What Cooped Up in the ER Does For You

I spent more than three hours at Christ Hospital tonight in the emergency room. (Diagnosis: ruptured tendon. Bad, very bad.) What else is a girl to do while waiting except work on a review?

My voice feels different, a little more thoughtful, a little more New York Times-ish. Maybe it was the forced contemplation time. Maybe it was the movie itself. Maybe it was a combination.

Kym Buchman isn’t exactly the most welcome guest at her sister’s nuptials. She’s on weekend sabbatical from her umpteenth stay in rehab. Her list of offenses includes a mattress fire, driving off a bridge, and the usual cycle of lying/stealing/sneaking. She’s incredibly self-absorbed, even managing to make the rehearsal-dinner toast about her 12 steps. As Anne Hathaway plays her, though, Kym is also an open sore of raw vulnerability.

Although the title of Jonathan Demme’s latest film is Rachel Getting Married, it is Kym on whom the majority of attention first settles. From the time father Paul (Bill Irwin) and stepmother Carol (Anna Deavere Smith) pick her up for the drive to their Connecticut home, jittery Kym lights cigarettes and speaks in jagged bursts. Dad seems to placate his daughter to keep the peace, even at the expense of others. That includes the titular Rachel (Rosemarie DeWitt), a psychology student who’s marrying her musician fiance, Sidney (Television on the Radio’s Tunde Adebimpe), in a multicultural ceremony. The sisters reunite giddily as Rachel’s best friend, Emma (Anisa George), stands guard, but old resentments soon fester.

Demme works from a script from first-time screenwriter Jenny Lumet, daughter of director Sidney. Demme and Lumet, aided by Declan Quinn’s “you are there” cinematography, capture the intimacy and dynamic of a family crippled by a tragedy at Kym’s hand years earlier. Paul keeps calling it “an accident,” almost downplaying the heinous situation. Rachel plays the older sister/student card, analyzing matters. Mother Abby (Debra Winger) isn’t here for much, seemingly having cut herself away years ago to cope, to the point where Carol handles the “mom” duties for the wedding. Most remain willing to forgive - except Kym herself. Hathaway’s monologues reveal deep self-hatred that no amount of drugs can help her escape. Even in Kym’s furtive, manic smoking, Hathaway’s eyes convey pain and loss.

While spending time with the Buchman dysfunction borders on unpleasant, Demme and Lumet mostly justify the excursion. Only Abby remains a cypher, whether on purpose or because the character needs additional development. We see Winger so rarely on screen. We want more.

Fortunately, the movie isn’t all bittersweet melancholy: After all, it is called Rachel Getting Married. Even with Kym’s awkward speech, the rehearsal dinner brings joy: Paul welcomes Sidney’s family into his (teasing the older brother with the video camera is a nice, genuine touch), as friends and family who so love Rachel and Sidney blend. The wedding itself is very personal; the cake-cutting ceremony, with its array of hands, may contain the most moving moment of the movie. Only the omnipresent music becomes too much, an undercurrent but a lingering one. When Kym yells for the musicians to stop, she’s likely echoing many moviegoers’ thoughts.

Rachel Getting Married ends with a lovely image of the bride the morning after. Our final shot of Kym isn’t as idyllic: She’s returning to rehab. Still, Hathaway paints her own lovely picture, one of a woman learning to consider others and love herself.

Bringing Sexy Back

I was more hot and bothered at Vicky Cristina Barcelona than I have been at a movie in years, and it had nothing to do with the five-second overhyped kiss between Penelope Cruz and Scarlett Johansson.

I'd laugh too if I weren't so stunned. Yes, a Woody Allen film provoked this feeling in me. Yes, the same Woody Allen I usually cannot stand. I can't put into words exactly why Vicky Cristina Barcelona made me feel this way. The music? The cinematography? The very European look at love? Javier Bardem looking normal again after the Coen brothers made him into a serial killer?

I try not to dwell on celebrity gossip in my reviews. I will say this, though: Unlike many real-life lovers onscreen, Cruz and Bardem have tremendous chemistry.

