Having spent time on the set of A Nightmare on Elm Street speaking with producers Brad Fuller and Andrew Form, the guys at Platinum Dunes who successfully spearheaded relaunches of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Amityville Horror and Friday the 13th franchises, I respect and even agree with the logic that these characters are merely more contemporary versions of Dracula, the Wolf Man and Frankenstein, and therefore equally susceptible to being reinvented or revived for new audiences. I also believe that short of a producer or studio obliterating every known copy or representation of an existing character, the new version of him or it needn’t be considered a replacement for a previous one.

But that’s also logic that producers should themselves heed when contemplating a remake of one of these iconic figures, because their efforts may indeed never earn a legitimate place among the existing mythology of a series or character. In which case they should probably go in with the best of intentions and out with the least of expectations, because A Nightmare on Elm Street is no blasphemous reinvention of either Freddy or the film series. Rather, it’s a relatively pedestrian remake of the original movie that adds precisely the wrong elements to make Freddy a more fearsome monster, but in so doing offers little intrigue – much less satisfaction – to fans old or new that might otherwise drive them to demand more installments in the future.

Of the many ideas screenwriters Wesley Strick and Eric Heisserer throw kitchen-sink style into this utterly conventional remake, the only relatively new one is the concept of “micronaps,” the supposed term for a person’s inability to differentiate between dreams and reality, thereby making them especially susceptible to extremely loud jump scares. My concerns that the filmmakers would use this “scientific” explanation to justify the movie’s narrative cop-outs were well-founded: no sooner are they defined than the characters immediately shuffle through random “real” scenarios only to find themselves at Freddy’s mercy, then waking up to discover, it was all a dream! Or was it?

Meanwhile, it’s that line between reality and fantasy where director Samuel Bayer clearly focused his considerable talents as a visual stylist. Best known for helming Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” music video, he’s a virtuoso with imagery, and maximizes even the familiar rhythms of kills he recreates from the ’84 Nightmare that have since become horror staples: Kris’ death echoes Tina’s ceiling crawl, but adds a juicy shot of invisible claws carving up her chest; and later, when Nancy races through multiple worlds in order to get back to the waking one, her body explodes, immaculate and pristine, from a tidepool of blood that’s gurgling upside down. It’s these flourishes which occasionally rouse the film from being otherwise methodical and generic, and show that with time and maturity, Bayer could possibly craft something more substantive.

But, of course, in the meantime, Bayer is decidedly not capable of elevating the emotional content of the film along with the visual, and fails to present any of its ideas interestingly. The most promising story change from the original is that Freddy may or may not be a child molester rather than a child killer, and it’s that may or may not uncertainty that gives the film a dramatic urgency as these kids race to figure out how their parents, or even they themselves, may have invoked Freddy’s rage and exposed themselves to his (forgive the pun) nightmarish reign of terror.

But the way the film answers that, and moreover, the very fact that it does, eliminates what could have been a fascinating and potentially promising (meaning sequels, of course) new beginning for the character. One you tell people who somebody is and what he did, there’s not a lot of room for exploration – unless, as the directors and screenwriters of the sequels already did, Bayer and co. reboot or redefine Freddy’s mythology over and over again.

Jackie Earle Haley as Freddy

Then there’s Jackie Earle Haley as Freddy, who does his best but is stymied by make-up that feels more accurate for a burn victim but scarcely works at conveying the character’s casual malevolence. (It certainly doesn’t help that his upper lip seems entirely immobile, and although there are holes and gashes and all sorts of authentic little details, the majority of the face is almost completely inexpressive.)

Ultimately, this film’s worst offense is that it makes Freddy too dark and yet somehow too uninteresting to warrant further exploration of his universe, which literally is bound only by the limits of what its creators can dream up. That said, I’m not sure I have the energy to get too angry at the film, because it’s mostly mediocre rather than outright “bad,” and I never cared much for the series to begin with. But compared to Friday the 13th, which satisfyingly fulfilled the demands of the series’ mythology by placing attractive, scantily-clad teens in harm’s way and letting nature take its course, A Nightmare on Elm Street exploits the stylistic hallmarks of its predecessors but woefully neglects the narrative ones.

This film perfunctorily provides a scary story about a burned-up guy in a red and green sweater who kills people in their dreams, but can’t decide whether it’s paying homage to the series’ mythology, reimagining it, or simply adding another chapter to it. In short, it’s a Nightmare just like the ones we’ve seen before, which is probably why it feels more tiresome than terrifying.

