Movie review by Greg Carlson

Another pleasant variation on the male-centric friendship movie, or “bromance,” in the style perfected by Judd Apatow, “I Love You, Man” blends mock sensitivity with the more comfortable trappings of adolescent vulgarity to cook up a reasonably entertaining, if strangely familiar, story. While Apatow’s name is absent from the credits, several of his regulars appear in prominent roles, including both Paul Rudd and Jason Segel. Directed and co-written by John Hamburg, “I Love You, Man” occasionally comes across as a little smug, too pleased by the running gags that range from the tedious (a character refuses to clean up after his dog) to the mildly amusing (a subplot involving the sale of the Lou Ferrigno estate). Only the chemistry of its leading duo makes the movie worth a look.

The basic premise of “I Love You, Man” is a bit of a stretch: sensitive, soon-to-be-married Peter Klaven (Rudd) desperately seeks a male friend to serve as the best man in his wedding. Following a few disastrous blind “dates,” which include embarrassments such as projectile vomiting and unwanted tongue kisses, Peter meets the oddly charismatic Sydney Fife (Segel), and a weird courtship begins. From “Superbad” to “Pineapple Express,” recent comedies have explored, to varying degrees, the nature of close male friendships, and “I Love You, Man” offers the most pronounced exploration of the mini-genre to date.

The buddy movie has been around for ages, but the Apatow-flavored variety moved the subtext directly into the text, transposing all the familiar expectations of the traditional heterosexual romantic comedy from a male-female to a male-male pairing. From the flush of excitement at first sight, to the montage-worthy bonding, to the conflict that demands a break-up, to the reconciliation in the final reel, “I Love You, Man” takes its title seriously.

Rudd does his best work snapping off withering zingers in supporting roles; to Seth Rogen in “Knocked Up”: “You look like a cholo dressed up for Easter.” Here he manages the lead with dexterity, charm, and tight comic timing, besting his recent performance in “Role Models.” Klaven lacks the guile Rudd normally applies in liberal doses, and it is refreshing to see him play someone without a dark edge or mean streak. Rudd’s Klaven is a tougher part than Segel’s Fife, a goofy, responsibility-free manchild who reeks of tragically hip slackerism in his vintage jazz tee-shirts and Venice Beach zip code.

One of the biggest problems of the male bonding film is the genre’s dismissal of women, who are generally utilized as shrews, nitwits, harpies, and emasculators – hindrances to the important matters that take place inside the testosterone-fueled man caves constructed by unrepentant bachelors. “I Love You, Man” earns a failing mark in the subject, and Rashida Jones, as Rudd’s bride-to-be, is stuck in a role that seems to have been written for a ghost. In addition to suffering the indignity of being unwanted baggage when the fellows attend a Rush concert, Jones must turn encouragement to annoyance and then acceptance as her very own wedding is upstaged by Sydney’s race to the altar. The passivity of her character is even more farfetched than the awkwardness of Peter’s “man-dates” en route to his hook-up with true soul mate Sydney.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

There is almost nothing humorous about “Miss March,” a putrid road trip comedy written, directed by, and starring (as far as that word might go in this case) Zach Cregger and Trevor Moore, a pair of bland goofballs best known for the sketch comedy series “The Whitest Kids U’ Know.” Raunchy sex comedies are not always expected to combine wit, sensitivity, and depth of characterization with the ribaldry in their arsenal of familiar situations, but “Miss March” is a complete black hole – a void that crushes everything the filmmakers so desperately throw in the mix.

In “Miss March,” a naïve high school kid named Eugene Pratt (Cregger) finally agrees to have sex with devoted girlfriend Cindi (Raquel Alessi) on prom night, but gets drunk and seriously injures himself before the act is consummated. He awakens from a coma four years later to discover that his sweetheart has left him to appear in the pages of Playboy. At the urging of his rubber-faced, oversexed best pal Tucker (Moore), Eugene resolves to travel to California to reunite with Cindi. Hilarity should ensue, but “Miss March” never gets a solid footing. It is the work of unseasoned feature filmmaking beginners, which emanates from every frame like body odor.

