Review: "Nocturnal Animals"

Director: Tom Ford
Runtime: 116 minutes

It's perhaps not the greatest sign that the scene that has stuck with me the longest from Nocturnal Animals is the one that absolutely nothing to do with the rest of the plot. A mesmerizing series of grotesques set to Abel Korzeniowski's lush score kicks things off in a way that would make David Lynch proud. What follows, sadly, has the basic blueprints for a mesmerizing Russian Nesting Doll of a story, yet struggles to get beneath the artifice to something worth savoring. Fashion designer Tom Ford, in his second feature, continues to showcase his hidden gifts as a director (following the achingly beautiful A Single Man 7 years ago). And he's assembled a cast of talented actors to make it all sound convincing. But what gets in the way of Ford's Nocturnal Animals is Ford himself...or at least, his screenplay.

Adapted from Austin Wright's novel "Tony and Susan," Nocturnal Animals is either three stories in one or one story fragmented into three volumes. In the first, we meet Susan (Amy Adams), an art gallery owner trapped in an increasingly hollow marriage to a philandering Ken Doll of a husband (Armie Hammer). Susan is jolted from her sterile LA lifestyle when she receives a manuscript for a novel from her ex-husband Tony (Jake Gyllenhaal). As she reads through the draft (also titled "Nocturnal Animals"), she traces the connections between it and her relationship with Tony, which ended under less than pleasant circumstances. 

What transpires is, on paper, a compelling slice of modern noir punctuated with heavy doses of a grimy Texas-set revenge thriller. Working with many of the same technical collaborators from A Single Man, Ford has crafted another luxurious cinematic experience, ranging from the aforementioned music to the chameleonic photography (and of course, the clothes). It looks the part, sounds the part, and even adds a few new tricks to Ford's directorial skill set. The dramatization of Tony's novel (in which Susan imagines Tony in the lead role) kicks off with a terrifically staged car chase on an empty West Texas road, and builds to a chilling climax. 

But what's missing from Nocturnal Animals is the psychological acuity that gave such weight to A Single Man. There's a lot of external activity on screen, but precious little of it gets beyond the surface of the beautiful faces on screen. What transpires often enthralls in the moment, but dissipates soon after. You'll likely find yourself wanting to be investing in these people, but Nocturnal Animals too often refuses to even meet you halfway.

Credit then, belongs to the actors for filling out these roles as best they can. Adams, coming off Arrival, turns in another quiet, introspective performance. But while Arrival allowed the actress room to take her character on a journey, Nocturnal Animals too often relegates her to the same position as the audience: a watcher. She is pushed to the margins, and spends more time staring out of windows and taking off her (admittedly killer) reading glasses than she does contributing to the story. 

Gyllenhaal, though occasionally pushed to go over the top, is also effective in both of his grief stricken forms, while Michael Shannon nearly steals the show as a sickly sheriff in Tony's novel. Taylor-Johnson is suitably menacing, though eventually his backwoods terrorizer schtick becomes repetitive. Actors like Hammer, Andrea Riseborough, and Michael Sheen do what they can with limited time, while Laura Linney makes the most of her 1 scene cameo as Susan's imperious mother.

Just about everything in Nocturnal Animals is at least watchable, and for large stretches it's perfectly engaging. But while the narrative's structural divisions are admirable, their proportions are all off. So much time is spent bringing Tony's novel to life that Susan's current existence and her past life with Tony feel like add-ons struggling to justify themselves. And yet, if you were to cut them out, Tony's novel on its own wouldn't be enough to justify a full film. Ford spends so much time figuring out how to cobble the story together that he seems to have neglected to make even the faintest point out of everything. For all of its beauty, it's the ugly imperfections that linger longest. Nocturnal Animals pretends to get its hands dirty, but upon closer inspection, there's never a speck of dust under its immaculately manicured fingernails. 

Grade: B-

Review: "Arrival"

Director: Denis Villeneuve
Runtime: 116 minutes

There is a moment in Arrival in which an observation about language caused me to freeze in my seat. If I was shocked, it was due not to some sensational revelation. For a "big moment," it is played with an almost disorienting amount of elegance and reserve. And yet this delicate, seemingly banal line about the nature of languages (or rather, one language in particular) left me in the same state of awe as the climactic passages of 2001, Solaris, or Stalker. It serves not as a copout, but as a mind-warping enrichment of everything that comes before and after.

Adapted from Ted Chiang's acclaimed short story "The Story of Your Life," Arrival's set up is hardly novel. Aliens land, and it's up to us to figure out what they want (and, in the worst case scenario, to fight back). So it's all the more astonishing that, Arrival has been allowed to exist in its present form. As written by Eric Heisserer and directed by Denis Villeneuve (Prisoners, Sicario), Arrival represents the most extreme opposite of bellicose blockbusters like War of the Worlds or Independence Day. Though the special effects are impressive, they pale in comparison to what is achieved through the enigmatic storytelling, and the haunting lead performance from Amy Adams.