“Woody Allen” and “sexy” are two of the least likely words one might pair together, yet “sexy” is the way to describe Allen’s latest movie, the Spain-set travelogue comedic romance Vicky Cristina Barcelona. A movie where painter Javier Bardem (free of his No Country for Old Men hair) proposes a weekend of wine, sightseeing and love-making to American tourists Rebecca Hall (the sensible Vicky) and Scarlett Johansson (the adventurous Cristina), whom he’s just met; where Bardem’s Juan Antonio still has a tempestuous relationship with his artist ex Maria Elena (dynamic Penelope Cruz); where Spanish guitar can cause tears and lust - yes, all this would cue a sultry vibe. Vicky Cristina is so much more, though; Allen explores love, longing and passion in ways both neurotic and erotic, anchored by Hall’s awakening as both an actress and as a rules-abiding engaged student whose thoughts on romance become tossed about. Only banal, unnecessary narration by an offscreen Christopher Evan Welch (we can see that the women enjoy Miro’s work, thanks) takes away from the film’s fresh appeal. As winter approaches and the economy worsens, take a trip to sun-drenched Barcelona with Vicky and Cristina: It’s a cinematic turn-on.

Well - Is It the Last Great Intellectual Frontier?

I wanted to like Religulous. I wanted to laugh, to be outraged at the outrageous, the way I feel when I see Chris Rock. Unfortunately, that didn't happen here nearly as much as I wanted it to.

Religulous didn’t offend me - it disappointed me.

At times, comedian Bill Maher and director Larry Charles (Borat) offer a side-splittingly funny documentary doubting and mocking organized religion. Too often, though, they visit the Michael Moore school of smug, “I’m the smartest person in the room” filmmaking.

(I feel a personal-faith disclaimer is necessary here. I’m Catholic, attended Holy Name for six years and CCD for four. I confess that struggles with some doctrine and an inability to find a parish I like have led me to stop going to church. I pray nightly, I thank God for blessings, and I try to live an ethically proper life. Now, back to your regularly scheduled review.)

Maher, son of a Catholic father and Jewish mother, said in Being Catholic Now, “[T]he last great intellectual frontier is to debunk religion.” He attacks several groups: Christian, Jew, Mormon, Muslim, Scientology (in a scathingly hysterical bit, disguised as a proselytizer in London’s Hyde Park).

When Religulous sticks to observations and arguments, one can laugh and learn simultaneously. As someone who questioned the Garden of Eden story as a child, I appreciated Maher saying, “It worries me that there are people running my country who believe in a talking snake.” (To which Sen. Mark Pryor, D-Ark., replies, “People in the Senate don’t have IQs.”) Maher also questions the similarities between Christ and the gods Mithra, Horus and Krishna - they’re thousands of years older, yet we’re taught Christ came first.

It’s when Maher and Charles cross the line into condescending that Religulous let me down. They barely disguise their desire to ridicule at a religious “amusement park” (for lack of a better phrase), even though the actor playing Jesus seems open to discussing their very divergent views. Maher touches on the hypocrisy of fighting wars in God’s/Allah’s name but doesn’t delve into this nearly as much as he should. Instead, he opts for easy shots at tired targets.

Religulous probably will appear to Maher’s disciples. As for gaining converts to his cause? Not so likely.

Roger, You're Great, But ...

Earlier this month, Roger Ebert reviewed a film called Tru Loved. He panned it, giving it only one star - but he based his review on just eight minutes and five seconds, at which point he stopped watching. He acknowledged this in his review. He explained why in one blog posting. After 500 responses, he apologized, watched the movie in full, reviewed it again, and wrote a second blog posting.

(I'm posting the link to the second post here, which will bring you back to everything else.)
http://blogs.suntimes.com/ebert/2008/10/definitely_read_me_second.html

Based on the title of this post, I think you know where I'm going with this. I may hate a story I'm editing in my real-world job, but I don't stop reading it. When I'm writing for the blogosphere, I'll sit through every minute of a film I'm reviewing. I feel responsibility, particularly if I'm being paid.

Heck, I've walked out of only two movies in my life (Secret Window, Semi-Pro), and in both cases, I had such a bad migraine I was throw-up-level sick. I won't even eject DVDs early - gosh darn it, I'll watch those suckers to the end, no matter how bad they are.