The movie only delivered two audience laughs in the screening I attended. One involved an unfortunate character bounced through the window of a moving bus and the other was a sight gag in which a terrier relieved itself into a champagne flute. The remainder of the (mercifully brief) running time was accompanied by an airlessness so complete one could hear the proverbial rodent peeing on a cotton ball. Bodily functions, including a gross running gag in which the protagonist voids his bowels – sometimes graphically and in view – form one of the unwanted leitmotifs of “Miss March.” Others include a lame subplot involving the pursuit of the heroes by an angry mob of vengeful firemen and the repetitious correction of boorish rapper Horsedick.MPEG’s idiotic name. Characters inevitably forget to add the “dot MPEG” and are corrected every single time. All of these things do not sound particularly funny and they are even less so when realized on the screen.

“Miss March” suffers all the marks of a bargain basement production: the dialogue looping is wretched in several scenes, the sound mix flat and lifeless, the editing clumsy and the pacing haphazard. The producers didn’t even cough up enough cash to land the J. Geils Band’s “Centerfold” – which is certainly an inspiration for the movie’s storyline – on the soundtrack. The pop smash, which spent six weeks at the top of Billboard’s Hot 100 beginning in February 1982, manages to convey in three and a half minutes what “Miss March” fails to do at feature length. Even the venerable Playboy Mansion loses any of the luster, glamour, and mystique it can demonstrate when photographed for smarter shows like “Entourage” and “Curb Your Enthusiasm.”

“Miss March” carries with it the essentially worthless stamp of official Playboy approval, which leads one to wonder whether the once mighty empire turns down any media requests these days. It seems like a student moviemaker could secure permission to shoot at the Playboy Mansion. Octogenarian Hugh Hefner, in trademark jammies and smoking jacket, appears in a painful extended cameo in which he mumbles through some condescending romance advice, looking more tired than ever. Like the rest of “Miss March,” the scene is as flat as soda without the fizz.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Curmudgeonly cult hero Alan Moore makes mere mortals jealous with his super-powered ability to have his cake and eat it. Perpetually grousing about the ways in which Hollywood hacks butcher his source material, he drums up all sorts of extra publicity for projects that aren’t worthy of it, keeping his name in the press even as he removes it from the credits of the films. He has been called a genius for his dystopian visions, but a real mark of his intelligence is that he maneuvers into win-win situations any time one of his comic books makes the trek to the big screen. If the movie adaptation is terrible – which is often the case – Moore lands in the “I told you so” position, and fans snap up more copies of the printed material to see why the movie failed to measure up. If the movie works, critics credit Moore’s originals as the reason for the success.

“Watchmen” is the crown jewel in Moore’s oeuvre, and movie deals were in the works not long after the twelve issue comic book series concluded in 1987. Over the years, directors Terry Gilliam, Darren Aronofsky, and Paul Greengrass all flirted, to varying degrees, with the material. Zack Snyder finally brings “Watchmen” to the screen, and in spite of scoffing and derision from many longtime devotees, he manages to present a vision largely compatible with the source. Yes, many have remarked that the episodic presentation of the original stories in monthly chapters might have been better served as a television miniseries, but Snyder’s uncanny reproductions of artist Dave Gibbons’ imagery are filled with grandeur well-suited for a giant frame.

Moviegoers unfamiliar with the Hugo Award-winning series might be initially disoriented by the sheer amount of information that begins cascading in the opening credits, a cleverly staged depiction of a revisionist, alternate American history in which costumed vigilantes are real, and engage with politicians to alter the outcome of the Vietnam War. It is during this sequence that we hear “The Times They Are a-Changin’,” the first of three songs written by Bob Dylan to appear on the soundtrack. Moore quoted Dylan in the original text of “Watchmen,” and the great songwriter’s role as social chronicler mirrors the breadth of Moore’s own ambitious agenda.

As a movie, “Watchmen” is far from great. Characters compete for face time, inevitably leading to some being privileged while others get short shrift. Revelations of previously unknown paternity are a staple of soap opera, and rarely done as effectively as “The Empire Strikes Back.” Speaking of “Star Wars” lore, it was a very bad idea to include a wailed “Nooooooo!” reaction shot following a key character’s demise, since A) it does not occur in the comic book, and B) it will remind any nerd of the similarly laughable moment in “Revenge of the Sith.” “Watchmen” also chokes on another detestable cliché: a variation on the late Gene Siskel’s “fallacy of the talking killer.” The old age makeup worn by Carla Gugino is totally phony and distracting. The movie’s Nixon stinks. Composer Tyler Bates acknowledges musically quoting Vangelis’ “Blade Runner” score, but a few cues come close to plagiarism. The list goes on.