The film stars Jeffrey Dean Morgan (Watchmen) as Clay, the leader of a group of government operatives who already call themselves the Losers even before they are betrayed by a CIA superior named Max (Jason Patric) and forced to destroy their real identities. Roque (Idris Elba) and Cougar (Oscar Jaenada) are reasonably happy living on the lam, but Jensen (Chris Evans) and Pooch (Columbus Short)left family behind, so when a mysterious woman named Aisha (Zoe Saldana) offers them a chance to get revenge on Max and reclaim their lives, the group jumps at the chance. Unfortunately, the group soon discovers that Aisha has plans of her own, and has recruited them to help her in addition to themselves, ultimately pitting the Losers against relentless government forces – potentially turning them against each other – as the authorities close in on them.

The truth is that ensemble movies usually seem to really be about one or two stars surrounded by a bunch of supporting players. Not so in The Losers, where Evans and Short steal virtually every scene in which either of them appears, and Elba proves to be a formidable counterpart to both Morgan’s perceived leadership and Saldana’s commanding intelligence, not to mention sensuality. What’s more remarkable is that the film doesn’t simply give each character a scene of their own – a single-serving showcase of a particular actor’s talent; rather, the script by Jamie Vanderbilt gives all of them something to do at once, and then director Sylvain White effortlessly combines the various personalities on screen in order to create the most effective – be it dramatic or purely entertaining – combination of fun and suspense.

Meanwhile, as Max, Jason Patric has never been this loose, fun, or commanding as he is her, channeling Warren Beatty as he turns an empty stare into a terrifying showcase for his character’s jet-black heart. And again, it’s Vanderbilt’s script which provides so much of the raw material, and the actors’ individual contributions which strengthen the impact of everyone’s performances. But Sylvain White’s direction is what really brings these different elements together and creates something truly enjoyable. The director’s previous film was the criminally-underrated dance movie Stomp the Yard, and like with that film, he finds the visual and thematic flourishes that are often buried in such conventional storytelling formulas and fleshes them out into substantive explorations of, well, if not necessarily political or intellectual ideas, then at the very least more emotionally meaningful conflicts.

Ultimately, to say that The Losers succeeds at being entertaining without necessarily trying to be more isn’t damning the film with faint praise, it’s a statement of fact. As White continues to find his footing directorially, this is the perfect vehicle for him to expand the distinctive visual style he’s brought to his previous work, while introducing different elements of storytelling and character development that he hasn’t tackled before. For audiences, meanwhile, it’s not a frivolous, but it is featherweight, and a hell of a lot of fun. In which case, The Losers may or not become one of the few films that you remember when recalling your favorite action films, but if any of the above sounds like the type of movie you would typically enjoy, it’s worth running down at least once.

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

There are certain movies that demand discussion and analysis, and others that simply are what they are. Date Night falls into the latter category: a lighthearted comedy about a New Jersey married couple whose night on the town turns into a race for their lives, there’s precious little that needs to be deconstructed once you know director Shawn Levy (A Night at the Museum, Cheaper By the Dozen) is behind the cameras, and Steve Carell and Tina Fey are in front of them. Thankfully, however, that absence of conversation also means that you’re likely to embrace the film if you like even two out of three of those component parts, and it’s why Date Night is a competent and engaging little comedy that delivers on its premise without demanding more from the audience than their enjoyment.

Not just ideally cast but magically compatible as man and wife, Carell and Fey bring real humor to the roles of Phil and Clare Foster, a couple desperately trying to maintain romance in their relationship despite the demands of work and family. After a neighboring couple announces their divorce, Phil and Clare decide to add a little spice to date night and steal the reservation of absentee diners at a posh new Manhattan restaurant. Unfortunately, they take the names of some folks who apparently are in possession of some contraband materials, and soon find themselves on the run from corrupt cops (Jimmi Simpson and Common) who were sent to retrieve them at the behest of a cutthroat mobster (Ray Liotta).

Tina Fey, Steve Carell and Mark Wahlberg in "Date Night"

With few options available and the cops closing in, Phil and Clare look for help from one of Clare’s clients, a charming, capable and shirt-deficient security expert (Mark Wahlberg), who not only offers them some unexpected assistance but helps them rekindle the excitement and romance of their marriage.