What do you think? Have you lost respect for Ebert? Have you ever walked out of a movie?

Haven't I Seen This Somewhere Before?

When I took my film class last year - and I can't believe it ended a year ago this week! - Josh told us to think about a movie for two hours after we see it. What's the first thing that sticks with us? That's what we write about. A week after watching Body of Lies, the main thing that came to mind was how much it reminded me of a lot of other movies. (Still, I think my father and brother would like this, and I believe Alan wants to see it.)

In 2005, Ridley Scott’s brother, Tony, directed a flick called Deja Vu. Perhaps the Scotts should have saved that title for Ridley’s latest, the diverting but derivative Mideast spy thriller Body of Lies.

While the source material technically is David Ignatius’ 2007 novel, the real basis feels like 2006’s The Departed - fitting, as William Monahan handled both screenplays. Leonardo DiCaprio in a baseball cap on a cellphone? Check. Our whippersnapper - here a CIA operative - torn between bosses (Russell Crowe’s Ed Hoffman in D.C., Mark Strong as Hani Salaam in Jordan)? Yup. Multilayered storyline that takes time to click? Yes, although Monahan was more successful with The Departed than with Body of Lies. Globe hopping to nine locations, from Dubai to Virginia, makes it difficult to establish a rhythm. It’s about an hour before the cat-and-mouse plot (invent a second terrorist group to tempt an Osama bin Laden-like leader out of hiding) gels.

As for Crowe, whom Scott directed to Oscar in Gladiator, he does most of his acting with devices, and the lack of human interplay emphasizes his performance’s caricature quality. Broad paunch, thick grayish-white hair, slightly sleazy/slightly Southern accent - it’s reminiscent of a Bill Clinton sketch on Saturday Night Live.

The two hours watching Body of Lies pass quickly; the film's a total “popcorn flick.” With the pedigree attached, though, one expects more originality. The Bourne movies showed how to make an old genre fresh. With Body of Lies, it’s a case of … déjà vu.

The Making of a President (thanks to Theodore White for the headline)

Even more than the concept of the high-school election, the setting for this documentary enticed me: my academic rival, Stuyvesant High School. I went to Boston Latin School, another place filled with hyper-smart, college-obsessed students. In fact, my favorite part of Frontrunners had nothing to do with the voting process. Instead, it was the girl who talked about memorizing ranking lists and feeling bad that being No. 36 would get her "only" into Dickinson College, as opposed to an Ivy. Yup, been there. (Well, except that I was No. 18, and Syracuse was my top choice.)

Clinton/Obama goes classroom in Frontrunners, director Caroline Suh’s documentary about the 2006 senior class presidential elections at New York’s ultra-competitive Stuyvesant High. (It accepts only 3% of the 25,000 teens who apply annually.) The veteran politician: George, astute enough to campaign with music atop a bridge because students will be tired from climbing stairs and will have no choice but to look at him. The “change” candidate: Hannah, an outsider known more for her theatrical and cheerleading leadership, possessing personality but not necessarily substance. Frontrunners engages when looking at a political world where debates and endorsements matter yet skimps on the profiles: It would be nice to see Hannah balance campaigning with extracurriculars, or hear what George’s parents think of his quirky, obsessive drive.

A Movie with a View

It seems that almost every fall, I find myself championing a film almost no one else likes. In 2006, it was Keeping Mum; last year, it was Things We Lost in the Fire. This time, it's Blindness. Is this a difficult movie? Yes. Would I watch it again. No time soon. It sat with me for hours, though, in a way nothing has in some time, and it showed me yet another facet of the awesome Julianne Moore.

As the sole sighted person in a quarantined area for the blind, Julianne Moore embodies the true woman warrior in Fernando Meirelles’ Blindness, based on the allegorical novel by Jose Saramago. She doesn’t play a Xena or a G.I. Jane; rather, she fights for a sense of decency and kinship in the midst of depravity. Her character, a doctor’s wife, helps everyone, including the audience, survive this challenging but ultimately rewarding movie.