In the plus column, Snyder’s decision to chop some exposition, jettison most of the Minutemen story threads, ditch the climactic, H.P. Lovecraft-esque space squid, and relocate the entire “Tales of the Black Freighter” to an animated tie-in, makes a great deal of sense. Even though the movie’s tendency toward staged action and hyper-violence neglects the more cerebral dimensions of Moore’s fascinating examination of superhero mythology, Snyder’s “Watchmen” deserves some kind of credit just for crossing the finish line. In all likelihood, multiple viewings of the movie (something only hardcore fans will attempt, given its hefty running time) will enhance an appreciation of the adaptation, just as re-readings of the text reveal its “fearful symmetry.”

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Movies that resort to unnecessary punctuation in their titles, particularly exclamation points, ought to provide enough fair warning for discerning moviegoers. “Fired Up!” is trashy, pointless, and lacking in taste, but nobody needs reminding that it is also a PG-13 cheerleader sex comedy that blends elements of “Bring It On” (which might as well have used an exclamation point in its title) and earlier, much rowdier and raunchier flicks like “Animal House,” “Porky’s,” and “Revenge of the Nerds.” “Fired Up!” certainly doesn’t have anything new to say, even on the relatively uncomplicated subject of cheerleading, but the results should please moviegoers looking for a break from award season seriousness.

Anyone who does not fit the teen heterosexual male demographic will not take a rooting interest in protagonists Eric Christian Olsen and Nicholas D’Agosto, a dirty-minded and ever more foul-mouthed pair of priapic primates who outwardly assess all young women strictly in terms of the likelihood of a hook-up. Both lead actors – and a great deal of the other performers – would never pass for high school students. Sarah Roemer plays Carly, the one cheerleader who knows the boys are up to no good, and she does as much as she possibly can with her shaky material. “Fired Up!” is more buddy movie than romance (no matter how lustful), which unfortunately relegates the female cast members to bland blank slate status.

The screenplay of the movie is the first credited work of Freedom Jones, a moniker that sounds suspiciously like a pseudonym for a staff of scribes, so it is surprising that much of the writing consists of snappy sarcasm interspersed with the kind of inane, phony “slanguage” that imagines an alternate universe of how teenagers speak to one another. It is probably safe to say that few, if any, high school students would offer “You’ve got to risk it to get the biscuit” without running the risk of a beating, but then, movies in which horny football players decide to learn cheerleading in order to have easier access to potential conquests reside in the realm of pure fantasy.

Many of the featherweight popular cultural references will be passé by the time “Fired Up!” makes its appearance on DVD, but enough gags work effectively to guarantee a healthy afterlife for the movie once it disappears from theaters. “Fired Up!” pays tribute to pompon movie ground zero “Bring It On” during a sequence in which the entire cheerleading camp gathers for an outdoor showing of the Kirsten Dunst movie on the big screen, and every single line is recited back with the stunning accuracy of a much-repeated religious litany. John Michael Higgins is a blast as overzealous camp director Coach Keith, but the movie doesn’t find an effective way to use the talents of vets like Edie McClurg and Philip Baker Hall.

“Fired Up!” is not even a great representation of its derided genre, but as brainless sex comedies go, it surpasses many of its recent competitors. The music choices are on the nose, especially the clever selections meant to ridicule Carly’s lame boyfriend Dr. Rick (David Walton). In one scene, he pulls up in his convertible with Deep Blue Something’s “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” blaring, and audience members old enough to remember the song’s popularity in 1996 can smile knowingly at the character’s obliviousness.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Winner of the Sundance Film Festival’s Grand Jury Prize, Courtney Hunt’s “Frozen River” is a taut, sober drama that uses the tension of human smuggling to comment more subtly on the challenges of single motherhood. Veteran actor Melissa Leo leaves a strong impression as Ray Eddy, the minimum wage-earning mom of fifteen-year-old T.J. (Charlie McDermott) and five-year-old Ricky (James Reilly). Ray ekes out a hand-to-mouth existence, and some days the boys’ only meal is microwave popcorn and Tang. Ray’s problems are exponentially exacerbated when her husband leaves with the cash that has been set aside for a new prefabricated home.

Through a series of chance encounters, Ray becomes involved in a small smuggling operation that transports illegal immigrants from Canada to the United States across the ice of the St. Lawrence River. Hunt directs the movie with little stylistic ornamentation, and her choices effectively serve the material. Unlike a few arguably derisive glances at the working class in “The Wrestler,” particularly the firefighter-obsessed party girl who seduces the protagonist, “Frozen River” pursues a social realist agenda in earnest.

