Minor Spoilers.

Most of you have probably seen, by now, the lobby poster for “Perfume” hanging in the local theater at some point. It’s one of the classiest posters of the year, a basic black-and-white shot of a beautiful woman being “scattered” into wind-blown red rose petals. Simple, elegant and subtle. The best way to imagine what “Perfume” is actually like as a movie is to stare really, really hard at that poster and try to imagine it’s polar-opposite. This film, courtesy “Run Lola Run” helmer Tom Tykwer, is not subtle, simple, elegant or any other phrase that good be used to describe it’s one-sheet or the notion of “tasteful” in general: It’s schlock.” High camp. Pure, unadulterated nonsense; an icky-for-ickiness’-sake wallow in the oceans of insta-shock produced by juxtaposing period costume-drama with serial-murder and sexual-perversion…

…so I loved it.

In final analysis, “Perfume” is a textbook entry in the curiously large sub-genre of horror/exploitation films that fuse wig-and-feather period drama or upscale/Euro settings in general with copious gore and sex. It’s a diverse swath of work, encompassing everything from Jess Franco’s arty lesbian vampire cycle to Walerian Borowczyk’s “The Beast” to huge chunks of Italian “giallo” auteurs and Fellini imitators… all the way up to prominent modern examples like Ridley Scott’s “Hannibal” or Christophe Gans’ “Brotherhood of The Wolf.” As arthouse-slashers go, “Perfume” settles in nicely with some fairly distinguished brethren.

Based on a novel thought to be “unfilmmable,” “Perfume” is best-described as a longform “origin story” for a comic book supervillian cruelly plunked down in eighteenth century France instead of Gotham City; as Jean-Batiste Grenouille (newcomer Ben Wishaw,) lacks only a stylish nickname (“The Nose” would work) in terms of characteristics which would make him a more suitable adversary for Batman or Dick Tracy than the clueless investigators he battles here.

In other words, he’s an amoral psychopath with a Super Power; in this case a sense of smell so precise it allows him to deduce chemical formulas just by instinct, track anything over great distances, detect attacks without looking, etc. It also, of course, forms the theme of his crimes: Stalking and murdering the young women of “The Perfume Capitol of France” so he can boil their bodies down and make perfume from their “souls.” (No, really.) He also, strangely, lacks a scent of his own, which comes in handy for sneaking up on victims.

Born in wretched poverty, Grenouille hones his craft as a professional perfumer under Baldini (Dustin Hoffman, way too acutely aware of what sort of film he’s actually appearing in,) who’s willing to ignore the boy’s obvious insanity in exchange for the fortune his formulas bring. But Grenouille is only interested in learning a technique that’ll allow him to preserve the scent of individual humans, a drive which leads him to a perfumer’s paradise and to the above-described murder spree. Aiming to stop him at all costs is Alan Rickman (more subdued than he’s been in awhile) as the father of the town’s most beautiful and thus most-likely-to-be-victimized young woman.

Tykwer is, demonstrably, aware of the sort of film he’s got on his hands and lets it play out largely unhigned. The relative bloodlessness of Grenouille’s kills aren’t exactly an inhibitor.. he packs the film with sick, creepy visuals to literalize the effects of super-smell on it’s user, and he knows when to go for broke: The gotta-see-it-to-believe-it finale is one of the most insane things ever put on screen, period. He’s also not afraid to let the story descend into outright farce when it needs to, we are after all talking about a movie about a serial-killer perfumer.

Trust me, it’s been a long time since you saw something this nuts in a theatre. That alone should be reason for the curious to seek it out. You won’t see another murder movie this year like it, and Act Three is one for the books. Recomended.
FINAL RATING: 8/10

MINOR SPOILERS.

“Little Children” is a study in how you can redeem a movie in the finale. For those who’ve already seen it, please understand that I don’t mean to infer that the film is saved by the surprisingly “hoo-rah for traditionalism!” bent of it’s eventual “moral,” but by the way such comes about by turning what for 2 1/2 hours has seemed a formulaic entry in a tired subgenre entirely on it’s head. For nearly the entire length of the feature I was torn between admiring it’s craft and despising it’s cliche “middle-class hell” moralizing, only to realize too late I’d been played: What at first seems to be either another slog through “suburbanites, what a bunch of easy-to-satirize la-hooo-zers!” “American Beauty” territory or the longest, most-predictable (but best-acted) episode of “Desperate Housewives” ever… instead winds up as something poignant, subtle and in some respects even cautionary, think Douglas Sirk adapting “Lolita.”