An epidemic of blindness breaks out in an unidentified city (a digital composite of locations in Ontario, Uruguay and Brazil), its beginnings described by its first victim (Yusuke Iseya) as “light shining through a sea of white … like I’m swimming in milk.” An ophthalmologist (Mark Ruffalo) unwittingly spreads it, though – for reasons unexplained by the characters and the filmmakers – not to his wife (Moore). The blind are sent to government hospitals that resemble barracks, Moore’s character feigns a loss of sight to be with her husband, and order breaks down. For the doctor’s wife, bearing witness to the atrocities may be worse than having no vision at all.

Meirelles previously directed the Brazilian slum drama City of God and the Kenyan-set socially tinged thriller The Constant Gardener, so he knows how to illustrate the worst of the human condition. In Blindness, the wards evoke a bleached-out Third World bomb shelter, with feces and waste piling up and unkempt residents slumped on beds. (Kudos to Tule Peake’s production-design team.) The guards outside provide no aid, their vocals muffled to emphasize the physical and emotional distance. Saramago wrote Blindness a decade ago, yet it’s impossible not to watch the adaptation and think of the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina in 2005.

While Meirelles relies too much on white-flash and blurry techniques of filming, he does capture one of the overlooked effects of blindness: a sharper sense of sound. The noises are very acute, very crystallized, because a blind person would be hyperaware of voices, as the King of Ward 3 (Gael Garcia Bernal) proves.

That “king” and his companions lead to one of Blindness’ most vile sequences, the orgy rape of the women in Ward One in exchange for food. (Here, the soldier atrocities of the wars in the former Yugoslavia come to mind.) Meirelles shoots this as a darkened tangle of bodies, as tastefully as one possibly can film such an event. That doesn’t diminish from the disgusting nature of the act.

The women could remain victims, mute and broken, and this would be an understandable reaction. Instead, the doctor’s wife sees this as a time to take action, to break the cycle, and she rallies her community and the film. Moore’s simple, dignified performance carries Blindness even through its darkest, most uncomfortable moments.

Thanks to the power of a woman, Blindness ends at a most unexpected place: hope.

A Charlize Theron Double Feature

I hadn't intended to watch two movies starring my beauty icon (that garbage-bag and Dallas-hair Oscar look notwithstanding) two days in a row, but it just happened that way. So from mid-September, we have quick looks at Sleepwalking (seen Sept. 18 on DVD) and Battle in Seattle (seen Sept. 19 at the Angelika, with a Q&A afterward featuring Stuart Townsend, Martin Henderson and Charlize herself).

Is it sad that I'll be caught up with September reviews - I have one left to write - before August ones?

Charlize Theron takes on mommyhood in two indie flicks, relentlessly bleak Sleepwalking and earnest docudrama Battle in Seattle.

In the former, Theron’s selfish Joleen abandons her 11-year-old daughter (AnnaSophia Robb) with her brother, James (Nick Stahl), and then disappears for much of the movie. While Theron’s character certainly won’t win any Mother of the Year awards, Sleepwalking needs the actress’ natural spark to keep us from sleepily stumbling away. Otherwise, we’re left with a road trip across a landscape drained of color, filled with lengthy silences that director William Maher and screenwriter Zac Stanford want to imbue with significance. Instead, they contribute to Sleepwalking’s already-glacial nature. Dennis Hopper, as James and Joleen’s father, burns volcanic, in a Daddy Dearest kind of way.

Theron joins an ensemble in boyfriend Stuart Townsend’s writing and directing debut, Battle in Seattle, which re-creates the riots surrounding the 1999 World Trade Organization talks. Theron said she believes her Ella - first-time mom-to-be, cop’s wife (to Woody Harrelson), shopping blindly before tragedy - represents those who were unaware, and this arc clicks thanks to Theron’s and Harrelson’s performances. Otherwise, the protestors intrigue when they discuss organization and motivation, bore when Townsend pushes an affair between leader Jay (Martin Henderson) and rebel Lou (Michelle Rodriguez), and the awakened-journalist (Connie Nielsen) angle lacks development. Townsend said recently that while he knew his film wasn’t perfect, he wanted to enlighten people unfamiliar with the riots. In that respect, protestor Django (Andre Benjamin) sums up Battle in Seattle best: “People still may not know exactly what the WTO is, but they know that it’s bad.”