In his almost shockingly condescending review in the San Francisco Chronicle, critic Mick LaSalle wondered rhetorically whether audiences would really want to “see a listless movie about a woman whose dream is to move into a double-wide trailer.” “Frozen River” is not listless – if anything it errs on the side of manufacturing dramatic tension in some of the smuggling sequences – and LaSalle should know that from “Norma Rae” to multiple films by John Sayles and Mike Leigh, escaping poverty is a dream shared by millions.

Undoubtedly, “Frozen River” succeeds on the combination of Hunt’s writing and Leo’s central performance – both of which have been nominated for Academy Awards. In so many ways, the movie presents the opposite of typical silver screen escapism, even though Hunt includes some expectation-defying sacrifices and choices that soften the impact of the story’s more complex depictions of race and class bias. Ray is not always easy to like, and her ignorance of others manifests in some disturbing and dangerous ways. Leo and Hunt both recognize the value of depicting Ray’s skepticism and fear with layers of complexity, which turns out to be one of the movie’s strongest dimensions.

Other than Leo, and indie regular Mark Boone Junior, “Frozen River” does not feature recognizable “names” in the roles, and some critics have griped about the lack of polish displayed by many of the supporting performers. Working at Leo’s skill level is no small task, though, and the supporting cast never fails to be wholly believable. Misty Upham, as Lila Littlewolf, is an ideal companion for Leo. Both women play characters victimized by depressed economic circumstances and the lack of a support system. They are also mothers who want to provide for their children, even if it means engaging in illegal activity to do so. “Frozen River” is an assured debut, but its shortcomings, especially the neat and tidy ending, keep it from brilliance. Hunt is a keen observer of nuance, however, and “Frozen River” takes an interest in a type of trafficking that remains mostly unknown to middle-class Americans.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A beneath-the-underdog story that would be right at home as a produced-for-cable movie of the week, “The Wrestler” transcends its familiar structure by way of the title performance of previously washed up star Mickey Rourke, whose unsavory antics and questionable plastic surgery torpedoed his once healthy career.  The fourth feature from Darren Aronofsky, “The Wrestler” is easily the director’s most conventional movie to date.  Written by Robert D. Siegel, the film never strays from the formulaic hallmarks of weepy melodrama, but Rourke manages to apply his old charm where it is needed most, and the result will satiate moviegoers who might otherwise find the whole thing more than a little reheated.

Rourke plays Randy “The Ram” Robinson (birth certificate: Robin Ramzinski), a once famous professional wrestler whose long ago successes have been replaced by part time work at a grocery store and weekend bouts for small cash payouts that don’t quite cover the rent on the Ram’s dingy trailer.  Many will not care why the script fails to account for Robinson’s epic fall from the tower of fortune, but the filmmakers clearly have no intention of exploring that aspect of the character’s biography.  Instead, we take the guy at face value: he’s a seemingly decent, working stiff who roughhouses with the neighborhood kids in the daylight and frequents a strip club at night.

One of the screenplay’s many contrivances is the tenuous relationship that develops between Randy and Cassidy (Marisa Tomei), a veteran pole dancer who takes a shine to the grizzled grappler.  Tomei fills in the blanks in an underwritten part (although the scene in which the merits of the 1980s are discussed feels phony), and Aronofsky effectively parallels the routines of the two characters.  Both Randy and Cassidy depend on their bodies, and the eyes of spectators, for their livelihood, and both figures are, according the story, past their prime.  The difference seems to be that Randy only comes to life when he pulls on his tights, while Cassidy is numb to the requirements of her occupation.

The writing practically trips over itself manufacturing a good reason why Randy and Cassidy cannot date one another (it’s against the rules!), but it is the Ram’s failed relationship with his now grown daughter Stephanie (Evan Rachel Wood) that chokes the hardest on cliché.  Desperately hoping to reestablish a connection, Randy reaches out to the young woman, despite her reluctance to let him in to her life.  The handful of scenes between father and daughter allow Rourke an opportunity to deliver some juicy, moist-eyed apologies.

