Now, “Iron Man II” has exploded onto our screens, and, in the hands of returning director Jon Favreau, it’s still got all the depth of a curbside puddle, all the razzmatazz of the comic book.

Unfortunately, it’s also got a couple of disappointing villains, some truly cringe-worthy scenes, and the kind of lame repartee between Tony Stark (aka Iron Man) and his pals that’s supposed to sound witty, but instead comes across as just a whole lot of improvised filler.

In other words, unlike the Armored Avenger’s remarkably accurate laser blasts, it misses the mark by a mile.

Reprising his role as Stark, Robert Downey Jr. is, once again, the master of the underplayed moment, the throwaway line, the lightning-fast quip. He’s still fun to watch, although–as usual–it’s when he’s zooming around in the old red-and-gold that the movie really (and literally) takes off.

Acclaimed film vet Don Cheadle is Colonel Jim Rhodes, Tony’s best friend and confidant who eventually dons a second suit of armor and joins Tony as the aptly-named, weapons-laden War Machine. Cheadle does his best, but it’s hard to watch him play second banana here and not believe he’s merely slumming. (It could be argued that Downey is, too, and has been since the first installment, but at least he gets to play the lead.)

If anyone is truly slumming, though, it’s Mickey Rourke as Russian-physicist-turned-Stark-nemesis Ivan Vanko, aka Whiplash. Obsessed with killing Stark after the death of his father (whom he is convinced Stark’s own father destroyed) he builds a suit to rival Tony’s and goes after him with a vengeance. Unfortunately, fresh off his turn in “The Wrestler”, this time around Rourke is all puffy face, corny Boris Badanov accent, and mysterious lopsided smile. He hasn’t much to do here, and even less to say; indeed, we see so little of him after awhile that he might as well have been written out of the script altogether.

Faring even worse is Sam Rockwell as Stark’s business rival and eventual Whiplash booster Justin Hammer, an arrogant, fast-talking little twerp who made us wish that Steve Buscemi had been offered the role…and accepted it. Buscemi, at least, would have given the character just the right amount of crazed malevolence. Rockwell merely comes across as a spoiled brat with a Napoleonic complex who thinks he has all the power in the world because he’s managed to bully a few kids out of their lunch money. In the first movie, uber-villain Jeff Bridges had an aura of menace about him, a gravitas; Hammer is the kind of smarmy bad guy you just want to slap all the way back to his limo.

Gwyneth Paltrow does what she can as Tony’s assistant–and, early on, hand-picked successor–Pepper Potts; Scarlett Johansson has little to do but look beautiful–and then, super-tough–as Tony’s new assistant, who eventually turns out to have as many kick-ass moves as…well, that foul-mouthed little girl from “Kick-Ass”; and director Favreau even injects himself into the action occasionally as Tony’s obedient chauffeur, Happy Hogan.

Tony, every inch the rock star and media darling, turns a Senate hearing on weapons-making into his own personal circus (if anyone in real life behaved that way, they would have locked him up and thrown away the key)…in full battle regalia, he gets drunk at a party (his “secret identity” is actually no secret, at all) and Rhodes, as War Machine, has to step in and save him…SHIELD head honcho Nick Fury (an underutilized Samuel L. Jackson) actually meets with Tony at a donut shop, of all places…the silliness just never ends.

Bottom line: Who would have thought this once-promising franchise would be showing signs of rust so soon?

FILM REVIEW by Stuart R. Brynien

For most of the movie–even as he’s trying to shake off the effects of these horrifying, mind-bending episodes–he’s also trying to solve the mystery: What DID happen to the woman? How could she have wandered off, past all the doctors and attendants and guards? And why do the doctors in charge of the place (ably played by Ben Kingsley and Max von Sydow) appear to be so intent on stonewalling him?

Ah, if only the answers didn’t turn out to be so predictable (we’ll leave it at that–there’ll be no spoilers here); and if only Scorcese didn’t take so long (in excess of two hours) to reveal them. The whole thing looked a tad too artsy as well, with one dream sequence featuring black ash falling on DiCaprio and his doomed wife like coal-colored confetti, and another treating us to the incongruous sight of reams of paper swirling about a doctor’s office like hundreds of frightened birds. DiCaprio is fine as an Everyman at the end of a very short and very frayed rope–and, in a much smaller role, Mark Ruffalo does yeoman-like work as his partner…but “Shutter Island” isn’t DiCaprio’s movie, or Ruffalo’s, or Kingsley’s or von Sydow’s–it’s Scorcese’s, from first overloaded frame to the last.