In evaluating Theron’s recent flicks, the “good mother” movie wins.

Tightrope Thriller

Despite several attempts, my fellow New York lover and I were unable to coordinate to see Man on Wire. (It was also the one Tribeca movie I couldn't get into when I was working press and industry screenings, so I was extra excited to track it down when it opened in theaters in July.) I hope he sees it soon - it's still at the Sunshine - or perhaps when it comes out on DVD later this year. Even if you aren't a city person, Man on Wire is worth seeing simply for its quality.

For 94 minutes, the Twin Towers represent a thing of marvel rather than mourning in James Marsh’s exhilarating documentary, Man on Wire. On Aug. 7, 1974, wire walker Philippe Petit moved effortlessly on a steel cable, thousands of feet above ground, between the Towers for almost an hour. Marsh films mostly in suspense/heist style (think fake IDs, hiding under tarps for hours to avoid police detection), complemented by Michael Nyman’s score and actual footage of Petit’s feats. Marsh also features a lively collection of voices, from French companions to New Yorkers who liked to stir up trouble to, most notably, Petit himself, still elfin and charismatic at 59. Marsh never mentions 9/11, and he doesn’t have to: In Man on Wire, the folklore wins out.

The Things We Do For Like

I enjoy Diane Lane. I will tolerate schlock if she's in it. I knew what I was in for when I decided to see Nights in Rodanthe, although I was willing to pay only $6 for the "privilege." I expected to mock the usual romance-drama trappings, and I did. However, something else was even more ridiculous : the weather. (She, on the other, was her usual lovely self.)

What’s more implausible: a 43-year-old lady who looks naturally beautiful in Hollywood, or a hurricane with no category designation in 2008? The woman in question is Diane Lane, so the answer is the tempest that doesn’t cause beach erosion in the romance Nights in Rodanthe, the latest adaptation of a Nicholas Sparks best-seller (The Notebook, Message in a Bottle).

Lane and three-time co-star Richard Gere (they also worked together in The Cotton Club and Unfaithful) play Adrienne and Paul in what’s essentially a two-character drama - fitting, given that it’s directed by theater veteran Ge0rge C. Wolfe. Adrienne and Paul weather crises familial (both) and professional (him) as they fall in love while staying in a multistory North Carolina shore house - a vacation spot that somehow sustains no damage from the ‘cane with no name. Lane portrays Adrienne’s reawakening with her usual grounded earthiness, and she almost makes those clichéd voiceovers of letters tolerable. Gere is tasteful, albeit bland.

I’ve always wanted to retire to the Carolinas but fear living in a magnet for the likes of Hugos and Hannas. Maybe I should move to Rodanthe, as this movie implies even the worst gusts will leave my home pristine.

A Five-Sentence Valentine to Robert Downey Jr.

It's my 100th post!

To me, personal movie hell would be The Cable Guy, with Jim Carrey and Ben Stiller. I can't stand There's Something about Mary (the movie that sent Stiller to the A-List) or Zoolander (Ben's 2001 directorial follow-up to The Cable Guy). What, then, possessed me to see Tropic Thunder? See the title of my post.

(By the way, it's 10:23 p.m. EDT. I'm being a good American; I'm watching the debate on my computer.)

Tropic Thunder (seen Aug. 19, eighth movie of August)

Iron Man himself, Robert Downey Jr., triumphs as Self-Important Serious Thespian Russ-- Kirk Lazarus (“five-time Academy-Award winner,” one of those solemn movie voices tells us) in Tropic Thunder, the Ben Stiller-written and -directed Hollywood satire.

The mocking ad and trailers that open Tropic Thunder are hilarious, especially the pairing of secretly gay monks Downey and “MTV Movie Award Winner for Best Kiss Tobey Maguire,” scored to Enigma (“Sade, Dit Moi”). The plot itself, spoiled actors encounter real bad guys while making a Vietnam War flick, has a decent hits-to-misses ratio and connects most with Lazarus as an African-American platoon leader - you see, he’s dyed his skin black. The actor rarely breaks form, even when consoling his “fellow soldiers” with a speech that’s really the theme to The Jeffersons - and when he does “slip,” all-American Downey uses a Mel Gibson accent.

