Movie review by Greg Carlson

Following the custom of superhero sequels, fans and reviewers will compare and contrast “Iron Man 2” with the inaugural installment, a moot point when the grand design is to engineer and weld the franchise into a cinematic simulacrum of the Marvel Universe that looks an awful lot like a money-printing machine warming up to deliver as many spin-offs as the summer blockbuster schedule will allow. We love to complain about that common tragedy of the cape-and-tights genre: the follow-ups lose their balance taking on the weight of more story, more villains, more characters, and more action – even when alternatives are practically impossible.

“Iron Man 2” embraces this “more is more” expectation with a vengeance, but in its defense, the running time is two minutes shorter than the first episode and the current model isn’t dependent on the delivery of an origin mythology. Instead, Robert Downey Jr.’s billionaire industrialist Tony Stark is free to emphasize all the ways in which he defies the Batman template’s somber expectations of serious responsibility, searing guilt, and secret identity. Instead, Stark’s narcissism and fame are expertly communicated by Downey Jr., who cockily asserts during a televised Capitol Hill hearing that he has privatized world peace.

In one interesting scene, a drunken birthday bacchanal that Stark attends in full armor, the late DJ AM, to whom “Iron Man 2” is dedicated, drops “Another One Bites the Dust” while Stark gets sloppy. There is no Ghostface appearance, but a mixed bag of celebrity cameos, from shuddersome Bill O’Reilly to the classier Christiane Amanpour, links the movie’s fantastic alternate reality to the one in which the viewers reside, and a deliberate Stan Lee/Larry King mix-up notwithstanding, director Jon Favreau (who also returns as Stark chauffeur/bodyguard Happy Hogan) smoothly translates the candy-colored panels of the page to the computer-enhanced dream vision of Hollywood spectacle.

What a bummer that Gwyneth Paltrow’s talent is wasted playing the outdated stereotype Pepper Potts. Despite Potts’ promotion to CEO of Stark Industries, she remains a second-class citizen in her partner’s world, cleaning up his messes, nursing his wounds, scolding his bad behavior, and shrieking when placed in harm’s way. Screenwriter Justin Theroux’s snappy one-liners allow Paltrow and Downey Jr. the opportunity to banter in the tradition of William Powell and Myrna Loy, and the script is stuffed with a surprising amount of clever bons mots and double entendres, but Pepper is shackled to the sexist tradition that puts the men in the center of the action while the women passively observe from the sidelines.

At least one woman, Scarlett Johansson’s Natalie Rushman, a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent never directly identified in the movie as Black Widow, is allowed to dispatch a squad of security goons, but the character is so vague, fuzzy, and unfinished that we never develop a sense of her importance to Stark. The same goes for Samuel L. Jackson as Nick Fury, who descends in the middle to explain all sorts of presumably critical information, but really seems to be there to remind ticket buyers that Captain America and Avengers movies are on the way. Sam Rockwell and Mickey Rourke fare slightly better, stepping into the sequel’s equivalent of Jeff Bridges’ role in the first “Iron Man.” With so many important characters returning, however, there simply is not enough time available to fully explore the new personalities. Hopefully, part three won’t be as crowded.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“Mother,” Bong Joon-ho’s follow up to the wild monster movie “The Host” is another genre-bending thriller that blends intellectual acuity with voyeuristic sparks. Deftly balancing suspense, fear, black-hearted comedy, and a touching poignancy, Bong confidently envelops his viewers with filmmaking gifts that echo masters like David Lynch and Alfred Hitchcock. The prickly relationship of the title character to her son invites comparison to “Psycho,” and the amateur sleuthing that drives the plot mirrors “Blue Velvet.” Best of all, “Mother” stands refreshingly on its own, recalling the aforementioned works while retaining a unique style and voice.