But is the movie scary, at least? Well, let’s put it this way: when a film is set in a looney bin, and the scares are as scarce and the jolts as infrequent as they are here, then there’s something wrong. Scorcese had a chance to make a truly frightening picture, and settled for a mostly engrossing, but ultimately plodding and disappointing one, instead.

Bottom line: visit “Shutter Island” if you like–just don’t expect to lose any sleep over it.

The stuff of nightmares it’s not.

FILM REVIEW by Stuart R. Brynien

So–was the 82nd annual Academy Awards twice as good?

Well…no.

Neil Patrick Harris got the show off to an appropriately rousing start with his opening number (somebody has GOT to write this Broadway vet a musical of his own!)…the hosts–Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin–looked awkward in their stiff tuxes and impeccably-knotted bowties but were, on the whole, pretty funny…and deep-sixing the Best Song nominees was a great idea–and a timesaver, too.

But (despite that)–oh, the length! We know that everyone and his brother-in-law wants to buy ad time on the Oscars, but did they have to go to commercial every few minutes, especially early in the show? If the telecast had been much longer, it would have been competing against the kitchen magician spots that are on at 3 A.M. (OK, so that’s a bit of an exaggeration.) And speaking of the length (three-and-a-half hours, and that’s with Tom Hanks rushing through the Best Picture presentation at the end–had he been told not to announce the ten nominees, or did he just plain forget?), why did the producers cut off a lot of the acceptance speeches (as usual), only to then “treat” us to that mega-dance number in the second half? Don’t know about you, but we’d rather have listened to what all the winners had to say than watch a Broadway-style dance spectacular. And the Best Actor/Best Actress “introductions”–they were certainly well-intentioned, but as close as we were to the finish line, wouldn’t the show have been better off if they’d just kept things moving?

And where were the surprises? Yes, we remember the “Kanye West” moment–how could we forget?–but that was just about the most exciting thing to happen all night. Except for the final award–the Best Picture nod going not to “Avatar” but to the much less expensive (and, we think, much better) “The Hurt Locker”–everything seemed to run pretty true to form. Even Kathryn Bigelow’s win for directing “The Hurt Locker”–the first win by a female director in Oscar history–seemed somehow pre-ordained. (We would have given it to Tarantino.)

The speeches–that is, what little of them we could hear before the orchestra started playing–were, for the most part, a tad lame as well. Sandra Bullock’s was fun (and even moving), and the thank-yous delivered by Geoffrey Fletcher (who won Best Adapted Screenplay for “Precious”), and Mark Boal (Best Original Screenplay for “The Hurt Locker”) were memorable, but for the better part of the evening, most of the winners behaved as if they’d been told to keep their comments not only brief, but bland.

As for the gowns, among the better ones (in our uneducated opinion) was Tina Fey’s: black, simple, and elegant. On the other hand, teen queen Miley Cyrus looked awfully frumpy in her off-the-shoulder job, and Charlize Theron looked a bit too flora-riffic with those flowers sewn, chest-high, onto the gown she was parading around in. The men, as usual, all wore tuxedoes, and exactly the same kind, to boot; couldn’t anyone have worn a gray pinstripe, or tails, or dispensed with the tux look altogether? Only Sean Penn, who came out late in a skinny tie and jacket, and looked like he HADN’T shopped at the same tuxedo joint as everyone else, dared to be different. Go, Sean!

But the night was, as always, about honoring cinema’s best, and some of the winners (most, in fact) were truly deserving. Christoph Waltz notched his expected win in the Best Supporting Actor category for “Inglourious Basterds”…”Up” won Best Animated Film in what was probably a runaway…Mo’Nique (a personal favorite) won a richly-deserved Oscar for her terrifying turn in “Precious”…Jeff Bridges (hardly a surprise) nailed Best Actor for “Crazy Heart”…Sandra Bullock won, predictably, for “The Blind Side” (we would have voted for the far grittier, far riskier performance turned in by the amazing Gabourey Sidibe in “Precious”, but what the heck)…and, of course, at the very end, “The Hurt Locker” and Bigelow won, well…big-time.