At a svelte 88 minutes, the film has not an ounce of fat on it, although an extended car chase threatens to test the tensile strength of the film’s otherwise tautly-rendered action. But otherwise Carell and Fey make the most of the material: both are obviously comfortable in the kind of observational, off-the-cuff humor that has come to define comedy in the era of Judd Apatow’s ensemble films, but even without a particularly expansive group of personalities off of which to react, Fey and Carell manage to provide terrific punch lines without indulging in scenery-chewing stardom. That Levy also keep the scenes cut down to their simplest and most effective only further helps the brevity and brilliance of their wit, elevating what could have been a tedious action-comedy into something slightly more enchanting.

Needless to say there are good date movies and bad date movies, and this one happens to be a good one because it’s frivolous and fun and but actually offers a few deeper truths about relationships. Meanwhile, Fey continues to emerge as a performer with more talents than even she seems to recognize, which may be part of her charm, while Carell offers a grounded, sincere turn that also allows him to play big without losing believability. Overall, Date Night is an undemanding movie, but it’s a perfectly good undemanding movie, which is why when you don’t discuss it, you won’t mind: when people talk about turning off their brains and just being entertained for a few hours, unlike so many stupid or insubstantial others, this is the sort of film they truly hope to see.

Although I steadfastly don’t believe in writing reviews as some sort of consumer service, the most important thing I have to say about Clash of the Titans is do not see the film in 3-D. Part of the motivation for my plea, admittedly, is to save you the extra money 3-D presentation costs; but mainly it’s because the film was not originally shot in 3-D, and it looks absolutely terrible retrofitted after the fact in 3-D. All of which is why plain-old two dimensions is more than satisfying presentation format if you’re at all interested in Clash of the Titans’ otherwise perfectly uninspiring, generic-blockbuster thrills.

Sam Worthington, a serviceable actor who still hasn’t carried any movie distinctively enough to deserve A-list stardom, plays Perseus, the bastard son of Zeus (Liam Neeson) who is raised by a hardscrabble mortal fisherman named Spyros (Pete Posthlewaite). When Hades (Ralph Fiennes) more or less inadvertently murders Spyros, Perseus vows revenge, and is granted an unexpected opportunity to carry it out when he is recruited to kill the Kraken, a monstrous beast that threatens to destroy Argos, the epicenter of mortal civilization.

Embarking on a perilous voyage that pits him against giant scorpions, supernatural gorgons, and the deformed minions of deranged gods, Perseus comes into conflict with mankind’s creators, in the process discovering what it truly means to be human.

As a former fan of the original (I loved the ’81 Clash as a kid but was bored by it as an adult), I don’t have much loyalty to the source material, but director Louis Leterrier updates it in only the most perfunctory, unsurprising ways: double the special effects, quadruple the action and half the story. Other than Perseus’ occasional rancor about being born from the loins of a God, the new Clash is a remarkably dispassionate affair, jogging uninspired from one set piece to the next, and culminating in a climactic battle that unfolds exactly as you might expect.

Sam Worthington in Clash of the Titans

That the poster and TV ads spoil the excitement of discovering his (literal) biggest foe, the Kraken, is a testament to the film’s play-it-down-the-middle appeal, but there’s not one hair out of place on this hero’s journey from start to finish, and that quickly becomes tiresome even if you just want something to accompany your latest purchase of overpriced popcorn.

But then again, there are those who will duly be satisfied by such averageness, such pedestrian obviousness, which is why everything has been sanded smooth and welded together into such a seamlessly conventional whole. (Still doesn’t explain why an actor as good as Ralph Fiennes appears to be playing his character as if he’s doing an impression of Rob Zombie re-enacting Richard Harris’ performance from Gladiator, though.)

Regardless whether your hopes were for a riveting, fantasy-filled two hours at the theater or just something to superficially pass the time until the frivolity of summer, however, there is no doubt that Clash of the Titans was originally a film made in 2-D, and it looks best in 2-D. Because if the filmmakers aren’t going to bother with creating three-dimensional characters on the page, there’s no point in watching them try to fake it on screen – especially since the ones in Clash of the Titans have all of the depth of a pop-up book.

