic Mike” marks another curious title in the director’s eclectic filmography. Also known as the male stripper movie loosely inspired by star Channing Tatum’s own experiences, “Magic Mike” echoes any number of thematic concerns Soderbergh expressed in “The Girlfriend Experience” in 2009. Tatum’s ambitious, entrepreneurial Mike is at one point denied a loan at the bank despite the thick stacks of bills he flashes from his briefcase, but Soderbergh is less concerned with making a statement about current economic hardship than he is with sketching the oft-told version of the American Dream in which a little talent and a lot of ambition results in a happy ending.

The throwback Warner Bros. logo opening the film indicates Soderbergh’s desired vintage, hedonist vibe, in which the all-male revue at Tampa’s Xquisite keeps the party going long after the spotlights cool. As club owner Dallas, Matthew McConaughey douses his employees with the same amount of snake oil he splashes on his female clientele. The actor puts his drawl into overdrive, and Dallas is the closest McConaughey has come to reprising the sleazy cadences that defined his breakout performance as Mike Wooderson in “Dazed and Confused” almost twenty years ago.

Alongside articles on the success of “Magic Mike” with gay men, any number of web-based reports suggests that females in the audiences far outnumber males. In spite of the allure of decadence, debauchery, and hard bodies on display, the film sticks with the MPAA rating system’s conventional expectation prohibiting significant male full-frontal nudity in R designated releases. It might be a stretch to claim that “Magic Mike” is wholesome, but one of the movie’s underlying themes is the familiar conceit that eroticized dancing for money is something done as a means to an end and not an end in itself (see “Flashdance” for a classic example).

As a filmmaker, Soderbergh has demonstrated a level of competency and consistency aligning him more with studio workhorses of Hollywood’s golden age than with the stylistically identifiable auteur directors who emerged in the 1960s and 1970s. Like the legendary Michael Curtiz, Soderbergh can deliver the goods in multiple genres and with varying budgets – and he often does so at the rate of more than one movie per year. Strong with performers, plot, and pace, Soderbergh is also well-known for his hands-on technical expertise, photographing his own work under the pseudonym Peter Andrews and often editing as Mary Ann Bernard.

Even dramas about dancing are required to deliver the choreographed goods, and Soderbergh stages the routines with confidence and zeal. The various numbers, built around familiar fantasies, include what may be the summum bonum of male erotic dancing: the stripper/cop confusion trope, recently featured and parodied to perfection in the “Pier Pressure” episode of “Arrested Development.” Tatum’s moves may not exactly rival Gene Kelly’s footwork, but the actor’s athleticism, charisma, and sense of humor all combine to provide him with his strongest vehicle to date.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Pixar has passed the Bechdel Test before, perhaps most notably in “The Incredibles,” a movie that still contends with problematic gender norms and stereotyping, but “Brave” is the first of the studio’s features to place a female protagonist – and a mother-daughter relationship – at the very heart of the story. And while Pixar will likely never meet the track record of Hayao Miyazaki at Studio Ghibli (posting eight of nine films with a lead female character), hopefully “Brave” will mark the beginning of a period in which women in American animation are better represented on camera and behind it. The “creative differences” that initiated the ouster of original “Brave” story creator and director Brenda Chapman, who worked on the project for six years, serve as a telling reminder that the film industry still has a very long way to go.

Some hardliners have already criticized Merida’s station as a princess, but given the character’s refusal to acquiesce to arranged marriage, and the 10^th century setting in a fairytale Scotland teeming with magic, “Brave” deserves the dispensation that separates its heroine from the ranks of boy-crazy royals or royals-to-be in so many Disney movies. One imagines that many girls, and plenty of boys, will be captivated by the archery contest in which Merida applies a technicality in the clan rulebook to announce, “…I’ll be shooting for my own hand.” Featured prominently in the film’s trailers, this sequence pays homage to the parallel scene in “The Adventures of Robin Hood,” and is staged with the same kind of lovely detail and charm that accompanied the moment in the classic 1938 swashbuckler.

Complementing Merida’s considerable skill with a bow and arrow, “Brave” also imbues the character and plot with echoes of Atalanta, the fierce warrior of Greek mythology who, after being abandoned at birth because she was not born male, was initially raised by a she-bear. “Brave” avoids overt pronouncements on the subject of gender disappointment, and King Fergus very clearly adores and encourages his first-born child, but with the inclusion of a competition in which Merida is a prize to be won, the film imitates the tale of Atalanta’s famous footrace. More intriguing yet is the link to the legend of Gelert, one of folklore’s most chilling and heartbreaking tales. The “Brave” variation cancels the unthinkable cruelty of Gelert’s martyrdom, but Merida’s horror at the thought of placing her mother in harm’s way resonates with the kind of guilt unique to the bonds of family.

As “Brave” unfolds, Queen Elinor emerges alongside Merida as a character of substantial dimension, and the depiction of the regal matriarch in her ursine form is a feat of technical brilliance that rivals the stunning singularity of Merida’s flaming orange curls. Initially, Merida’s privileged point-of-view serves to paint her mother as a strict killjoy and barrier to long-term happiness, but once the result of Merida’s foolhardy indiscretion occurs, both mother and daughter begin to alter their previous behavior, working together to prevent a backfired spell from turning into a permanent curse. Not everyone will applaud the movie’s conventional eagerness to neatly restore balance to a traditional portrait of social harmony and equilibrium, but keep in mind that at least the happily-ever-after of “Brave” does not include wedding bells.