An herbalist who practices acupuncture sans license, Hye-ja (Kim Hye-ja) smothers and dotes on her simpleminded adult son Do-joon (Won Bin), an idler who hangs out with a small time hoodlum, Jin-tae (Jin Gu). When Do-joon narrowly escapes serious injury in a hit-and-run car accident, he and Jin-tae track down the wealthy perpetrators on a golf course, engaging in a slapstick melee that results in a trip to the police station. Bong paints this action with broad brushstrokes, but there is nothing wasted in the tactic, as the audience gathers all kinds of information that will come in handy as soon as the narrative shifts in the direction of an altogether more sober tale.

Bong’s goofy opening act contrasts sharply with the brutal murder of a schoolgirl who was seen briefly by Do-joon on the night of her death. Once Do-joon is coerced into signing a murder confession, “Mother” begins to smolder, as Hye-ja expresses the lengths to which she will go in order to exonerate her son. She attempts to hire a lawyer, but the busy attorney she retains initially brushes her off. Determined and relentless, Hye-ja turns self-appointed bloodhound, tracking down leads and managing the case with more competence than the police detectives exhibit.

“Mother” is calculated and exacting, but Bong refuses to let the plot-heavy structure of his narrative get in the way of the rich details that bring the unusual characters to life. As Hye-ja toils to unravel the mystery, Bong meticulously rations tidbits of information about her, surprising viewers with each revelation. Like the best hard-boiled detective novels of Hammett and Chandler, Bong also pounds out a code of morality, perching the protagonist in a precarious position between salvation and sin. In one terrific scene, Hye-ja hides in a closet while someone she is investigating has sex with a young schoolgirl not unlike the murder victim. Like Hitchcock, Bong is able to convey the simultaneous rush of excitement and shame as Hye-ja, and the audience, cannot resist peeking.

No doubt some viewers will recoil at Bong’s choices in the film’s final movement, in which the director depicts all kinds of shocking intrigue designed to challenge viewer expectations and raise thought-provoking questions about the obligations of family ties. Anthony Lane has accused Bong of wrecking the equilibrium of the movie, but others will certainly contend that the filmmaker holds on to every bit of the supple plasticity that governs his view of human nature. By the time we witness the haunting final image – a curious dance both melancholy and uncanny – we will ask ourselves whether we would or could do what Hye-ja has done for her child.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Don Argott’s entertaining documentary “The Art of Steal” is a passionate, if one-sided, examination of the convoluted history and looming fate of an unparalleled collection of modern art currently housed in Pennsylvania. Framed as a decades-long battle between an iconoclastic inventor with a brilliant eye and a horde of uncultured barbarians hell-bent on commercial exploitation, the movie dangles all kinds of questions concerning the law, public access to priceless art, and the unchecked influence of the powerful.

Dr. Albert Barnes made a fortune with the development of the antiseptic Argyrol, and used his wealth to assemble a jaw-dropping trove of canvases by the likes of Matisse, Picasso, Renoir, Cezanne, Monet, Seurat, Van Gogh, Gauguin, and Modigliani. “The Art of the Steal” hints at the scope and value of the art in the Barnes collection, but only one abbreviated sequence near the beginning of the movie really addresses a sampling of the paintings themselves, superficially commenting on pieces including Seurat’s “Models,” and Van Gogh’s “Portrait of the Postman Joseph Roulin.”

Heavy on talking heads, “The Art of the Steal” desperately needs a strong section more comprehensibly detailing the physical space of the Lower Merion Township location that houses the artworks. Argott relies on a number of tantalizing photographs of Barnes’ fascinating “wall ensemble” arrangement technique, but the grounds, which contain an arboretum teeming with botanical specimens, are virtually ignored (curious, because so much of the argument is focused solely on the relocation of the art to a proposed space on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway). The current incarnation of Barnes administrators claims that the original display configurations of the art, as well as the scale of the rooms, will be recreated in the new space.