“Avatar”? It ended up getting dwarfed–despite its size and budget–by a suspenseful little movie about the war in Iraq, directed by James Cameron’s ex-wife, no less.

So, ultimately, despite all the telecast’s flaws–and there were many–we can’t complain.

In a world briefly held hostage by blue-skinned Pandorans and ten-foot-tall avatars–justice was served, after all.

FILM REVIEWS by Stuart R. Brynien

And that, more than anything else, is the problem with the film. The Coen brothers lay on the tsuris, or woe, with a trowel. Michael Stuhlbarg as the bewildered and bespectacled Larry is excellent, but we were left wondering where the brothers’ funny bone went; it certainly wasn’t on display here–at least, not nearly often enough.

FILM REVIEW: “INVICTUS”

Morgan Freeman–who has played everything from chauffeurs to presidents, deities to cons–tackles the role of Nelson Mandela in Clint Eastwood’s latest, the docu-drama-slash-sports movie, “Invictus”.

As the film opens, Mandela has just been released from prison; a scene or two later, already the President of South Africa, he is formulating plans for uniting his racially-divided nation. One idea: to rally the people, black and white, around the fortunes of the South African rugby team, which he is convinced can compete for the championship in the upcoming World Cup tournament.

The captain of the team, ably played by a stocky and square-jawed Matt Damon, becomes his liaison and, even more importantly, his friend. Freeman and Damon turn in solid, if risk-free, performances; Freeman in particular neatly captures the revered statesman’s regal bearing and twinkly-eyed, grandfatherly warmth. Indeed, his accent alone may be worth an Oscar. (For the record, Freeman has been nominated for Best Actor, and Damon for Best Supporting Actor.)

When the big game arrives–with, of course, the South African team in it–Damon’s men find themselves squaring off for all the glory against a squad of snarling New Zealanders, and the final part of the film focuses exclusively on the contest itself. Inside the stadium, a raucous crowd whoops and hollers as the two sides march up and down the field; outside, an entire nation–black and white–has turned on its televisions and tuned in its radios. Life in South Africa has screeched to a halt as every single citizen, it seems, watches, or listens to, the action. Mandela, of course, was right; the championship match, with its tight score and fevered play, has united his people as nothing ever had before.

Unfortunately, Eastwood sticks so closely to the actual events (the screenplay is based on fact) that “Invictus”, rather than stirring the blood, comes across as scarcely more than a dry, plodding account of a battered nation’s recovery from apartheid. Even the rugby game, beautifully re-enacted with a you-are-there immediacy, failed to excite us much.

If only Eastwood had allowed the story to breathe a little, had permitted his stars to bust out a bit rather than remain tethered to the demands of history, maybe then the film would have seemed not only “important” but also–dare we say it–fun.

FILM REVIEWS by Stuart R. Brynien

In Kathryn Bigelow’s wartime thriller, “The Hurt Locker”, that’s a scene that plays itself out repeatedly. We watch the agonizing minutiae of bomb disarmament over and over again–the search for wires, the hunt for timing devices–and thanks to Bigelow’s eye for detail, we feel we are practically in the line of fire ourselves.

The team is led by Staff Sergeant William James, an adrenaline junkie who is variously referred to in the movie as a “wild man”, a “cowboy”, and–well–just plain reckless. The fact is, he is all of those things, although James himself would probably claim that he is simply doing his job; indeed, when–late in the film–his second-in-command, Sgt. Sanborn, asks him why he does what he does, James can barely answer. He’s a daredevil, alright, but he can’t quite articulate why. What drives him? What compels him to tackle bomb after bomb, even when his men are screaming at him that the “kill zone” he has entered is too dangerous? He doesn’t know. Very likely, he doesn’t even care. When Sanborn questions him about it, he confesses that he has never even given it much thought–and, based on what we know of his personality, we believe him completely.

James is played by Jeremy Renner, who is never anything less than utterly believable. Equally as effective are Anthony Mackie as Sanborn, his sounding board, who begins the film by calling the sergeant a piece of “white trash”–Sanborn is black–but, like any loyal soldier, has his boss’ back all the way; and Brian Geraghty as their troubled young teammate, Spc. Owen Eldridge. In fact, the acting throughout the film is excellent, right down to all the Arab characters, a few of whom prove to be just as deadly as the explosives themselves.