Throughout the movie, Aronofsky’s camera lingers over Randy’s battered physique, leaving no scar unexamined, no physical trauma unexplored.  Like one of the characters in the dreadful “Seven Pounds,” Randy is the owner of a weak and strained ticker, and the metaphoric possibilities are applied in broad strokes.  The manipulation of the audience hides in plain sight, but Rourke plays his part with so much pride and dignity, only the most cynical will fail to identify with the Ram.  Somehow, most of “The Wrestler” works real magic – thanks to Rourke – who delivers what might be the portrayal of his life, in both senses of the phrase.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Gus Van Sant cleverly links past and present in “Milk,” a sturdy, carefully crafted biopic of the martyred gay rights activist. The past is represented by frequently integrated archival footage that the director combines with the fictionalized dramatizations of Harvey Milk’s political failures and triumphs. The present finds parallels between Milk’s 1978 campaign against Proposition 6 (an anti-gay California state ballot measure better known as the Briggs Initiative) and California’s 2008 Proposition 8, preventing same sex couples from marrying. Unlike several of Van Sant’s more lyrical, experimental features, including “Elephant,” “Last Days,” and “Paranoid Park,” “Milk” embraces a conventional storytelling approach that effectively serves the detailed screenplay by Dustin Lance Black.

Tracing the relatively short political career of the first openly gay non-incumbent politician elected to substantial office in the United States, “Milk” owes much to cinematographer Harris Savides’ beautiful imagery, Bill Groom’s evocative production design, and the understated costuming of Danny Glicker. Despite its 1960s and 1970s setting, the movie never gets bogged down in too much period specificity, and one suspects that the effect was consciously crafted. Van Sant also tempers the “highlights” approach so common in the movie biography with enough behind-the-scenes bonhomie that gay and straight viewers feel welcome in Milk’s company.

In the lead role, Sean Penn senses the grand opportunity before him and runs wild with it, infusing Milk with an almost bottomless wellspring of wit, charm, and warmth. By the time Milk has perfected his rallying refrain of “I’m Harvey Milk and I’m here to recruit you,” most audience members will be ready to join the colorful band of characters pulled in by Harvey’s gravitational field. Penn’s Milk tends to the idealized (see the Academy Award-winning documentary “The Times of Harvey Milk” as a valuable companion piece), and Van Sant ignores the suggestions that Milk could wield an ugly temper. Fortunately, the streamlining does not make Harvey Milk any less interesting.

Milk was murdered along with San Francisco mayor George Moscone on November 27, 1978 by Dan White, who had recently resigned his position on San Francisco’s Board of Supervisors. Josh Brolin plays White in the film, and largely avoids turning him into a bogeyman or a caricature. One of the movie’s most effective scenes sees an intoxicated White approach Milk
with almost gasping desperation. There is more than a hint that White wishes to explore some deeply submerged curiosities, but mostly, the audience witnesses White’s jealousy, frustration, and incredulity at Milk’s effortless popularity.

Many of the movie’s other supporting players register as memorably as Brolin. Emile Hirsch, as activist Cleve Jones, steals every scene in which he appears. James Franco plays Milk’s boyfriend Scott Smith, who grows weary at Harvey’s relentless self-promotion and quest to take center stage. Diego Luna, as Milk’s unstable lover Jack Lira, is not given as much screen time as the others and suffers as a result. The audience has little incentive to invest in the character, which negates any power Lira’s later scenes might otherwise project. In the end, however, the success of “Milk” rests mostly with Penn, who adds yet another impressive chapter to his storied acting career.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

From “The Village Voice” to “Variety,” reviews of Danny Boyle’s “Slumdog Millionaire” (co-directed with Loveleen Tandan) compare its inhabitants to the colorful street urchins and the cruel tormenters and exploiters of Charles Dickens. For anyone familiar with “Oliver Twist” or “David Copperfield,” the similarities are hard to ignore, and offer some idea of the film’s tone of triumph in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds. Simon Beaufoy’s screenplay, adapted from a novel by Vikas Swarup, channels Dickens in other ways as well, spinning coincidences so preposterous that one becomes nearly dizzy at the thought of how everything is sewn together. Boyle is certainly a talented filmmaker, and has been especially interesting because his body of work resists the kind of stylistic calling cards that define, and often confine, some of his peers.

Jamal (Dev Patel), a chai wallah from the slums of Mumbai, moves from one hot seat to another when he is suspected of cheating on his way to a fortune as a contestant on “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” Underdog stories can be catnip, especially in tough times, and many of us have imagined what it might be like to attain fabulous wealth for being able to answer seemingly trivial questions. Relying on the painful memories of his patchwork childhood to provide the information he needs, Jamal navigates his way through the game to the astonishment of its cocky host – played by Anil Kapoor, whose growled refrain of “Who wants to be a mill-a-NAIRE?” is one of the movie’s curious pleasures. As Jamal climbs from one question to another, Boyle transports the viewer back to a corresponding anecdote from the character’s past.