“The Art of the Steal” is by no means perfect, and many viewers will begin to long for more personal information and history about Barnes, who is glimpsed throughout the film in clips of color home movie footage. Argott acknowledges all the pertinent facts relating to the eccentric curmudgeon’s disdain for the conservative Philadelphia establishment, but following the introductory exposition, the post-will assault is moved front and center for the rest of the running time. In his day, Barnes detested Philly fat-cat Moses Annenberg, and the contemporary villains materialize in the form of a trio of grant-making agencies: the Pew Charitable Trusts, the Lenfest Foundation, and the Annenberg Foundation. The devious dealings of the foundations, abetted by a group of oily politicians, are chronicled with relish.

Argott uses chapter-like headings to organize the film as a procedural, and the application of the tactic helps to build suspense as we wait to hear a judge’s decision on the fate of the Barnes Foundation collection. By this time, however, the theme of greedy corporate interests dismantling a man’s will has been looping on repeat long enough. Additionally, Argott misses several opportunities to thoughtfully explore the arguments and viewpoints of the opposition, content to stick with title card inserts informing us that so-and-so declined repeated invitations to be interviewed. Had the filmmaker been willing and able to ponder the most reasonable dimensions of the arguments from both sides, “The Art of the Steal” could have been great instead of good.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The latest movie to draw some fire for depicting envelope-pushing levels of carnage, mayhem, violence, and profanity – much of it courtesy of pre-teen character Hit-Girl – “Kick-Ass” should see plenty of ink on opinion pages in the days to come. Based on the comic series written by Mark Millar and illustrated by John Romita, Jr., “Kick-Ass” is a wannabe satire never quite bright enough to present a cogent argument explaining the premise that there are consequences for actions taken by “real” people who choose to behave like superheroes. Director Matthew Vaughn wallows in the explosions and curses well past the point at which “Kick-Ass” morphs into the very thing it was purportedly trying to skewer.

High school nobody Dave Lizewski (Aaron Johnson) orders a green and yellow wetsuit and takes to the streets as the masked vigilante of the title. Following a period of recuperation after a disastrous encounter with two toughs who batter and stab him, Dave is caught on video attempting to assist a victim of street violence. The uploaded footage goes viral, and Kick-Ass sets up a MySpace page to handle the tidal wave of interest in his exploits. If Vaughn intended to say something about the use of social media in the service of post-Bat-Signal identity construction, the message gets lost as soon as Big Daddy (Nicolas Cage) and Hit-Girl (Chloe Moretz) enter the frame and start slaughtering baddies.

Narratively speaking, the colorful father-daughter team emasculates Kick-Ass, and Vaughn struggles to make room for the genre’s de rigueur expositional back-stories/origin myths as well as cram in a parade of tedious scenes setting up a villainous crime boss (Mark Strong), whose son (Christopher Mintz-Plasse) becomes Red Mist, yet another costumed hero added to the mix. The closer we get to the end of the movie, the more Vaughn amplifies the shocks. The filmmaker shamelessly imitates pop culture gleaner extraordinaire Quentin Tarantino, scoring off-speed, blade and pistol gymnastic showdowns to Ennio Morricone.

Vaughn also carries over and amplifies some of the comic’s worst impulses, including a casual homophobia played broadly for laughs. The movie does not use the other “F” word as abundantly as Millar’s series, but when Dave pretends to be gay in order to get close to his crush, the stereotypes pile up quickly, and Vaughn makes certain to telegraph relief when our protagonist is allowed to “prove” he is straight. It’s a departure from the comic, in which Dave gets a knuckle sandwich instead of the girl.

Only Nicolas Cage maneuvers the script with a sense of timing commensurate with the kind of winking irreverence that should have been the target of all the actors. His mentally unstable, revenge-driven gun nut is significantly more sympathetic than Millar’s original humorless brainwasher, whose rightist rhetoric while training Hit-Girl is absent from the screen adaptation. Cage is only upstaged by Moretz’s Hit-Girl by way of her sewer-mouth artistry, status as a juvenile, and way with a blade. The movie belongs to her and that is also its liability, since the title is “Kick-Ass” and not “Hit-Girl.”