Adams plays Louise Banks, an expert linguist called upon to help the US government following a global incident. 12 UFO's, which look like elongated obsidian eggs, have touched down across the globe, including one in America's backyard, Montana. At the forceful request of Col. Weber (Forest Whitaker), she is rushed out to US-bound spacecraft, and paired with theoretical physicist Ian (Jeremy Renner) to decipher the aliens' intentions. 

Global tensions, understandably, run high, and yet the plot's trajectory never fails to subvert expectations. The linguistics conversations are not an entryway to a standard thriller plot, but rather the launchpad for a richer tale of time, memory, and communication. Deciphering a language, much like editing a book, is not a process that lends itself to screen-drama. And yet, somehow, Heisserer's screenplay often does what so many others struggle to accomplish. The writing is devoted to explaining various connections and theories, but never allows them to grind the narrative to a halt. 

And even when the dialogue becomes purely expository, it is gracefully complimented by Villeneuve's overall grasp on the material. Since making the leap from Quebec, the Canadian helmer has become a first rate director of the sort of mid-budget, adult-targeted dramas that are so hard to come by in Hollywood. With each new project, Villeneuve moves to different genres and settings, yet maintains a devotion to keeping his stories grounded in the authentic. Arrival has far loftier intentions than Villeneuve's previous work, and it works because of, not in spite of, its fantastical elements.

With so much emphasis on ideas and plot trickery, one might understandably fear that the human element of something like Arrival would be an inconvenience. But what ultimately gives Arrival its tremendous impact comes down to its refusal to separate the emotional and cerebral components. The eventual intersection of the large and small scale conflicts, which could have so easily derailed the film, builds to an ingenious series of developments that drastically alter the stakes, but in the most unexpected ways.

Louise is at the center of all of Arrival's plot threads and themes, and Adams is nothing short of stunning in the role. Much like Emily Blunt's protagonist in Sicario, Louise is often quite withdrawn. She is a reactor, not an actor, but that doesn't make her a blank slate. For all of her guardedness, Adams is still tremendously expressive throughout. The movements of her face and eyes appear to hold several lifetimes worth of emotion. Louise is out of her depth, yet somehow has all of the answers. She has moments of understanding, yet can't figure out how she got from point A to point B to begin with. Despite playing the put-upon hero of sorts, Adams delivers the antithesis of a star performance; her work is defined by introspection and nuance.

Renner and Whitaker are reliable, though of the humans it all comes down to Adams. The Heptapods (our name for the aliens) are appropriately enigmatic, as if the monolith from 2001 sprouted legs and communicated through inky hieroglyphs. Tech credits are excellent across the board, with the score and editing standing out in particular. 

Yet even with the Heptapods and their spaceship, the images (photographed by the outstanding Bradford Young) that seem to linger most in Arrival are among the simplest. A shot of an empty house, two people embracing, Louise's eyes lighting up as she connects the latest series of dots. Or, in one case, the way the camera holds on Adam's exhausted, solemn expression as the spaceship sits in the background, obscured and out of focus. The utter stillness of the moment crystallizes everything that's beautiful about Arrival. Here is a science-fiction story defined not by promises of effects-driven chaos, but by a paradoxical mix of melancholy and hope in the face of the great infinite beyond. 


Grade: A

Review: "Big Eyes"

Director: Tim Burton
Runtime: 104 minutes

Self-conscious weirdness is in short supply in Big Eyes, which turns out to be for the best for director Tim Burton. After several unwieldy, big-budget extravagazas that cheapened the director's visual quirks, Burton has found his way back to his roots with this telling of the story of artist Margaret Keane. Reunited with Ed Wood writers Scott Alexander and Larry Karaszewski, Burton's latest is a beautiful and (relatively) restrained effort that's also a much-needed return to form, albeit in a minor key.

The story of Margaret Keane (Amy Adams) and her grandstanding husband Walter (Christoph Waltz, at his Christoph Waltz-iest) is perfect fodder for writing duo Alexander and Karaszewski. The pair have made a career of investigating the odd lives of artistic outliers, including Z-grade director Ed Wood and pornographer Larry Flynt (The People vs. Larry Flynt). Margaret Keane isn't nearly as dynamic or eccentric a figure, but her story is one that lines up perfectly with the two writers' interests. In the early 60s, after fleeing an abusive first marriage, Margaret moves to San Francisco to try and make her way as a painter. Her signature is that she paints children with massive eyes. She catches the eye of Walter, a fellow artist, who quickly marries her to prevent Margaret's ex-husband from getting custody of her daughter.