A few years ago I would have described Tim Burton and Alice in Wonderland as a perfect pairing of director and material; even without intimate familiarity with the source material, his pedigree as a purveyor of mainstream fantasy is largely unrivaled, and there’s no doubt his visual sense could reinvigorate (if not fully reimagine) Lewis Carroll’s book for contemporary audiences. But Burton, champion of the outsider and documentarian of the underdog, somehow became a Hollywood fixture – a hit-making machine, except when he seemed to follow his heart, as he did with the beautiful box office failure Big Fish.

Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter

As a result, his efforts to stay outside of the industry’s comfort zone have felt like they’re as provocative or peculiar as the sale rack as Hot Topic; he’s tackled one conventional “weird” project after another, and with few exceptions, they’ve all failed to surpass their source material, or even show why he’s a good choice to adapt or reinvent them, except for the automatic opening-weekend returns. Sadly, Alice follows in this disappointing trend, revealing Burton at his most automatically, reliably counterculture, creating a new story out of Carroll’s mythmaking that fails to inspire interest, perhaps except as a rote exercise in mainstream weirdness.

Mia Wasikowska in Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland

Luminous newcomer Mia Wasikowska plays Alice, who gets stuck in an unrecognizable Wonderland after tumbling down a rabbit hole while escaping a would-be suitor and a life of boredom and complacency. Soon enough, she happens upon Carroll’s cavalcade of weirdos, including the March Hare (Michael Sheen), the Cheshire Cat (Stephen Fry), Tweedles Dee and Dum (Matt Lucas), and of course, the Mad Hatter (Johnny Depp), who is shellshocked from a combination of personal trauma and sniffing too much hat glue. But when she discovers she’s a key player in a turf war between the Red Queen (Helena Bonham Carter) and the White Queen (Anne Hathaway), Alice muscles up to help her new comrades, in the process discovering a sense of direction for her life as well.

Admittedly I’m not familiar with either of the Carroll books (Alice and Through the Looking Glass) from which Burton took his inspiration, but screenwriter Linda Woolverton effectively turned them into a sort of condensed Lord of the Rings-style travelogue odyssey, a quest where Alice learns life lessons after slaying foes both physical and metaphorical. While this certainly isn’t an inherently bad thing, Burton fails to provide any reason why we should care about what happens, since Alice reminds us at every turn that it’s a dream, and there don’t seem to be any real stakes even if it wasn’t.

Helena Bonham Carter as the Red Queen

Furthermore, there’s a leaden sort of melodrama that accompanies much of the character development (the Mad Hatter’s past, etc.) and eliminates the fun and excitement of just being goofy and weird and having a frothy adventure. That said, such exuberance is at least hinted at in the performance of Carter as the Red Queen, who’s introduced to us interrogating her (literal) toadies and then turns to mouth-frothing grandstanding as she tries to keep her head while chopping of virtually everyone else’s. But Depp’s turn as the Hatter falls into scenery-chewing territory early and never returns, and with the exception of Fry’s seductively charming Cheshire Cat and Hathaway’s prissy, exasperatedly serene White Queen, the cast adds little new to the existing landscape of these characters on screen.

But this is Burton’s show, and even though he appears to be indulging every impulse he knows to create a compelling Wonderland, there’s just nothing in it to truly inspire or arouse interest. Even the film’s 3-D feels flat and dim, lending what should be a breathtaking fantasy world a melancholy, joyless air. And that’s really the difference between Burton the purveyor of spectacle and the former filmmaker who toiled meticulously making heroes out of oddballs: there’s no exuberance, either on screen or seemingly behind the camera, in rendering a universe where the least likely person in it becomes its biggest hero. As such, Alice isn’t truly terrible, but spectacularly underwhelming, and may ultimately leave you questioning where the ‘wonder’ is in Wonderland.

Rating: 1.5 out of 5 stars  1 1/2 out of 5 Stars

The thing about zombie movies is that I really don’t care at all why people become zombies. That is the least important and, at a certain point, least interesting part of the plot of any movie featuring undead, deeply sick, ravenous, violent monsters. However, the fact that The Crazies tries to come up with that explanation – half-assed as it is – seems to be a concession to the non-horror audiences that director Breck Eisner hopes he will be drawing into theaters when the film opens this weekend. (Although technically speaking, the assailants in The Crazies are not full-fledged zombies but insane living persons, many audiences will be hard-pressed to tell the difference once they start oozing unhealthy looking fluids and shrieking with homicidal rage.)