But it’s the look and sound of the film, with its dirty, sun-baked streets, long, suspenseful silences, loud, piercing machine gun fire and sudden explosions, that we came away remembering. It’s a macho world that these men live in, and Bigelow–aided by her screenwriter, Mark Boal–captures it perfectly.

That Bigelow, who has helmed her share of action flicks, was able to craft such a thrilling movie is no surprise; that she was able to put together such a raw and honest war movie is a revelation.

Don’t miss it.

FILM REVIEWS by Stuart R. Brynien

Yes, the Academy Awards are almost upon us again, and this time–in one category at least–there is more to choose from than ever. The powers-that-be have decided that this year (and depending on how it goes, possibly for many years to come), there won’t be only five nominees for Best Picture but (count ‘em) ten. That’s right: ten.They had to spread the pickin’s a bit thin to come up with that many–and at least one of the movies has no business even being on the list–but hey, at least it gives us critics something to write about.

Here are the five nominated films we think are MOST deserving of an Oscar this year, starting at the top:

“Precious”
The first nominated film we saw, and still our favorite. No other contender packed the emotional wallop of this down-and-dirty tale of an overweight, inarticulate black teen and her abusive mother. Beautifully played by a cast of performers not exactly known for their acting chops, this was a gut-wrencher from start to finish.

“Inglourious Basterds”
More Nazi-as-buffoon revisionist history (although they were clearly very DANGEROUS buffoons) in film auteur Quentin Tarantino’s brutally violent, yet expertly directed tale of gun-toting Jews in occupied France. Thanks to Mr. T’s remarkable craftsmanship and ability to coax impeccable performances out of an international cast, “Basterds” ranks as one of the most satisfying motion picture experiences of the year.

“The Hurt Locker”
Bombs, bullets, and brazen enemy snipers fill the sun-baked landscape in this taut wartime thriller about the suicidal members of an elite American bomb squad and their daily struggle to survive. Kathryn Bigelow directed it, Jeremy Renner starred. A spellbinder.

“Up in the Air”
George Clooney as a professional corporate hatchet man at the crossroads of his life. Should he go on jetting from city to city firing innocent rank-and-filers from their downsizing companies–or hand in his own resignation, kick his feet up, and settle down? With Vera Farmiga as the woman who awakens him to life’s possibilities, and Anna Kendrick as his apple-cheeked young protégé. Jason Reitman directed it all with skill and intelligence. A quiet movie, and a good one.

“District 9″
The fifth spot on our list goes to this aliens-vs.-earthlings sci-fi’er about a race of extraterrestrials who have landed in Johannesburg, South Africa only to be crowded into a shantytown ghetto while the government tries to decide what to do with them Undeniably political but also breathlessly exciting–and featuring some of the most believable CGI-generated space creatures ever seen on film–this was, truly, a visual feast.

HONORABLE MENTION:
“Up”
The cream of this year’s cartoon crop, this touching, fanciful story of a lonely old man and his balloon-powered journey to the other side of the world probably would not have been a Best Picture finalist in the past–and a win in the animated category might be all it can hope for–but make no mistake: it’s a charmer.

MOST OVERRATED NOMINEE:
“Avatar”
Yes, the images were spectacular. Yes, the Pandorans looked real. Sure, the climactic battle scene was a nail-biter. But thanks to the skimpy backstory, corny dialogue, and nondescript acting, King James’ gazillion dollar 3D extravaganza turned out to be little more than a bloated graphic novel come to life. A shame.

MOST UNDESERVING NOMINEE:
“The Blind Side”
Sandra Bullock is earning lots of kudos for her work in this film about an upper-middle-class Southern mom and the unschooled young black football player she takes under her wing, but the script is so hackneyed, the “twists” so predictable, that we were left wondering how much better Bullock would have been if only the movie itself had been done with more care. In past years, “The Blind Side” wouldn’t have come within sniffing distance of Best Picture. But this time around, thanks to the Academy’s “the more, the merrier” philosophy, here it is–sharing the spotlight with a number of movies that truly deserve the honor. How unjust is that?

AND, A FEW FINAL COMMENTS…
A loud cheer for Mo’Nique and Gabourey Sidibe, the mother and daughter in “Precious”. Mo’Nique should win for Best Supporting Actress, and probably will. Sidibe deserves to win for Best Actress, but probably won’t. No matter what happens, though, kudos to them both–they turned in extraordinary performances.