Though Margaret's friend Dee Ann (Krysten Ritter) has her doubts about Walter, Margaret sees him as a blessing. That is, until her paintings start to sell and Walter takes sole credit for them. At first, Margaret can't really complain that much. The paintings sell increasingly well, to the point where celebrities like Joan Crawford and Natalie Wood begin to own them. Walter doesn't just sell the paintings. He sells pictures and posters and postcards of the paintings, creating one of the first kitsch empires of the 20th century art world. Old guard art critics, like The New York Times' John Canaday (Terrence Stamp), treat the paintings with contempt, but money continues to pour in for the Keanes.

Shut away in her studio and churning out paintings for Walter to take credit for, Adams' Margaret has an odd kinship with fellow Burton protagonist Edward Scissorhands. Though her life is far more comfortable, she still lives in a state of isolation, her true identity hidden from everyone except her husband, who convinces her that their entire empire will collapse if she ever takes the credit she deserves (according to Walter, people don't buy "lady art").

Regardless of the critical reception that greeted Keane's work, Burton and the writers have made sure to treat Margaret's story with sincerity. Kitsch craze or not, the big-eyed paintings were a crucial part of Margaret's life, and the film avoids turning her work into a punchline. Big Eyes has been directed with a light touch, but that doesn't mean that Burton is treating the material as disposable. 

Burton's work behind the camera is quite dynamic, which compensates for the spotty aspects of Alexander and Karaszewski's writing. Big Eyes doesn't showcase the director or the writers at their finest, but the flaws entirely stem from the screenplay. Alexander and Karaszewski researched Keane's life extensively, but they have missed getting into the heart of her as an artist and a mother. Margaret repeatedly mentions that the big eyed paintings are a part of her, but her reason for focusing so intensely on the eyes is glossed over in a single line of dialogue. Unfortunately, Walter's fake reason for the paintings (they're the faces of children ravaged by WW2!) is more convincing that Margaret's exclamations that the art is part of her very being. Several flashes of real people with distorted eyes do little to get further into Margaret's head. Instead, they feel like superfluous, "weird" moments that exist to remind you that yes, this is a Tim Burton movie.

As a viewing experience, however, Big Eyes is the easiest Burton film to watch in years. Shot and decorated with super-saturated colors, the whole film is arrestingly beautiful in a way that captures early 60s pop art without shoving the style down the viewer's throat. Burton's films have always included lush visuals, but unlike the garish designs of his Alice in Wonderland, Big Eyes' beauty comes across as genuine and purposeful. The director's spritely pacing keeps the story afloat and prevents the story from dragging. Even in Burton's best work, pacing has not been his strong suit. Refreshingly, Big Eyes hops and skips through its story, never wallowing in Margaret's ethical dilemma.

Of the cast, Adams proves to be the most ideal fit for Burton's vision. While this is not a performance of extraordinary depth, it captures Keane's loneliness, confusion, and fear with great sensitivity. The characters in Big Eyes are as cartoony as Keane's paintings, but Adams grounds the story with a palpable humanity. Waltz, meanwhile, is on the opposite end of the spectrum. His increasingly unhinged Walter runs amok throughout the movie, most notably in the climactic courtroom scene where Walter and Margaret battle for credit of the paintings. Had the film striven for a toned down, intimate approach, Waltz's work would have been horribly mis-judged. Instead, he's a nice counterweight to Adams' emotional modesty. Meanwhile, the supporting players, including Stamp, Krysten Ritter, and Jason Schwartzman, are sadly underused. 

When we think of artists who deserve biopics, we think of the masters. December will also see the opening of Mike Leigh's Mr. Turner, about an artist held in far higher esteem than Margaret Keane ever will be. In a sense, Keane's work would seem unworthy of a film were it not for the incredible story revolving around the battle for authorship. Schwartzman's gallery owner, at one point, is baffled that anyone would even want credit for the big eye paintings. Yet one of Walter's points in the movie, despite the context, rings true. Who cares about the disdainful comments from the highbrow art community. The paintings are popular because, kitsch craze or not, they've made an impact on people, no matter how shallow. Even the most mass-produced art started somewhere personal, and has a story to be told. 

Grade: B-

Review: "American Hustle"

Director: David O. Russell
Runtime: 128 minutes

About halfway through David O. Russell's American Hustle, I suddenly realized why it all felt so vaguely familiar. Sure, the beginning had a bit of Goodfellas vibe with the tone of its voice-overs and flashbacks, but there was a second ingredient that evaded my grasp. And then it hit me: Ocean's 11. Like Soderbergh's film, Russell's latest feels like an excuse for a bunch of familiar players to get together and make a fun movie with a bunch of heinous, period-appropriate hairdos. Sure, the film is talked about as a possibly big Oscar contender, but it's really more of a laid back heist movie that just happens to have a diamond-studded ensemble. Combine the two aforementioned films and you have a rough approximation of what it's like to watch American Hustle. That is, without any of old-fashioned skill of Scorcese's mafia classic, or the effortless crowd-pleasing of Steven Soderbergh's caper remake. 