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Noah Baumbach continues to develop his best instincts as a storyteller and filmmaker in “Greenberg,” an idiosyncratic Los Angeles-set character study of Ben Stiller’s title layabout, a dysfunctional carpenter in his early 40s. Tenaciously committed to difficult personalities, painfully awkward interactions, and the inability to negotiate much in the way of shared meaning with others, “Greenberg,” like several of Baumbach’s other films, embraces insecurity, failure, and regret the way that so many studio-released romantic comedies utilize madcap coincidence, forced charm, and opposites fighting mutual attraction.

Stiller’s Roger Greenberg returns to LA from New York following a stint in a mental hospital. Holing up in his wealthy brother’s empty Hollywood spread while the family vacations in Vietnam, Greenberg busies himself with a doghouse construction project for his sibling’s ailing German Shepherd. Because he does not drive, Greenberg relies on paid family assistant Florence Marr (Greta Gerwig) to chauffeur him where he needs to go. Inexplicably, the younger woman finds the repellent Greenberg appealing, despite his fussiness, his condescending attitude, and his lack of listening skills. Moments after they meet, Greenberg schools Florence on the nostalgic importance of Albert Hammond’s “It Never Rains in Southern California” and Baumbach makes the scene a miniature masterpiece showcasing Roger’s awfulness.

Gerwig’s background identifies her with the unfortunately named mumblecore genre/category, but unlike her performance as the title character in “Hannah Takes the Stairs,” a movie that Gerwig also co-wrote, Florence actually appears to be deliberately likable and sympathetic. Her mumblecore peers, including Mark Duplass (who also appears in “Greenberg”), often confront audiences with obnoxious, unpleasant, narcissistic creeps, but Baumbach resists the urge to make Greenberg completely despicable, and the casting of Stiller – whose ability to play hurt and humiliation have become a signature aspect of his onscreen persona – cuts the character some slack, deserved or not.

Besides Roger’s resemblance to Saul Bellow’s Moses Herzog (noted by several critics, including J. Hoberman and David Denby), “Greenberg” invites comparison to “Annie Hall,” and the movie quotes several moments and gags from Woody Allen’s classic, even though Baumbach’s creations inhabit a milieu decidedly less magical and romanticized. In addition to first-rate technical credits, including photography by the terrific Harris Savides, “Greenberg” bests many of its mumblecore relatives by way of Baumbach’s ability to present unlikable characters without succumbing to belligerence toward or contempt for the viewers willing to go along with the atypical choice.

Baumbach, who wrote the screenplay after developing the story with partner Jennifer Jason Leigh (who also appears in the movie as Greenberg’s ex-girlfriend), illustrates his lead character with greater confidence than he musters for Gerwig’s Florence. Florence’s passivity, uncertainty and self-reproach create a big hole that Greenberg fills with cruelty, and the resulting imbalance constitutes the film’s most uncomfortable strain. Baumbach literalizes Florence’s marginalized status as a servant to the wealthy extended Greenberg family in the first of several calamitous sexual encounters between Roger and Florence, when a lacerating parody of a horrible “first date,” or more accurately, “first encounter,” amplifies the gulf of privilege between them. Jessica Grose, in a “Slate” essay, calls the scene “brutish and contrived,” and whether one agrees with that assessment or not, “Greenberg” is a movie that stirs up complex emotions.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

As Perseus (Sam Worthington) arms himself to do battle with the Greek gods whose blood he shares, he picks up Bubo, the R2-D2-channeling clockwork owl that delighted children in the 1981 “Clash of the Titans.” A seasoned warrior tells Perseus to leave it, and only viewers of a certain age and disposition will even notice the fleeting reference to Ray Harryhausen’s original analog achievement. Even though Louis Leterrier’s remake fails to make room for Athena’s winged wind-up, the new “Clash of the Titans” incorporates a significant number of themes, ideas, plot points, and set pieces from director Desmond Davis’ original. Neither version quite does justice to the myths and legends upon which Beverly Cross’ hybridized screenplay was based, but younger and less discerning patrons will certainly purchase tickets to the party.