Downey’s sharpest, most hysterical moment comes when Lazarus pontificates to Stiller’s action hero on how to win an Oscar: Think a throwdown between Forrest Gump and I Am Sam.

Still Catching up on August

For the current reviews, I'm using my "regular" writing style, alternating among 100-, 250- and 500-word critiques. For those summer musings, I'll continue to follow the five-sentence format.

I went to see Anita O'Day: The Life of a Jazz Singer mainly because it had played at the Tribeca Film Festival in 2007. I wasn't crazy about the film as a piece of art. As an advertisement for her music, though, it's fantastic: I rushed to iTunes that night to hear more.

Anita O’Day: The Life of a Jazz Singer (seen Aug. 22, ninth movie of August)

The documentary Anita O’Day: The Life of a Jazz Singer, well, sings when it showcases its subject, delighting us with several uncut performances that highlight her perfect timing and silky vocals. In talking-head mode, the film flounders, sketchy with its timeline and enamored with presenting its dizzying array of voices in 1950s graphics. The last living artist of the Billie/Sarah/Ella era, the “Jezebel of Jazz” survived a 15-year heroin addiction, multiple marriages, a rape, arrests and poor health to perform into her 80s. O’Day should be filmed in a style fitting of her vivacity, so it’s ironic that the footage from her then manager, Robbie Cavolina, and co-director Ian McCrudden shot just before her 2006 death (which isn’t mentioned) has such a bleached-out quality. Fortunately, hearing a doped-up O’Day scat for her life on “Sing, Sing, Sing” or linger over “Sweet Georgia Brown” at the 1958 Newport Jazz Festival carries enough of an impact to overcome most of these flaws.

Play On?

Brooklyn Jen knows her music. The tour guide in me appreciates a well-presented New York. We're both fans of the teen movie. In other words, our expectations for Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist were high.

Maybe too high?

Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist meanders and sputters more than a 90-minute comedy should. An After Hours for Millennials, Peter Sollett’s flick drives audiences through a Friday night mainly on the Lower East Side as our eponymous characters, their friends and frenemies come together over - what else? - songs. Sollett films a valentine to New York nightlife; Lorene Scafaria’s script, based on a young-adult novel, contains witty barbs; yet Nick and Norah isn’t consistently in tune.

Michael Cera plays Nick, the latest entry in the awkward-cute pantheon of Cera characters (Juno, Superbad). The mixtape artist and sole straight member of a queercore band recently was dumped by pouty flirt Tris (Alexis Dziena). Kat Dennings is Norah, smart, musically connected and in an unhappy “friends with benefits” situation with Tal (Jay Baruchel). Of course, Nick and Norah are meant to be. (The Thin Man comedies aren’t referenced - no hip indie rock in those.) Naturally, bumps and wrong turns, literal and figurative, occur before the music of like flows.

Norah poignantly explains her relationship to Tal: “You’re ignored long enough, sometimes you just want to feel special.” The Nick/Tris link, though, confounds. One can see why doubt-laden Nick would want Tris, but her interest in him makes far less sense. She certainly doesn’t know where Fluffy is (a running plot in the film).


One storyline that is infinite: a gross gum gag. I’ll say only this - Norah’s drunk best friend (Ari Graynor) and a Port Authority toilet are involved.

Go West, Young Woman?

I'm not much for Westerns, so I wasn't as up for Appaloosa as my former class cohort Patricia. Then she reminded me of a major selling point: Viggo. Ah, Viggo. Man who helped me survive the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Man who was so awesome in Eastern Promises. We also have Ed Harris, a man's man. With Paul Newman's recent passing, Harris may have the steeliest (is that a word?) pair of baby blues out there. OK, I'm more game.

Slightly weathered but still rugged, mesmerizing shades of blue and tan that captivate immediately - I’m describing the manly forms of Ed Harris and Viggo Mortensen in Appaloosa, although Dean Semler’s cinematography of Texas and New Mexico landscapes looks gorgeous, too!