A definite mainstream thriller that masquerades as a remake of a cult classic, The Crazies is remarkably effective as scary populist entertainment but may not make an impact with genre fanboys and girls.

Joe Anderson, Timothy Olyphant, Radha Mitchell and Danielle Panabaker

Timothy Olyphant (The Perfect Getaway) plays David Dutton, an Iowa sheriff who stumbles across a military cover-up after townspeople start to act unpredictable and violent towards one another. Enlisting his wife Judy (Radha Mitchell), a deputy named Russell (Joe Anderson) and Judy’s receptionist Becca (Danielle Panabaker), David escapes a military camp for the infected and heads out of town, hoping to get away from trigger-happy soldiers and ravenous, homicidal monsters alike, encountering both en route to supposed freedom.

Although Eisner claims to be a real genre fan, his first film was the more generously-budgeted Sahara, and it’s the crowd-pleaser in him that seems to steer this material away from its truly dark impulses towards something scary but more conventionally suspenseful. That actually isn’t a bad thing: set pieces play out more entertainingly by focusing on the characters’ emotions rather than their entrails, and the movie as a whole moves with an efficiency and fluidity that makes you enjoy even its most clichéd moments. Eisner’s ability to hone in on the immediate on screen threat and distract viewers from the real one is a gift, and even if all of the material isn’t up to the same level of sophistication, he makes most of it work, with a craftsman’s sense of style.

Unfortunately, Mitchell mismanages her character’s terror, and later, trauma, focusing the audience’s ire on her bad decisions (seriously? It doesn’t occur to her not to drink water after she determines it’s dangerous to do so?). But movies always need a good bad guy, that character we love to hate, and the movie is chock-full of ones that we can genuinely get behind, and get into being scared by their bad behavior, that her transgressions are relatively forgivable. Ultimately, The Crazies isn’t a masterpiece, but it seems bound for crossover success because it maintains a level of intensity and gore without grossing audiences out. All of which means that much like zombies themselves, it works better with less analysis or explanation, since all you want in a movie like this is to be scared, and in that capacity it does that just fine.

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

After spending almost two decades giving Kevin Smith the benefit of the doubt, it’s hard to refute the seemingly obvious truth that he just isn’t a good director. Not only is he not much of a visual stylist, he doesn’t have any flair for storytelling, and almost none of his films have any real dramatic momentum. That said, he occasionally has a gift for good dialogue, when he isn’t making mud pies out of poop jokes and pop culture references.

Bruce Willis and Director Kevin Smith

His new film, Cop Out, is not well made. It’s not well directed or written. It does, however, star Tracy Morgan, an actor whose on screen persona and off screen personality seem uncomfortably similar, which makes his manic, unpredictable behavior seem weird, and occasionally wonderful. Also, it features Bruce Willis, who’s done both good and bad cop roles so many times he could sleepwalk through another one, much like it looks like he’s doing here. But Smith’s latest is in fact his best in a while, because it abandons the pretense of personal vision in favor of superficial fun, paying homage to ‘80s buddy cop movies and every other kind of movie without being much of one itself. Which is fine, but the biggest point is to not look too closely, because what works about it is so much simpler than what people seem
to think doesn’t.

First of all, I have colleagues who actively hate this movie. Fair enough. But there are others who were confused by it, and that just confused me. After a recent press screening, they asked in earnest if Smith meant to make the score sound like a “bad ‘80s cop movie score” (their words, not mine). Okay, maybe they don’t know that Harold Faltermeyer is the guy who did the music for Fletch, Beverly Hills Cop and Top Gun among many other ‘80s movies. But honestly, has any movie Smith made before been deserving of any level of deeper introspection? Rife with subtext? No. We’re not talking about Paul Thomas Anderson here, whose Magnolia was lampooned in Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back. It should be safe to assume that Smith did indeed mean to make the film sound like an ‘80s cop movie. In my opinion, a good one.