In the update, Liam Neeson is Perseus’ father Zeus, gravely passing judgment on humans with the same authority wielded by an ailing Laurence Olivier the first time around. Clad in lens-flare ready armor so shiny it nearly blinds, Zeus squares off against his wheezy, underworld sibling Hades, played by a stooping Ralph Fiennes in a dusky get-up and hairpiece that makes him look like a two-pack-a-day Spinal Tap roadie. Sadly, Danny Huston’s Poseidon sees his screen time reduced to a cameo, but Neeson, who barks the order to “Release the Kraken,” and Fiennes, who whispers “You have insulted powers beyond your comprehension” refuse to be upstaged by their unruly beards.

It is generous to give “Clash of the Titans” much, if any, credit for theological analogues to contemporary society, but the film’s conflict shows sinners in the hands of angry gods. Cities are divided between the fearful faithful and the arrogant apostates, while the pantheon of deities gazes down from a version of Mount Olympus tricked out with a floor that resembles Google Earth images. Conceptually, the limits of the Olympians’ power and their willingness to directly interact with humans spice up the action, but Leterrier labors unsuccessfully to balance the unwieldy number of characters, erring on the side of videogame battles involving Perseus and his cohorts.

The 2010 “Clash of the Titans” is more phallocentric than its predecessor, even though Gemma Arterton’s Io, a sort of fairy godmother/guardian angel to Perseus, fights alongside the boys. Io is also saddled with some of the movie’s most outrageously awful dialogue (to an agitated Perseus: “Calm your storm”) and Arterton deserves some kind of honor for believably wading through the muck. The film’s other significant female is damsel in distress Andromeda (Alexa Davalos), who at least communicates a smidgen of nobility in her willingness to be sacrificed to the Kraken before she is tied up and offered for dinner.

Medusa should have been a memorable female character, but Leterrier opts to render the gorgon as a computer-generated version of the serpentine Harryhausen design, building around the face of model Natalia Vodianova. Action trumps character, however, and Perseus’ showdown with Medusa and the Kraken climax are chaotic messes of vertiginous camera movement and choppy editing that provide almost no visual context or sense of space. Feverishly crammed in with so many reminders of the inaugural edition (scorpions, Calibos, Stygian Witches, Pegasus, etc.) these first-person thrill rides cannot disguise the movie’s wearisome similarity to so many other expensive fantasy entertainments.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“Chloe,” Atom Egoyan’s remake of Anne Fontaine’s “Nathalie,” is a voyeur’s carnival. Egoyan has never shied from the possibilities of the sex thriller, despite the genre’s tawdry reputation as soft core, late night cable fare. Several of the filmmaker’s features, including “Exotica” and “Where the Truth Lies,” managed to address undress with some measure of seriousness – or at least earnestness – even if the end products were more often than not critiqued as prurient potboilers. Egoyan’s prodigious talent, however, extends beyond the boundaries of the libidinous, confounding attempts to dismiss him as purely a purveyor of titillation.

In “Chloe,” wealthy Toronto-based gynecologist Catherine Stewart (Julianne Moore) suspects her professor husband of cheating. Instead of hiring a private investigator, or simply having an open and honest face-to-face discussion, she does the logical thing and commissions a sophisticated prostitute to tempt her spouse with carnal charms. Following each encounter with David (Liam Neeson), Chloe (Amanda Seyfried) reports back to Catherine, who grows increasingly flustered with every new chapter. Surprisingly, Catherine finds herself aroused by Chloe’s artful cunning, and the movie briefly offers the possibility that it might be interested in cleverly subverting some of the gender expectations of mid-life crises and the affairs that accompany them.