What we have, at least at first, is another long-form goof on how plastic and soulless suburbia is, especially for Sarah (Kate Winslet,) whom we gather became a wife/mommy without fully wanting or meaning to, and now finds herself feeling trapped and pining for her romantic, adventurous “free” days as an English Lit major. She maintains her sanity by insisting to herself that she remains a more evolved being than her fellow playground moms, Jane Goodall among tupperware-thumping apes, and tends to regard her toddler daughter and internet-porn addicted husband as some sort of alien creatures. She’d be, at first, wholly unsympathetic right off the bat, save that she’s well written and Winslet seems incapable of giving an unengaging performance.

In any case, Sarah soon finds release by buddying up to Brad (Patrick Wilson) the mysterious, hunky stay-at-home dad dubbed “the prom king” by the chattering playgrounders. A passionate affair soon follows, driving further changes for both: Suddenly, Sarah is all girlish and smiley again, while Brad re-discovers his college football glory days with a local night league. Yes, all the hush-hush sneaking and snuggling is making them “young” again, and we’re in (seemingly) familiar territory, waxing the romantic about a generation’s attempt to remain perpetually 19. This would be our first major story-arc, and if you’ve seen every (or even most) other arthouse-indie about recuperative infidelity in the ‘burbs you’ll probably think you know where this is headed…

Story #2 concerns the mounting neighborhood fervor as paroled sex-offender Ronnie (indecent exposure to a minor) moves back in with his aging mother. Played by Jackie Earle Haley, (still in the midst of an amazing “comeback”.. in movies people aren’t seeing much,) Ronnie is the obsession of the neighborhood vigilantes who are sure that he’s not going to change. As one truly tragic scene demostrates, they’re probably right. The antagonism is coming from a bullish, disgraced former cop, and the constant background noise of a train-whistle helpfully indicates that the two stories are on a collision course. But if you think you can guess how it’ll wrap up.. so did I, and I was wrong.

I’ll be honest, I was pretty ambivalent about this one beforehand (and during a good deal of it, too.) I mainly showed up to weigh in for awards season, and out of adherence to a personal rule that I see anything Kate Winslet makes as soon as I can (and in this case, the sub-entry to that rule to see anything she’s in that’s sure to include nudity sooner than that.) And while I’m still surprised to have enjoyed the film as a whole, my adoration for it’s lead actress remains consistent: She’s still probably the best actress of her generation, still improbably gorgeous even as the film tries (mightily but unsuccessfully) to make her “frumpy” in the first act, and still gifted with a certain fearlessness in regards to physical performance.

(Small note, in this regard, to critics and best actress awards voters who like to toss around that word “fearless”: Playing an “inspiring teacher,” the movingly-handicapped or doning piles of “ugly” makeup is not “fearless.” An actress in her 30s going nude and feigning [implied] anal intercourse on the attic floor after having had two kids in real life… thats a little closer to fearless.)

It’s not a masterpiece. The acting is excellent from a great cast, Todd Fields’ direction is sharp and crisp, the script is literate (even the initially-cheesy voiceover narration works) and I love the final act and the realization that the film has an entirely different take on it’s subject matter than it first appeared. However, at 2 1/2 hours it’s much too long in the 2nd act (seriously, guys, I like to watch Mrs. Winslet bounce around naked as much as anyone, but padding the movie is still padding the movie.) In addition, while performed by capable actors, some of the supporting cast are played much too broadly and become cartoons, particularly Gregg Edelmen as Winslet’s one-dimensional husband and Mary B. McCann as the icy uber-mom Mary Ann.

Still, it wasn’t at all what I was expecting and I’ll call it a happy surprise. Overall, reccomended.

FINAL RATING: 8/10

Minor Spoilers.