And, in perhaps the closest race of them all–the Best Director race–we think Quentin Tarantino (“Inglourious Basterds”) earns the nod, just barely, over Kathryn Bigelow (“The Hurt Locker”) and Lee Daniels (“Precious”).

Watching “Basterds” was like going to film school–with a popcorn and soda in your lap!

FILM REVIEWS by Stuart R. Brynien

Brad Pitt stars at Lt. Aldo Raine, the Southern-fried, smart-alecky leader of a group of heavily-armed, vengeance-seeking Jews who dart from place to place during World War II ridding Europe of Nazis. They ambush them on lonely country roads, capture a few here and there and try to scare them into revealing German military secrets, and usually, in the end–as per Raine’s directive–kill them and scalp them, adding the tops of their skulls to their wartime memorabilia “collection”. (Sound horrifying? Wait till you see it.) Those they allow to go free–and we see them release a couple of prisoners over the course of the movie–they “brand” as Nazis forever, so that everyone who looks at them will know instantly who they were and what they stood for, even when they’re out of uniform. (Be prepared: the “branding” scenes are equally as cringe-inducing.)

Believe it or not (despite the fact that they make Jack Bauer from TV’s “24″ look like Mother Teresa) Pitt and his crew of angry, bloodthirsty “basterds” are the good guys. After them there are the bad guys (handsome young enlistees from the Nazi rank-and-file), and the REALLY bad guys (Hitler, Goebbels etc.). Then there’s the complicated plot, which revolves around a Parisian movie house called upon to premiere a tasty bit of Nazi propaganda that Goebbels is convinced will put the German film industry on the map. Everyone will be there, including the Fuhrer himself, and before you can say KA-BOOM! plans are set in motion to blow the joint up with the Nazi high command trapped inside. (Two plans, actually, with neither side aware of what the other is doing.) The ending of the film–when the dynamite hits the fan, so to speak–is pure, jaw-dropping spectacle.

Pitt is very good: funny, charming, yet as dangerous as they come and always–always–all business; Austrian newcomer Christoph Waltz is brilliant as the oily SS Jew-hunter Colonel Hans Landa; and French actress Melanie Laurent is breathtakingly beautiful and heartbreakingly real as Shosanna, the proprietor of the theatre, a woman with as deep a grudge against France’s Nazi oppressors (and Landa himself) as anyone. (In nearly every scene, her large, expressive eyes are the eyes of a trapped and wounded animal, which, for most of the film, she is.)

But the real star of the movie is Tarantino himself. As the director, he allows every scene to unfold
at its own pace; nothing is rushed. Characters are permitted to talk to each other, probe each other, until the suspense has built to such a crescendo that you can hardly bear to watch them, anymore. The camera circles this way, and that; it gives us low-angle shots and high-angle shots; it zooms in for intense close-ups, and pulls out again; and occasionally, during one of the film’s heart-stopping pauses, it simply draws back and watches. The result: one of the most tension-filled films of the year.

Of course, because it’s a Tarantino film, there’s also the usual helping of gore, gunplay, and Mexican stand-offs. And, yes–occasionally, you might find yourself cringing and chuckling at the same time; there’s comedy amid the carnage, too.

Bottom line: go see “Inglourious Basterds”. It might just be the best picture of the year.

FILM REVIEWS by Stuart R. Brynien

Kudos to the actors, some of whom are almost unrecognizable. As the lazy, foul-mouthed mother from hell, stand-up comic and talk show host Mo’Nique is wincingly believable; in a decidedly unglamorous role, Mariah Carey, as a welfare worker, exhibits absolutely no trace of her sultry songstress persona; “View” regular Sherri Shepherd, also sans wig or make-up, does a fine, low-key job as the jaded desk jockey who works at an alternative school for kids; and even rocker Lenny Kravitz pops up, minus back-up band and guitar god attitude, to offer his support as a quietly compassionate male nurse. That director Lee Daniels saw fit to take a chance on these performers speaks volumes about how willing he was to go out on a limb; that each of them did so well — sometimes spectacularly so — is practically a miracle (and says a lot about how Daniels, clearly no slouch in the directing department, can coax powerhouse performances out of even the most inexperienced actors).