Despite Moore’s convincing performance, “Chloe” falters once the title character is exposed as a needy lunatic who develops a fatal attraction to her initially naïve employer. It does not help that the audience can see Chloe’s mania long before Catherine catches on, setting up a preposterous series of revelations that obliterate credulity. The Stewarts’ teenage son Michael (Max Thieriot), whose own sexual explorations with overnight guests deeply disturb Catherine, is laughably positioned by Erin Cressida Wilson’s unsteady script as final act bait. Michael may have serious mommy issues, but he still finds time to play Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” at piano recitals and skate for a hockey team.

Egoyan has considerably more fun making the film than the viewer has watching it, staging and framing the numerous sexual encounters with a rapturous eye unafraid to wink at his audience. The level of self-consciousness is also heightened by the application of Mychael Danna’s emphatic score, which reinforces the liquid glide of cinematographer Paul Sarossy’s roving camera. One is never sure how firmly Egoyan’s tongue is planted in his cheek, and the resulting ambiguity dooms “Chloe” from the start. Tonally, “Chloe” is too somber to be intended as outright camp.

Had Egoyan offered more insight into the motivations of the principal quartet of characters, “Chloe” might have been able to transcend its status as an amorous trifle quickly mired in the rusty mechanics and genre conventions that condemn the sex-crazed and psychotic to disproportionately applied punishments. By resorting to the dubiously moralistic and overused formula that equates the erotic with the thanatotic, Egoyan violates his own desire to examine sex intellectually as well as lustfully. The film’s ludicrous ending, a batty confrontation feverishly awash in Oedipal absurdity, concludes with the unwelcome cliché of a character plummeting from an upper-level window. It’s a disappointing ending to an unsatisfactory film.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

As filmmaker Roman Polanski continues to fight extradition to the United States in the wake of his September, 2009 arrest in Switzerland on sex charges that date back to 1977, his film “The Ghost Writer” arrives quietly in theatres. Biography-minded viewers will pore over the ironic parallels between Polanski’s life and the besieged, travel-restricted politician at the center of the movie, but the film’s thrill-seeking agenda rapidly parts company from any construction of possible self-pity cooked up by the 76-year-old director.

Ewan McGregor plays the unnamed character of the title, a scribe-for-hire who eagerly takes a quarter of a million dollar payout to finish former PM Adam Lang’s windy memoirs for publication. The Ghost’s predecessor died under mysterious circumstances, and as soon as he arrives at the austere modernist compound inhabited by Lang and his entourage of power brokers, the overwhelmed replacement realizes that nothing is as it seems and that he is in a bit over his head. Before the Ghost can polish a draft of the book, Lang is accused of war crimes by a former ally and cabinet member, and the household is swept up in a storm of spin, denial, and strategizing.

Smart, calculating, and stylish, “The Ghost Writer” is the best kind of Hitchcock homage. Filled with all sorts of diabolical details that seem to come straight from one of the Master of Suspense’s carefully constructed scripts, Polanski’s film delights in manipulating viewers with a balanced mix of plausible and impossible twists and turns. Close scrutiny threatens to collapse the house of cards, and the jaded will wince (and the faithful will cheer) as the plot machinery dispatches a climactic acrostic to solve a key mystery, but most audience members will eagerly embrace the movie’s expressiveness and intelligibility.

Polanski is just as capable with actors as he is with narrative efficiency, and across the board, “The Ghost Writer” features delicious performances from even the most surprising casting choices. McGregor, who always looks relieved when he is not playing Obi-Wan Kenobi, anchors the film as the initially innocent audience surrogate. Olivia Williams, playing older than her early 40s, tartly embodies the brains behind husband Pierce Brosnan’s Tony Blair-like politician. Movie aficionados will love the sight and sound of legendary Eli Wallach in a succinct, one-scene cameo, and even the surprising inclusion of James Belushi and Kim Cattrall is right on target.