A fictionalized take on the FBI's ABSCAM sting operation in the late 70s, American Hustle opens with an attempt at cheekiness: a title card reading, "A lot of this probably happened." The film isn't out to take itself too seriously. Instead, it's content to pack a blandly appealing, toothless sense of humor in a stab at broad accessibility. That said, the title card is hardly an unforgivable sin. That's where the voice over comes in. Covering not one, not two, but three different characters, American Hustle's voice over is some of the most ill-conceived since the opening of The Descendants. The saving grace of the latter film is that after the first 15 minutes, George Clooney shut up. The three-pronged vocal assault here - from Christian Bale, Amy Adams, and Bradley Cooper - may not be constant, but it does pop up across the entire film, which spans a little more than two hours. 

Suffice it to say that the film's first quarter is easily its weakest. There's a lot of ground to cover, with everything from childhoods to personal motivations blasted through, all at the expense of a proper anchoring in the characters. We've got schlubby con man Irving Rosenfeld (Bale), his mistress Sydney Prosser (Adams), and Richie DiMaso (Cooper), the FBI agent who eventually manipulates the pair, all competing for our attention, which gets the film off to a jumbled start. Aside from an amusing opening bit with Irving arranging his labyrinthine combover, there's little to latch on to, seeing as so much information is simply being thrown our way.

But while we're on the subject of hair, it's worth noting that American Hustle does have a great deal of fun with with its characters' coiffures. Adams and Jennifer Lawrence (as Irving's alcoholic shut-in of a wife) are largely spared, save for when the former goes to a party with Janice Soprano hair, being the victims of follicular atrocities. The men are less fortunate. In addition to Bale's combover, there's also Cooper's hilariously tiny and tight set of curls, a nice externalizing of his finicky  tightly wound persona, and Jeremy Renner's bouffant, which may possess its own gravitational pull. 

Like some vicious bit of aesthetic justice, the men's looks are made to suffer, even as the women remain dressed up and lightly objectified (every other one of Adams' outfits bares quite a bit of skin). When Sydney compliments Richie on his perm, the moment comes across like a bit of meta commentary. She seems to find it attractive, but when she references the amount of effort he puts into such a 'do, it's difficult not to laugh.

It's the sort of humor that Russell has retained and broadened over the course of his last few films (including The Fighter and Silver Linings Playbook). There are dramatic scenes here (the best of which belong to Adams, in wildly different scenarios), but American Hustle isn't out to plumb the depths of its characters and their morally grey world. It's all a bunch of star-powered razzle dazzle that only momentarily catches fire. It's a film caught between giving its actors room to play off of each other, while also trying to keep its plot moving forward, only without the level of detail that might have made for a more compelling narrative. 

So, as fun as it is to see these stars play dress up and spout moderately amusing dialogue, the film as a whole can't help but feel lacking. As a drama, it never has stakes necessary to generate tension (save for one last minute, and very fun, twist). As a caper-comedy, it's too removed from the specifics of its plot to feel like there's much of anything really going on. And, as a character study, it's far too thin. The hairstyles are, frankly, often more fun to pay attention to. And as much as Russell throws in dolly zooms on his actors' faces, American Hustle never truly takes flight the way his last two films did. The closest that American Hustle comes to capturing the fire of The Fighter or Silver Linings is in a brief bit of physical comedy involving Lawrence drunkenly singing along to the Bond theme "Live and Let Die." Unfortunately, like the movie as a whole, the moment is only superficially engaging, and ultimately superfluous, despite its best intentions.

Grade: C+

AFI Fest 2013: "Her"

Director: Spike Jonze
Runtime: 120 minutes

The future is a sleek, dark, sterile world. At least, that's what your average near-future dystopia would tell you. This being the case, director Spike Jonze deserves a lot of credit for his simple, ultimately warm look at where our society is headed, with his new romance Her. He also deserves credit for, in his first outing as a writer, delivering such a funny, heartfelt, and empathetic look at love and human relationships in our increasingly tech-obsessed world. 

Despite lonely protagonist Theodore (Joaquin Phoenix), Jonze approaches Her by doing a complete 180 from his previous film, 2009's Where the Wild Things Are. That film took a children's book and infused it into a tale filled with poignant, soulful mourning. By contrast, this tale of adults and their romantic lives is mostly a light comedy. 

Rather than opt for a future filled with nihilistic heaviness, Jonze and his collaborators have dreamed up a world filled with warmth. Rather than oppressive grays, Her is shot and designed to incorporate a wide range of soft, vibrant pastels. Some of Hoyt van Hoytema's shot compositions showcase the towering skyscrapers of Los Angeles, but the film is ultimately concerned with intimacy. 