Tracy Morgan and Bruce Willis in Cop Out

As for what it’s actually about, it has something to do with two doofus cops played by Morgan and Willis on the trail of a Mexican gang leader who got his hands on Willis’ character’s prized baseball card. Amazingly, the film wasn’t actually written by Smith, although you can bet that its myriad movie references were funneled into the scenes by the director’s indefatigable film knowledge. What wasn’t funneled into any part of the film, however, was energy. Even the slightest momentum to carry viewers from one scene to the next would have sufficed. Admittedly, I was in complete stitches during the scene where Tracy Morgan’s character discusses his bowel movements in minute detail while he and Willis are staking out a house, but part of what was funny was the fact that it just kept going – no breaks, no purpose, just pure Morgan madness.

Seann William Scott and Tracy Morgan

Although the very idea of Morgan repeatedly mispronouncing a character’s name manages to evoke laughter, not the least of which because it seems as likely that he actually couldn’t pronounce it as him doing so on purpose, he’s not the only bright spot in the film. Seann William Scott, a real charmer with a career that hasn’t done him a lot of favors since his Stifler days (although The Rundown is classic), manages to steal every scene in which he appears, and not just because he plays a thief. But Smith doesn’t seem to know what to do with the character, which is why when something weird happens to him towards the end of the movie, we’re not sure whether or not to laugh.

But then again, that’s Smith’s problem in general: he comes up with good characters, and occasionally, interesting scenarios, but doesn’t know what to do with them, and especially can’t tie them together. All of which makes Cop Out a successful movie, even if it isn’t a good one: because it’s superficial, it satisfies the demands of being entertaining, and doesn’t bother with the business of emotional depth or even particularly effective storytelling. Plus, he picked Harold Faltermeyer for his score, and anyone who can convince a studio to let them hire a guy whose last recognizable credit was Tango & Cash deserves the benefit of the doubt for at least a little bit longer.

Rating: 2.5 out of 5 stars

“Forget about it, Jake, it’s the CIA.” Perhaps needless to say, this isn’t actually a line from The Ghost Writer, but Roman Polanski’s latest film shares much in common with his 1974 masterpiece Chinatown, not the least of which being a resignation to the larger, impenetrable machinations of a system that was in place long before its main character tried to pull back the curtain on it. A grown-up mystery that reminds audiences why Polanksi is a filmmaker whose professional profile deserves to stay in the spotlight, The Ghost Writer is a creepy, captivating thriller and the year’s first great movie.

Roman Ploanski and Pierce Brosnan film Ghost Writer

Ewan McGregor plays a ghost writer who discovers some disturbing secrets when he’s hired to rework the memoirs of disgraced former British Prime Minister Adam Lang (Pierce Brosnan). Despite professing zero interest in politics, The Ghost begins to question this faustian pact, first when Lang gets indicted by the World Court for alleged crimes against humanity, and then when a relationship develops between himself and Lang’s wife Ruth (Olivia Williams). As Lang attempts to protect his public image, The Ghost continues to investigate his personal background, eventually uncovering information that not only makes him part of the story he’s supposed to be telling, but puts his very life at risk.

There are a number of parallels in Lang’s story that any follower of Polanski’s personal life will probably recognize, not the least of which being the deterioration of his public image, and his hand-wringing over whether or not to face trial or flee to neutral territory. But suffice it to say that the director isn’t deconstructing his own life, but crafting a thoughtful, mature thriller that examines all of the real-world implications of its subject matter even as it chronicles the made-up (if likely equally real) mysteries of behind-closed-doors deals between governing bodies and the organizations that broker them. Meanwhile, Robert Harris’ adaptation of his own novel both exploits and subverts expectations that come with an exploration of this world, showing how even a seasoned purveyor of narrative conventions succumbs to obvious storytelling twists and turns despite appearing to be fully aware of them.

Ewan McGregor in Ghost Writer

Further, Polanski shoots the film with glorious, clear-eyed style, thanks to classical set-ups and the dexterous cinematography of Pawel Edelman (The Pianist), updating the style but preserving the substance of his earlier movies, not to mention those of ‘70s compatriots like Alan J. Pakula or Sydney Pollack. The Ghost Writer feels like a classic even though it’s thoroughly modern; a plot point even revolves around an automobile’s turn-by-turn GPS, for goodness’ sake. But it’s Polanski’s mastery of form and technique, along with his sophistication as a storyteller, and especially, his respect for the audience, that makes his latest so memorable, even if his ultimate point is a sad one – namely, that sometimes forgetting the truth is the best way to stay safe.