And then, of course, there’s the lead, Gabourey Sidibe, as the grossly overweight and minimally expressive Harlem teen, Claireece Precious Jones. Glum-faced and dour, all downturned mouth, slitted eyes and slurred words, Sidibe’s performance is at the heart of the movie; she’s in virtually every scene. You want to cry for her at some moments and root for her at others — cheer her on in her endless battle against her abusive mother, sniggering classmates, and cold-hearted neighborhood bullies so that eventually she might, just might, come out on top. You want her to overcome her illiteracy, escape the living hell her life has become, and understand that she has options — she doesn’t have to remain at the beck-and-call of her cigarette-smoking, TV-watching, welfare cheat mother. She can actually flee the dark, depressing confines of her apartment and forge a life for herself. And, in those rare moments when something actually makes her smile — some modest success at school, the innocent face of a newborn baby — we smile right along with her. (The script, the direction, Sidibe’s acting: all of them combine to make the character of Precious a model of consistency; never does she strike a false note, deliver a jarring line reading. She establishes a persona, and sticks to it like gum. It’s one of the most controlled motion picture performances of the year.)

The plot is simple: Claireece, or Precious — trapped in a verbally and sometimes even physically abusive relationship with her mother (they have a throwdown near the end of the film that will have you reaching for your cellphone to call the cops), and impregnated for the second time by her father– lives the kind of rich, brightly-lit fantasy life that lonely girls indulge in all over… the ‘burbs, the ‘hood, everywhere. Only when she is forced to enroll in an alt-education class, and meets her new teacher — who becomes the first adult to genuinely show her love — does she begin to break out of her shell, and even then only one tiny crack at a time. Healing is a slow process, the film seems to be saying; breaking free of your shackles isn’t something you do overnight. You have to work at it. The question is, will Precious break free–or is she doomed to remain shackled for the rest of her life?

“Precious” is no Disney film, no laughfest. It is as bleak, as uncomfortably voyeuristic a look at urban and familial decay as you’ll ever see. But — as long as you’ve got a few Kleenex on hand, and are prepared to hang in there for the long haul — it works… beautifully.

FILM REVIEWS by Stuart R. Brynien

But it’s also a powerful, heartbreaking, and–ultimately–uplifting film.

Viggo Mortensen and Kodi Smit-McPhee play a father and son who, as the movie begins, are in the middle of a long, lonely trek across a scarred, post-apocalyptic landscape. Along the way, they meet a ragtag assortment of similarly bedraggled wanderers, some of whom may be cannibals eager to eat their flesh (apparently, cannibalism runs rampant in this bleak and arid world, although–thank heavens–we never actually get to see any of it). Most of them, however, are merely thieves eager to steal the pair’s modest belongings, including their food. According to Mortensen’s voice-over narration, they have been drifting about for years; the land around them is turning grayer, the days and nights colder, and the two of them–man and boy–weaker. Mortensen’s sole responsibility is to keep them alive by whatever means necessary. (That’s why he carries a gun.) It’s a tall order, a nearly impossible task, and the burden of that awesome responsibility is etched deep in the planes of his face.

Everything in the film is gray (kudos to cinematographer Javier Aguirresarobe–and, of course, director John Hillcoat–for not only creating such a singularly nightmarish vision, but sustaining it). The faces are gray–including that of a desperate, half-blind old man superbly played by a nearly unrecognizable Robert Duvall; the land is gray, as though buried under countless tons of volcanic ash; the sky is gray. Even the ocean, when they finally reach it–and which the boy had been hoping would be a sparkling blue–turns out to be a whitish gray. (All that was missing: the mountains of dead fish that should have been floating on top.)

Nothing–and no one–is ever identified, either. The man and boy are never named; the country they are trekking through might be America (an easy assumption) or, then again, might not; the ocean they arrive at could be the Atlantic or the Pacific or any other; and even the cause of the destruction is never fully explained. (Mortensen briefly mentions, early on, a “sheer white light” and a “series of concussions”. Clearly, then, it must have been a bomb. But dropped by whom? And why? And when does all of this take place, anyway? Today? Tomorrow? We can only guess.)

Mortensen–always a versatile actor–is excellent, whether half-hidden beneath layers of grime and stringy hair or, following a much-needed bath late in the film, clear-eyed, fresh-scrubbed and clean; Smit-McPhee is a revelation; Duvall, as noted, might find himself nominated for one of those single-scene supporting actor Oscars that the Academy doles out occasionally; and Charlize Theron, also barely recognizable, is a potent mix of fear and steel-jawed determination as Mortensen’s wife who–as we see is flashback–eventually strikes out on her own and leaves her husband and son to fend for themselves. They’re essentially one-note performances, to be sure–everyone is suffering to one degree or another nearly every step of the way–but that doesn’t make them any less riveting.