For Theodore, that intimacy comes not from another person, but from a futuristic new operating system. Once activated, the program develops a personality, that grows as its spends more time with the given customer. Theodore's OS, for example, gives herself the name Samantha (voiced by Scarlett Johansson), and quickly becomes her own strong-willed personality. In line with the film's notions of simplicity, the artificial intelligence in Her takes no physical form. There are Blade Runner-esque androids. There's only the voice.

While Jonze gets to craft scenes and images, and Phoenix has room to visibly express himself, Johansson is left with only her voice. She's Her's make it or break it element, and thankfully, she succeeds with flying colors. Though she came to prominence in roles that emphasized emotional minimalism (Girl with a Pearl Earring, Lost in Translation), Johansson proves she's capable of creating a richly textured character without even appearing on screen. Jonze's script only helps the performance. He gives Samantha room to be her own person. Though she's technically there to be a voice for Theodore's computer, Her's progression makes her every bit as well rounded as her "owner," even though she comes into the movie with no background or baggage. 

Likewise, Amy Adams' Amy is also given room to have her own life. For a movie ostensibly about a man falling in love with his computer, Her's women are refreshingly independent. Though they have moments to comfort Theodore, Jonze writes them as full-bodied beings with more to do than act as emotional sounding boards for a man. Even Rooney Mara, as Theodore's ex-wife Catherine,  is never simplified or demonized. Though most of Catherine's scenes are silent flashbacks, Jonze never robs her of a voice. The reason for her split from Theodore is given a fair shake, with both parties shown enduring some form of emotional struggle. 

As valuable as the women are, however, Her is built on both Theodore and Samantha. And for a couple who never visibly share the screen, Phoenix and Johansson work wonders together. Phoenix throws himself into the goofy, aloof Theodore with the same force he gave to the tormented and animalistic Freddie Quell in last year's The Master. Despite being known largely for playing men riddled with demons, Phoenix makes for a surprising comedic and romantic lead. 

The performances and direction only heighten as the film dips into deeper territory. Her is, somewhat contrary to the marketing, a comedy, but Jonze never forgets to push beneath the surface charm. Yet rather than become fully dramatic in the later portions, it's perhaps more accurate to say that the film becomes empathetic. Jonze wrings some beautifully romantic and heartfelt moments out of his sci-fi laced scenario, yet there's never an emotional heaviness behind it. In fact, the film's few uncomfortable moments come when seemingly dramatic scenes are suddenly punctuated with obviously intentional comedy. You enjoy the comedy, but simultaneously can't help but wish that a serious beat had simply been allowed to settle and take root. 

Her isn't so much a searing study of human relationships as it is a gently comforting, though ultimately lighthearted romance. It's easy enough to dismiss Jonze's tone as nothing but frivolity. The film's lightness is underscored by moments of deep feeling that speak for themselves though restrained direction and beautiful performances. Her is a gorgeous technical package (with van Hoytema's cinematography taking best in show honors) ,but it would be nothing without committed performances lending some real soul to its deceptive lightness. In Phoenix and Johansson, however, Jonze has found a perfect pair around which to build his singular vision of our rapidly deepening relationship with technology. 

So many films have tried tackling society's progression with heavy-handed seriousness. Her, on the other hand, sees fit to view the future with guarded optimism and a lovely sense of hope, despite the inevitable complexities that arise along the way. The journey into the future is uncertain, but for Spike Jonze, it's humanity's constant needs that are the real driving force behind society's developments. As it turns out, those are more impressive than any grandiose advancements in technology or special effects. 

Grade: B+/A-

Review: "Man of Steel"

Director: Zack Snyder
Runtime: 143 minutes

The great irony of Superman's status as a true all-American superhero is that he's not even from our world. As has been pointed out in more than a few essays over the years, Kal-El is a true immigrant from among the superhero pantheon. If anything, his immigrant status is what allows him to best rise to the lofty (and often unreachable) heights of American ideals. It truly takes an otherworldly, yet still characteristically human, figure to save the day, time and time again. The trick with Superman, however, is how much times have changed. Despite the relative levity of the current Marvel franchise, the shadow of Christopher Nolan's Dark Knight Trilogy still looms large over the cinematic landscape. 

Nolan's influence is felt more strongly in Superman's latest outing for obvious reasons. Credited as executive producer and story creator (along with actual screenwriter David Goyer), Nolan has transfered some of his operatic doom and gloom to the world of one of the best known, and more typically upbeat, superhero worlds. Throw in Zack Snyder in the director's chair, and things start making more sense. Snyder's excessive stylization, as contrasted with the Nolan/Goyer method of writing and storytelling, largely balance each other out across Man of Steel, the latest and most epic Superman adventure committed to the silver screen to date.