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars 4 Stars out of 5

Martin Scorsese is the filmmaker who maybe more than any in the medium’s history brought cinephilia to the mainstream, and it’s this enormous legacy of inspiration, influence, and cinematic subtext that he has embedded in his body of work which makes Shutter Island so hard to talk about. Superficially about a U.S. Marshal investigating the disappearance of an inmate at a high-security mental facility, Scorsese’s latest allows him to check off another genre on his list of conquests – a proper mystery, not to mention by way of film noir. But as always, the director integrates more themes, ideas and points of reference into his films than most moviegoers will ever be aware of, and this one seems particularly rich with the subtext of many, many other movies and moviemakers.

Martin Scorsese directs Ben Kingsley, Leonardo DiCaprio and Mark Ruffala in Shutter Island

The reason for this, it seems, may have something to do with the fact that Scorsese crossed the last measurable threshold in an already distinguished career four years ago when he won an Oscar for Best Director for The Departed. As good as were the two films he made before that, Gangs of New York and The Aviator, they also seemed primarily (if not expressly) designed to win awards, and as a result felt more constricted and mathematical. In which case, Shutter Island feels like a return to form for Scorsese the unapologetic visionary, full of affection and grandiosity as a byproduct of passion, not awards prognostication; it’s a film of vast creativity and intelligence, and most of all, complete freedom, and it triumphs because it reminds audiences what these kinds of movies were, specifically by fully celebrating the possibilities of what they can become.

Leonardo DiCaprio and Michelle Williams in Shutter Island

Leonardo DiCaprio plays Teddy Daniels, a U.S. Marshal assigned to investigate the disappearance of a female patient named Rachel (Emily Mortimer) at a maximum-security facility for the criminally insane. With his new partner Chuck (Mark Ruffalo) in tow, Teddy interviews inmates and parses through the meager details given to him by Dr. Cawley (Ben Kingsley), soon uncovering greater mysteries to solve than Rachel’s wherabouts. As a raging storm descends upon Shutter Island, Cawley and his colleagues persist with their seeming deception, and Daniels finds himself on the run and forced to take dramatic steps to uncover the secrets of Shutter Island, eventually realizing that the cost of learning the truth may be his very sanity.

Devoting more than a paragraph to the film’s plot would do a disservice to its many surprises, but suffice it to say that Scorsese is not content to merely pay homage to the movies that mystified him as a kid. Shutter Island’s surface story is quickly shattered not only by Daniels’ descriptions of his past, but a series of dreams and flashbacks that show Scorsese at his most inventive: the lawman finds himself engaged in conversations with his deceased wife, and relives her death in ways both literal and metaphorical via set pieces that surpass the substantive layers (much less the spectacle) of so-called dream logic. Further, the Jacob’s Ladder of truths, revelations, and realities carries actual emotional weight: As one discovery gives way to another, Daniels’ own self-reflection becomes more intimate, engaging, and powerful because our own beliefs and theories are challenged along with his.

DiCaprio continues to prove himself an intense and sophisticated actor, and his turn as Daniels further enhances his own, growing legend; there’s a desperation, an anger in his eyes that seems unquenchable, and it conveys the character’s indefatigable determination before he speaks a word, or maybe more accurately, asks a question. Ruffalo, meanwhile, exudes the same low-key authenticity he demonstrated in David Fincher’s Zodiac, successfully exorcising memories of the actor’s days of indentured servitude on the rom-com circuit. And Kingsley similarly repairs years of lackluster efforts in films undeserving of his time and talent playing Cawley as a perfect balance of benevolence and intimidation, earning the distruct of the audience without coming across as a moustache-twirling villain.

The rest of the performers all seem equally jazzed in their roles; perhaps they were invigorated by the prospect of working with a director who feels liberated from the responsibility of more conventional mainstream respectability. As Daniels’ confidante and long-suffering wife Dolores, Michelle Williams immediately seems to lead his common sense astray even as she engenders sympathy from the audience; Max Von Sydow, on the other hand, communicates simplicity and honesty even when his relentless diagnoses are their most incisive or suspicious. In fact, there isn’t a bad performance in the film, and Scorsese gives each contributor at least one scene to flex his or her own muscles and bring their part of the puzzle to life, creating a dazzling tapestry of stories where there can only be one actual truth.