Harris does just about everything except pick out curtains in this Western (and his character also has a chance to do that). He plays marshal-for-hire Virgil Cole, directs, produces, co-writes the screenplay adaptation of a Robert B. Parker novel and even sings a Johnny Cash-like ditty over the closing credits. Appaloosa has much to recommend, until a pesky woman mars the day.

Cole and his partner/best friend of 12 years, Everett Hitch (Mortensen), ride into Appaloosa, N.M., to clean up the town. Their main target: another colorfully named character, rancher Randall Bragg (oddly accented Jeremy Irons). Cole is the alpha male, Hitch the all-seeing, quietly correcting No. 2. (Virgil reads Emerson but trips on pronouncing such words as “sequestered” and “degrading.”) As zingy as Appaloosa’s dialogue is, Mortensen doesn’t speak much of it. Most of his acting comes from listening and observing, a performance of unexpected vitality. You can detect shades of the Russian gangster he played in last year’s Eastern Promises in this taciturn Western lawman.

A woman comes along, the widow Allison French (Renee Zellweger). Virgil rapidly becomes enamored of this Allie, who is not like the “whores and squaws” he is used to - “She likes to take a bath at night” - and they set up house. Despite her organ playing and high necklines, Allie isn’t exactly the simple frontier woman. Everett soon grasps this. So does Bragg.

Watching Harris and Mortensen interact in Appaloosa, doing something as simple as sitting on a bench, one recalls the easy connection between fellow blue-eyed wonder Paul Newman (who played Harris’ father in the 2005 miniseries Empire Falls) and his two-time co-star Robert Redford. Sometimes, the rich words don’t sound right for the time period - did men really discuss their feelings in 1882 as if on Oprah? Harris and Mortensen’s chemistry sells it anyway.

If only the male/female dynamic were even half as interesting. Allie first appears to be a rare multidimensional female part in a Western, until she devolves into the stereotype that women ultimately are power-hungry and, well, kind of easy. A miscast Zellweger (in Cold Mountain mode) doesn’t provide any shading that could have added nuance. From the start, Allie comes across as immature, her motives obvious.

Harris also may have taken on one task too many when he chose to make Appaloosa his directorial follow-up to 2000’s Pollock. Particularly during the latter half, the pacing lags, as storylines continue after their natural resolutions. The town scenes also have a soundstage feel; they need more soot and grit.

Let’s circle back to the central relationship in Appaloosa. “Allie, you’re with Virgil. So am I,” Everett explains when his best friend’s girl kisses him. Ed and Viggo - now that’s a love story to savor.

Burn, Baby, Burn

When I first became a more serious cinema student, I loathed the Coen brothers, especially their comedies. I softened in recent years, and like many other critics, I thought No Country for Old Men was the best movie of 2007. Alas, the next Joel/Ethan work has brought back old feelings.

“What did we learn from this?” a CIA supervisor says to an agent at the end of Burn After Reading, the latest screen adventure for brothers Joel and Ethan Coen. “Uh …,” the agent replies. “Not to do it again,” the superior answers.

That exchange also sums up my feelings for this so-called comedy.

The plot - in which goofy gym clerks Chad and Linda (Brad Pitt, Frances McDormand) stumble upon a CD they think includes secrets belonging to disgraced agent Osbourne Cox (John Malkovich) - has the potential for madcap, dizzy, screwball, a la the Coens’ 2003 Intolerable Cruelty. Instead, the brothers layer on an unpleasant divorcing couple (Malkovich and Tilda Swinton), a womanizing Treasury employee (George Clooney, on Round 3 with Joel and Ethan), a plastic-surgery-obsessed online dater (McDormand), and the exercise geek (Pitt); they draw some ludicrous connections; and they expect us to laugh. Nice try.

Oddly, the one person who offers consistent chuckles is Pitt, better known for ponderousness (Babel, Seven Years in Tibet) than popcorn. He understands what the role of Chad needs: gaping mouth, eyes that pop like a cartoon character’s, vigorous sucking of a Jamba Juice smoothie. Meanwhile, old Coen hands such as McDormand and Clooney come across as strident (her) or slimy (him).

I’d scorch this movie memory were it not for two things: Angelina’s other half and the promise of improved cinema. You see, before Burn After Reading began, I saw the trailers for Frost/Nixon and Doubt. Better days are ahead.