The approach taken with the new Superman (The Tudors actor Henry Cavill), is a bit of a mash up of the approach that Mr. Nolan used in Batman Begins and The Dark Knight. The former was an introduction to a new vision of an iconic character, jumping around in chronology as it transformed Bruce Wayne into Batman for the first time. The Dark Knight, meanwhile, took Begins' foundations and used them to craft a bigger, more epic film, complete with a towering villain who pushed Batman to his very limits. The combination of these two arcs is the source of Man of Steel's greatest strengths and weaknesses.

For the most part, the film is broken up into three parts, beginning with a surprisingly extended sequence detailing the fall of Krypton. Wondrously designed (shades of H.R. Geiger are present), Krypton is on the brink of total destruction after aggressively exploiting its natural resources. Complicating things is a last-second military coup by General Zod (Michael Shannon). The planet's last hope is Jor-El (Russell Crowe), who sends his son off into space as the planet continues to violently fall apart. 

Yet as much time as Krypton gets on screen, Man of Steel moves rather briskly though episodes of Kal-El/Clark Kent's young life. In a refreshing structural choice, Clark's childhood is largely seen through flashbacks, often triggered by small incidents in the adult (and insanely sculpted) Clark's life as a wanderer. On one hand, it lends the film a constant sense of movement. The editing across timelines is often quite slick, keeping the film eventful. The downside is that Goyer's dialogue construction isn't quite as effective as his plot structure. Snyder does his best to overcome this with some Malick-inspired camerawork, and more often than not he succeeds, although just barely.

All the same, Goyer's writing remains a problem across the highly eventful (and never, ever dull) runtime. All other aspects of the film seem so finessed and in control, and it's a shame to see the film occasionally stumble through Goyer's awkward dialogue exchanges. The result is a film that looks great (even with a slightly oppressive blue-grey tint flooding every frame), and is often entertaining, yet still not able to reach its full potential. Moments that should hit hard feel obligatory than genuinely emotional, even as the cast tries their best to make something out of thin material.

Whatever problems Goyer contributes, however, are frequently compensated for by engaging work across the ensemble, and Snyder's relentless storytelling. Cavill, though not given much to say, makes a nice, albeit understated, impression as the titular hero. Rather than make him a blank figure of simplistic patriotism, Cavill's Superman is a man torn between his two identities. Although not given much substance on paper in regards to this dynamic, Cavill does have some nice moments as he struggles to reconcile his split identity (even as some of these scenes end too abruptly). It's not big enough performance to be a true star-making turn, but the handsome actor does prove that he's worthy of donning the (smartly redesigned) iconic outfit and cape. He may not erase Christopher Reeve from anyone's memory, but as a more forlorn, wary Superman, he fits right in with the Nolan-ized aesthetic of the film. 

More outwardly engaging is Amy Adams as Lois Lane. Though Superman does save her several times, Man of Steel's treatment of the character is refreshing. She's not just a spunky reporter who stands up to her boss. Rather, she's a journalist willing to go to great lengths to get what she wants. And, later in the game, she even plays a pivotal role in devising a plan to help stop Zod. And speaking of Zod, Michael Shannon deserves his share of credit for crafting a villain with a mix of bug-eyed fervor and understandable drive. His mentality may be inflexible, yet there is a (rather dark) logic to Shannon's character and performance that fits in with the mythology of the dying world of Krypton. His will is to ensure the survival of his race, no matter the cost. He may pose a threat to the humanity, but his destruction isn't just for kicks: it's to save a proud race that is sitting at death's door.

The real surprise of the film, however, are Superman's two fathers. The first 20 minutes of the film are basically a mini-action movie for Mr. Crowe, and he lends his role a palpable, but never overbearing, level of gravitas befitting of an alien lord. On the other end of the spectrum is Kevin Costner as Clark's Earth-bound father. Though he isn't afforded much screen time, Costner (along with Diane Lane as his wife) brings a comforting, low-key presence to the role. Despite Superman's foreign origins, his relationship with his adoptive parents is where his true character comes from. Thanks to Costner and Lane, that character rings true when it's displayed on screen.

And even as Goyer's script underwhelms, Snyder manages some stirring moments as a director, even though the impact is largely visceral, rather than emotional. Often criticized as prizing style over substance (to an extreme), Man of Steel isn't exactly a huge detour into hard-hitting character work. However, jarring product placement aside, the film does show Snyder as capable of effective self-control. Rather than become a slave to comic book frames (as he did in his adaptation of Watchmen), his imagery is energetic and muscular, resulting in an impressive, if exhausting, visual assault. Aiding him the whole way is a tremendous score from Dark Knight composer Hans Zimmer. Alternating between thunderous horns and delicate pianos, Zimmer creates a perfect compliment to Superman's humble humanity, as well as his larger-than-life abilities.  