As passionate as Scorsese obviously is about his subject matter, Shutter Island feels like a lesser work in his filmography – a Cape Fear or After Hours – style excursion that satisfies his own personal interests, foregoes perceived or actual artistic significance, and wanders around in a world he hasn’t yet examined or explored. But in that sense, the film connects him more strongly to the forebears who first inspired him than any he’s made in the last decade, if not longer; the mainstream and genre filmmakers alike that thrilled Scorsese as an adolescent weren’t necessarily trying to create capital – A art, but did so anyway because of virtuoso execution and the complete integration of substantive influences and ideas into their potboiler plots and lurid landscapes.

Martin Scorsese directing Shutter Island

As such, his latest doesn’t seem destined to earn a place among top-tier Scorsese movies, but it does qualify as an essential work, because better than even his biggest triumphs, it demonstrates how craftsmanship can create art, which is an idea that the director has championed from his earliest days, whether he was aware of it or not. This is the Scorsese that made Boxcar Bertha and injected it with symbolism and visual poetry while satisfying Roger Corman’s pulpy, prurient demands at the same time. With Shutter Island, he’s put together a not only serviceable but superlative psychological thriller, loaded it with visual cues, conceptual references and personal flourishes, and foregone the prospect of making something important, ultimately succeeding in creating something genuinely significant instead.

Rating: 4 out of 5 stars 4 Stars out of 5

Alexandra Daddario, Logan Lerman and Brandon Jackson in Percy Jackson & The Lightning Thief

The film starts off annoying as hell and manages to get boring as hell from there, which qualifies as a modest triumph but dubious praise at best: abandoned by his father Poseidon (Kevin McKidd), Percy and his mother live under the quasi-abusive thumb of a Muggle – excuse me, alcoholic named Gabe Ugliano (Joe Pantoliano). Alienated from most of his classmates because of ADD, Percy pals around with Grover (Brandon T. Jackson) until he discovers that he is the son of a god – and unfortunately, one that can’t protect him from folks who believe he has stolen Zeus’ lightning bolt. Fleeing to the safety of Camp Half-Blood (come on! Are you serious?), he learns that he’s a minor celebrity, but realizes he has much to learn when he decides to strike out on his own, find the lightning bolt, and return it before the world of gods comes crashing down on that of mankind.

Perhaps more problematic than ripping off the Potter audience with a cheap (okay, expensive) knockoff of its visual and thematic hallmarks is the way that the film softens the edges of a mythology which, all other things being equal, could truly make for a twisted kid movie series. At one point, Percy’s mom is supposedly killed, but not only does he basically not react at all – a lazy and irresponsible choice given that the crux of the movie is his desperate quest to find his absentee father – the film never, ever uses the word “killed” or even “dead.” She’s just “gone.” Later, when Percy and his cohorts literally end up in Hell, there’s fire and brimstone aplenty, but none of its true horrors are on display, making the worst place imaginable seem about as scary as Disney’s Haunted Mansion.

Uma Thurman and Logan Lerman in Percy Jackson & The Lightning Thief

Mind you, I didn’t expect that the film would be some pitch-black universe of petty deities screwing mortals on screen or using their powers in casually malevolent ways. But none of the monsters in the film, including Medusa (Uma Thurman, channeling Gloria Swanson by way of Poison Ivy), the hydra, and the minotaur, feel remotely threatening, and the ultimate villain (whose identity I won’t spoil) is just about the most underwhelming, petty and pointless adversary in any major event movie in years.

That said, I recognize that it wasn’t necessarily the moviemakers, but the original writer, Rick Riordan, who is cribbing liberally from the Potter playbook. But like last year’s lackluster Cirque du Freak, this feels like another desperate attempt to capitalize on kid and adolescent fanboys’ utter lack of discrimination when it comes to fantasy stories. In which case I feel compelled just on principle to recommend that no one patronize this boring, personality-free garbage, and demand something original, or at least interesting.

Because Percy Jackson & The Olympians might as well be one of those mash-up videos on Youtube where somebody digitally replaces a movie star’s head with their own – in this case, Daniel Radcliffe’s with Logan Lerman’s. If you like the Greek god aspect, read some books an actual mythology; if you like alienated, “special” kids going off to fantasy schools (here called “camps”) to learn how to use their special powers, read Potter books. But there’s not one thing except for money that justifies this story’s existence, much less this movie’s, and there’s no reason I can see to support it by giving away more of your own.

Rating: 2 out of 5 stars 2 out of 5 Stars