Polanski co-wrote the movie’s script with Robert Harris, whose 2007 novel “The Ghost” is the basis of the movie. “The Ghost Writer” is as conspiratorial and at times outrageous as “Shutter Island,” and just as much fun, as Polanski retains his slightly offbeat sense of humor amidst all the mounting anxiety and dread. Despite its pulpy origins, or perhaps because of them, one can have a blast watching Polanski devise all sorts of ways to reinforce his protagonist’s status as a fading apparition. From the terrific opening scene, in which Polanski visually establishes the double-meaning of the titular occupation via an eerie ferry ride, to the sensational final shot, the filmmaker wastes no opportunity to affirm the precariousness of the anonymous hero’s sense of identity.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A farfetched fantasy of the highest order, Paul Greengrass’ “Green Zone” re-teams the director with Matt Damon, here playing a truth-seeking soldier in a Byzantine hall of mirrors in 2003 Iraq. The credits claim that Brian Helgeland’s script was inspired by Washington Post journalist Rajiv Chandrasekaran’s 2006 non-fiction book “Imperial Life in the Emerald City: Inside Iraq’s Green Zone,” and the Oz reference is apt, as “Green Zone” blends credulity-stretching heroism with anti-Bush political commentary. To a certain extent, the movie gets to have its cake and eat it too, as the fierce action violence contrasts with the director’s harsh assessment of the dubious matters of state.

Damon plays Army Chief Warrant Officer Roy Miller, a focused and highly moral professional whose team has been sent on one too many wild goose chases looking for non-existent weapons of mass destruction. At a briefing, Miller has the audacity to question the faulty intelligence, and is promptly silenced by superior officers. Quickly running afoul of sinister Pentagon Special Intelligence agent Clark Poundstone (Greg Kinnear), Miller casts his lot with grizzled CIA bureau chief Martin Brown (Brendan Gleeson), a voice of reason in an otherwise topsy turvy fiasco. When Greengrass is not staging tense sequences of urban combat, he devotes time to the battle between Poundstone and Brown, with Miller caught in the middle.

Amy Ryan also shows up a few times as the Judith Miller-esque Wall Street Journal reporter Lawrie Dayne, but the talented performer is underutilized, almost as if the movie is too impatient to give her anything to do outside of helping Miller put the pieces of the puzzle together. Faring slightly better is Khalid Abdalla as Freddy, a local who befriends Miller even as he expresses reservations about American trustworthiness. Despite the oversimplified explanations of Freddy’s frustrations, the actor, who appeared in Greengrass’ “United 93,” brings depth to what might have been a sketchily constructed figure.

Along with its kinship to the superior “United 93,” reviews of “Green Zone” inevitably mention the Greengrass/Damon partnership on the Bourne sequels, and the comparisons are apt. Miller, like Bourne, inevitably comes to operate as a lone wolf, surviving by his wits as well as some dumb luck. Greengrass also stages the action with his familiar kinetics, working with editor Christopher Rouse to slice up Barry Ackroyd’s purposefully shaky photography. Damon is nicely cast, offering an earnestness that borders on naïve until the overwhelming evidence of his country’s failures causes him to snap.

“Green Zone” calls to mind Charles Ferguson’s incredible documentary “No End in Sight,” a sobering assessment of the stunning arrogance of Bush policy in the aftermath of “Shock and Awe.” Several key boondoggles addressed by Ferguson, such as the disbanding of the Iraqi military and paramilitary, are referenced in “Green Zone.” Most nauseating, however, is the grim realization that the reasons for going to war in the first place were predicated on vapor. Greengrass cannot help but include the clip of George Bush smugly, prematurely asserting that the mission was accomplished, and the oft broadcast speech is no less sickening today.