It might have initially seemed tired to show Superman's origins again. Bryan Singer's Superman Returns, didn't even bother with them (or Clark's childhood). Yet in laying such an extensive groundwork and mythology, the Snyder/Goyer/Nolan trio has created a rich new world for Superman to explore. Though the film's structure suggests rich themes and then jumps too quickly through them, the film does stick the landing in enough moments. It may not have an element as galvanizing as Heath Ledger's Joker, or as charismatic as Robert Downey Jr.'s Tony Stark, but Man of Steel and Mr. Cavill are certainly worthy of taking Superman into the 21st century. Superman Returns was too simple and reverential for modern audiences, while Man of Steel flies at warp speed into the future. And, despite some turbulence, this is a Superman film that truly flies, even if it struggles to completely soar to new heights. 

Grade: B 

Review: "The Master"

Director: Paul Thomas Anderson
Runtime: 137 minutes

"We are not animals. Maaaaaan is not a part of the animal kingdom," intones Lancaster Dodd (Philip Seymour Hoffman) over a tape to his followers in The Master. Yet Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix), by his very existence, seems to have been planted on this earth to challenge Dodd's assertion. The two play off of each other in a manner that feels like an evolved version of the father-son bond in Paul Thomas Anderson's There Will be Blood. Only this time, the "son" figure isn't so impressionable, and is more like a wild animal in need of taming. Where Blood was overall more centered on one man's journey, Anderson's latest brings the father figure/son figure conflict to the forefront. The results may not be as immediately epic, but they are equally compelling, and quite obviously the work of a master.

Set amid the aftermath of WWII, The Master follows Phoenix's Freddie as he struggles to make his way in the world after returning from combat. He struggles to interact with others, often breaking out into fits of lust or violence, which doesn't exactly go over well at his various places of employment. He also has a fixation with crafting insanely strong alcoholic concoctions, which involve zesty ingredients like paint thinner. After one bout of drunkenness, Freddie stumbles aboard a ship bound for New York City. Its passengers are Dodd, his wife Peggy (Amy Adams), and the devoted followers of The Cause, Dodd's religion/philosophy/vague Scientology stand-in. Despite their drastically different natures, Dodd's civilized man and Quell's twitchy anti-socialite, they begin to bond. Dodd introduces Freddie to his family and his followers, and takes him under his wing in an attempt to help him overcome his demons. 

Rumored to be loosely based on the founding of Scientology, Anderson eschews controversy and allows Dodd and The Cause to act as their own entities. There's no mention of thetans or Lord Xenu, but The Cause does involve sessions that might have some resemblance to auditing processes that often come up in Scientology discussions. Dodd's devout followers are more than ready to be "processed," while Quell presents a special sort of challenge. And from this challenge comes The Master's greatest strength. From the Quell-Dodd dynamic Anderson manages to craft an understatedly epic drama about man's resistance and submission to various forms of authority. Quell may be under Dodd's seemingly all-encompassing wing, but even Dodd goes quietly when an incident results in his arrest. Freddie, meanwhile, has no master, and he fights the authorities off like a rabid dog. 

As embodied by Phoenix and Hoffman, these two figures command one's attention, whether they're sharing the screen or not. Hoffman, a longtime Anderson collaborator, delivers a mix of self-importance and self-righteousness that is coupled with an easy going, affable patriarch figure. Through Anderson's lens we're able to see Dodd as a manipulator, a caring father, and even a boorish drunk, and Hoffman makes the character's facets flow together seamlessly. Yet even though Hoffman may play the titular Master, it's Phoenix who owns the film. His face is perpetually contorted into a half sneer, half twitch, further enforcing the idea that he sticks out from normal society. Phoenix's posture is another marvel of physical acting. His gaunt, emaciated frame is constantly hunched over, and he roams through many scenes like some mentally unstable vulture.  As the man and the man-animal bond and clash, the acting fireworks are few and far between, but both men hit their marks when the time comes.

Though not nearly as prominent, Amy Adams is also excellent. Anderson uses the character sparingly, and the actress takes on the mix of charming house wife and iron maiden with aplomb. Other characters abound, but the core of the film is Phoenix and Hoffman's dynamic, and Anderson never strays from this. This strategy allows the film some room to incorporate its third leading man: Mr. Anderson himself. Continuing his Kubrick-influenced phase, the director has once again created a world of character study blown up against an inexplicably epic-feeling backdrop, all while retaining an eerie sense of distance. The filmmaking is unsentimental to the max, even as it charts the ups and downs of Quell and Dodd's relationship, as well as their relationship to society at large. Coupled with Anderson's screenplay, this can lead to the film meandering. But what compelling meandering it is. 