While many have sung the praises of the film’s construction, calling it anything from ingenious to a metaphoric “river of life,” it is instead a liability for many viewers who will find themselves torn between an interest in filling in the blanks of Jamal’s past and the momentum of the much shorter scenes that take place on the set of the game show. Boyle uses three actors of different ages for each member of the trio of principal characters, and of those nine performers, some command more attention than others – always a risk when using this technique. Patel is certainly charming, and Freida Pinto is lovely as Latika, the young woman Jamal loves – even though they do not share much screen time.

Boyle practically taunts his audience with the range of events he chooses to show on camera. The film bounds wildly from a triumphant positivism that explains why the movie is constantly pasted with the dreaded “feel good” tag to the ghastly sight of a few nearly unspeakable horrors visited upon vulnerable orphans. Boyle does not flinch when staging scenes like an odious dunking in an excrement-filled latrine, which is played mostly for slapstick comedy, but some of the darker material will disturb sensitive viewers.

More stomach-churning is the depiction of a child being maimed, and it is certainly open to debate whether Boyle pushes too far to make his point. Perhaps the director would argue that the poverty of Mumbai demands a shockingly graphic treatment of the lives of its most destitute children, but so much of the film is calculating and manipulative in the direction of fantasy-come-true that the juxtaposition of the sweet and the heinous threatens to unravel the whole movie.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

An almost absurdly reductive outline that dramatizes the best-known highlights of the short life of Christopher Wallace (known better as the Notorious B.I.G.) while skipping over any real opportunity to explore the mind of one of hip hop’s greatest artists, “Notorious” will appeal to many viewers too young to have experienced the superb MC’s impact while he was alive. Essentially, the movie delivers exactly what most fans will want, even if it sidesteps the thornier dilemmas faced by a character as complex as Biggie. Much of the film tumbles by like a series of extended montages, and large sections of Wallace’s life become subplots with scenes so brief they appear unchanged from the soundbites and clips in the trailer.

Wallace’s mother Voletta and impresario Sean Combs, along with a pair of former managers, receive some type of producing credit, an instant indication that “Notorious” will not be as concerned with subtlety as it will with polishing the already sterling legend that routinely sees B.I.G.’s name at the top of many “greatest rapper of all time” lists. While there is nothing necessarily wrong with this – most biopics could be described as encomia – “Notorious” tackles only some of the largest conflicts faced by Wallace in his 24 years while completely ignoring others. The pair of 1996 arrests that included drug and weapons charges, for example, goes undocumented.

Watching “Notorious” replicates the odd sensation of attending a costume party in which facsimiles of 1990s hip hop personalities try on the clothes and mannerisms of those who made them famous. Although the script has little time to develop them as full-fledged characters, the romantic partners in Wallace’s life, including first serious girlfriend Jan (Julia Pace Mitchell), protégée Lil’ Kim (Naturi Naughton) and whirlwind spouse Faith Evans (Antonique Smith), all read as vibrant and persuasive in their hurt at being wronged by Biggie’s irresponsibility and lack of fidelity. Less convincing are the over-the-top portraits of Sean Combs and Tupac Shakur, played by Derek Luke and Anthony Mackie. Both actors have been outstanding in past movies, but in “Notorious” their work has the exaggerated quality associated with someone playing a game of charades.

At the film’s center, Jamal Woolard fashions a credible performance, although most of the time, his Biggie Smalls lacks edge in favor of too much innocence. Ultimately, what “Notorious” needs most is the presence of the genuine article. The screen B.I.G. tries to be too many things at once, so that when Faith Evans asks Biggie whether he is a bad guy trying to be good or a good guy trying to be bad, the audience wonders the same thing. “Notorious” never offers a satisfying answer to that question, as writers Reggie Rock Bythewood and Cheo Hodari Coker prefer to cram clichéd life lessons down the throats of audience members who deserve something less patronizing.

The feeling of doom that haunts “Notorious” from its first scene to its last speaks to the frustration and pain experienced by many hip hop fans. The contradictory intersection of entertainment and violence – that place where the fantasy of Hollywood crime films and mob boss monikers becomes confused with the impulse to do real harm to a media-constructed “rival” – is replicated at the beginning and end of “Notorious,” but that aspect of the narrative remains as murky and un(re)solved as Wallace’s 1997 murder.