At its core, of course, this is a tale of survival against almost insurmountable odds, but–more than that–it is also the story of a father’s love for his son. And, thanks to Hillcoat’s sure-handed direction, the film presents an interesting paradox, too: though it moves along at a glacial pace, it never feels sluggish, or boring; we are never left feeling that Hillcoat has bogged the action down with self-indulgent directorial flourishes.

Bottom line: find this Road, and follow it to the end. It’s a harrowing journey, but one you won’t soon forget.

FILM REVIEWS by Stuart R. Brynien

We wish we could…but we can’t. It was, regrettably, as soft around the edges as we thought it would be.

Sandra Bullock stars as Leigh Anne Tuohy, a Memphis mom leading a life of privilege who, while riding around one day in the family SUV, comes across “Big Mike” Oher shambling along in his oversized polo shirt and baggy shorts. Big Mike is a tall, oafish black kid whose guardian has just cajoled the nearby high school’s football coach into letting him try out for the team. The catch: the kid’s reading and writing skills are so poor, he might not be allowed to.

Cue the standard movie-of-the-week montage: before you can say “do-gooder”, Leigh Anne is reading children’s books to Big Mike (or Michael, as he prefers to be called); she’s welcoming him into her family, and later adopting him, thereby officially making him one of her own; and her little boy, S. J., is putting his brand-new big brother through a grueling daily exercise regimen to help make him the best athlete he can be. (As much a gridiron fan as his dad or Leigh Anne herself, he even outlines plays for him on the kitchen table using whatever odds and ends he can find, reminding us of one of those old-fashioned tabletop football games of years ago.)

Michael not only makes the team, of course, but pretty soon–after his adopted mom, whom he listens to more than his coach, toughens him up a little–he’s tossing opposing linemen around the field like so many rag dolls and exchanging high-fives after nearly every play. College coaches come calling–here, writer/director John Lee Hancock trots out an impressive line-up of real-life football legends (impressive, that is, if you’re a college football fan from down south) in one stilted cameo after another. Problems arise when a) the NCAA begins to suspect possible recruiting violations, b) Michael has to get his grades up again (bad grades mean no diploma, and no diploma means no college), c) he runs away, frustrated, and…well, you’ll have to plunk down your own ten dollars to find out what happens next.

Kudos to Bullock; she’s fine. With her frosted blonde hair, steely determination, and soft southern drawl, she gives the role of Leigh Anne Tuohy just the right amount of believability–even a bit of an edge. She IS Leigh Anne: southern belle, fiercely protective mom, and champion of the underdog. Country singer Tim McGraw–minus the cowboy hat and superstar swagger, and sporting one of the dorkiest big-screen haircuts we’ve seen all year–is also very good, in a low-key kind of way, as Leigh Anne’s ultra-tolerant husband. And the kids–Jae Head and Lily Collins–are fine, too, although Head is sometimes too cute and precocious for his (and the movie’s) own good.

The real hub of the movie, though, is Michael–and as portrayed by game newcomer Quinton Aaron, he never has much to say or do. For most of the film, in fact, he just seems to be absorbing it all–Leigh Anne even brags, at one point, that he can learn anything he sets his mind to because he’s such a good listener. It’s as though he’s storing everything away for future use, and is unwilling to say or do anything until he’s good and ready…whenever that is.

The result: Michael is criminally underdeveloped–a cipher. We should care for him, be willing to root for him; we should be be moved by his struggle to overcome the odds and make something of his life. But we aren’t, and that’s a shame.

Blindsided by “The Blind Side”? Hardly. It was precisely the sort of “after-school special” we were afraid it was going to be. Now, if the story had been about the football player, and not the woman who appointed herself his guardian angel so that she could save him from himself…maybe it would have been better.

Want to see a run-of-the-mill screen version of the inspiring, real-life story of Leigh Anne Tuohy and Michael Oher (they’re real, alright; she still lives down south, and he’s currently playing in the NFL)? See “The Blind Side”.

But if you want to see a vastly superior film about ANOTHER large, black, inarticulate teen…

Spend your money on “Precious”, instead.

FILM REVIEWS by Stuart R. Brynien