The opening stretches of The Master, most notably Quell and Dodd's first encounter, represent the driest portions. Yet once the narrative settles into the middle (and the film is 85-90% shapeless middle), Anderson cuts loose. The film runs for over two hours, yet it rarely, if ever, lags, despite the sense that the massive middle isn't building to an obvious conclusion. Anderson takes great pleasure in luxuriating in his character's lives, and watching Freddie struggle to cope with The Cause's subtly (perhaps randomly) evolving methods and teachings showcases the director's best Kubrickian influences. 

Further enhancing Anderson's grasp over the material is the first class work from his artistic and technical collaborators. Longtime Anderson cinematographer Robert Elswitt may be absent, but replacement Mihai Malaimare Jr. fills his shoes and crafts some remarkable imagery that adds to the low-key epic feel of the film. Anderson's returning collaborators don't disappoint either. Costume designer Mark Bridges (fresh off of an Oscar win for The Artist) convincingly recreates the period along with the spare but excellent production design of Jack Fisk. And returning composer Jonny Greenwood creates another moody and menacing score, announcing its presence without manipulating our emotions. Greenwood has, once again, composed music that makes itself known, yet compliments the atmosphere without drawing attention away from the characters. 

There are many who may be turned off by The Master. Its initial dryness may, for some, extend beyond the first few reels. And, as was often the case with Kubrick, the perceived distance from the characters, despite their centrality, may turn some off of the performances. Those expecting another There Will be Blood could also potentially find themselves let down, or merely taken aback by the film's less forward-charging narrative. And then there are those who will, for whatever odd difference, be able to bask in the film's clinical pleasures just as Freddie soaks up the sun as he lies on the beach, his head rested up against a woman made out of sand. The animal in his natural habitat, free from any master.

Grade: A

Trailer: "On the Road"

I don't remember whether or not Walter Salles' On the Road, an adaptation of the classic Jack Kerouac novel, was stuck in development hell, or was simply announced long before it even began casting. Regardless, the long-gestating (?) project has been completed for a while now, and at last we have our first look at some footage. I have to confess, I've been meaning to read Kerouac's novel for the past few years, but have yet to get around to it, so I can't really comment on whether or not the casting choices seem appropriate. What I can say, however, is that the talented that Walles enlisted gives me a lot of hope. First is Walles himself, who directed the wonderful The Motorcycle Diaries (2004). That too was something of a self-discovery road-trip film, so On the Road should be right up the director's alley.

The cast isn't too shabby either. Garrett Hedlund is an appealing, charismatic actor, and Sam Riley has already proven that he's capable of top flight work (2007's excellent Control). The supporting cast is filled with excellent actors, including Viggo Mortensen, Amy Adams, Kirsten Dunst, and Mad Men's Elisabeth Moss. There's also Kristen Stewart, in what appears to be the third major role. Stewart is certainly capable of delivering a solid performance (Adventureland), but unlike a great deal of the cast, she has yet to develop a consistency to her work. This makes her the film's wild card, which could prove to help the film a lot...or hinder it. On the Road, though slated for 2012, doesn't have a specific release date set for US theaters, so it will likely be a while before we get an answer. Maybe they'll even take long enough so that I can get my act together and actually read the damn book.

Trailer for "The Fighter"

Yet another long-concealed mystery debuted its first footage its week: David O. Russel's The Fighter. Starring Christian Bale, Mark Wahlberg, Amy Adams, and Melissa Leo, the film's plot is as follows:

A look at the early years of boxer "Irish" Micky Ward and his brother who helped train him before going pro in the mid 1980s.

While the performers appear to be in top form, the way the trailer is cut feels a bit stale. It's your usual down-and-out-athlete-who-takes-a-stab-at-glory-against-all-odds story, at least the way the trailer is presented. Really, the only thing I'm amped for after seeing the trailer, which will hit limited release on December 10, is Amy Adams' performance, if only because the role is so much darker and grittier than the past few major roles she's had. At least now, AMPAS clearly loves Adams, and a going-against-type role, if well received, could land her a third nomination, and even a win for Supporting Actress, a category that isn't exactly stacked with buzzy contenders at the moment (save for 99% likely entry Diane Wiest). Bale looks solid as well, though he could prove to be one note if every scene looks like the glimpses in the trailer. Wahlberg looks...fine. He's a solid enough performer, but I really think we've already seen the best he has to offer as an actor (maybe he should take a cue from Ben Affleck?). And then there's poor Melissa Leo, who despite being an Oscar nominee, can't even get her name in the damn title cards, despite being one of the four major roles. There's just something flat-out wrong about that.

On the set: "The Fighter"

I have to say, I like seeing this new, darker side of Amy Adams. Nice to see that isn't letting herself get caught in the wide-eyed-innocent role.