As stylistic mashups go, “Children of Men” sets itself a doozy: The narrative machinations of a “lone hero challenges evil empire” scifi-actioner (think “UltraViolet,”) are here transposed into the “body” of a fastidiously-logical, realistic and earthbound “speculative fiction” drama. In other words, while it is indeed the story of a rough-hewn loner (Clive Owen) roped into gaurdianship of what the film stridently avoids calling a “chosen one” against the forces of both a terrorist resistance and a fascist police state of the near future, it all plays out with almost none of the bombast or flair that one would normally expect given the plot summary: Owen’s character is defined by his gift for heroic endurance, yes, but he never quite discovers his inner kung-fu master like the usual heroes of this story, and he retains a human being’s depressing vulnerability to weaknesses significantly less-impressive than Kryptonite (in this case, a tendency to lose his footwear.)

The setting, loosely-adapted from a book by P.D. James, is a near-flung future where some unexplained/unknown oddity has caused humanity to become infertile. There hasn’t been a new baby for 18 years, the world is literally aging into oblivion, and only Britain has managed to survive by turning itself into a xenophobic dictatorship: Cops patrol the streets forcefully-deporting illegal immigrants, corraling them into refugee/concentration camps in big buses labeled “Homeland Security.” (MESSAGE!!!!!!!!!!) But open-war with a revolutionary/terrorist organization half-masquerading as a refugee activist group is looming right around the corner, and the citizenry’s last desperate hope is a near-legend group of elite scientists called The Human Project said to be working to save us all from some hidden island locale.

Amid the squalor, low-level beaurocrat Theo (Owen) finds himself roped into helping a young “fugee” woman who desperately needs to get out of the country for a rendevousz with The Human Project. The reason? Somehow, she’s become pregnant, which makes her an immediate target of both the brutal government and the conniving terrorists, both of whom would likely snatch up a living baby to use as a rallying cry.

As said above, the film is essentially an action movie playing by the physical rules and “tics” of a somber drama. As such, while Theo finds himself having to literally fight his way across the country, the film avoids fisticuffs and weaponry duels in favor of more organic variations: A “car chase” involving a broken-down junker rolling downhill and enemies on foot, or a massive “caught between too armies” battle sequence where the One Man is also the only man without a gun. In addition, a striking number of scenes are filmed as elaborate, extended single-takes; but executed in such a matter-of-fact way that most of them are half-over before you realize your witnessing a remarkably daring work of stunt-shooting.

While it’s not, as some critics have jumped to calling it, “the best science fiction film of the new century,” (that honor STILL belongs to “Equilibrium”), this is an excellent peice of work from director Alfonso Cuarron. You’ll note below that it recieves 9/10 instead of a perfect-10. Sorry, but I had to deduct for the film’s sole but extremely visible bit of flat out “gimme a BREAK!” silliness near the end. See it and you’ll know what I’m talking about… but the bottom line is, SEE IT.

FINAL RATING: 9/10

I know, I know, I’m “late” to this one. The critics finished hailing and mainstream audiences finished not giving a damn months ago. But it’s suddenly up for a slew of pre-Oscar awards, so let’s get to it, SPOILER WARNING in effect, and once more into the breach…

Here we have the latest from director Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu and writer Guillermo Arriaga, in which they drop a whole new set of stories into the same basic format as their last two films, “Amorres Perros” and “21 Grams”: Multiple stories connected to one another by what are supposed to be head-slappingly ironic coincidences are fractured and presented out of chronological order.

The function unstuck-in-time schtick is to abstract the character and situational specifics, making the audience unsure of where sympathy or interest should lay, in order to make us think “more deeply” about Broader Themes, Big Ideas and Important Issues at work in the story. As two of the three stories are set, respectively, in Mexico and Morocco, you kinda know that illegal immigration and terrorism are the two main Important Issues the film wishes us to ruminate on. (Global warming, gay-rights, stem cell research, the 2nd ammendment and national health care are, presumably, waiting for the sequel.)

The title is a reference to the Tower of Babel, one of the more infamously strange “God acting like a world-class dillhole” entries in the wonky earlier chunks of the Old Testament. Short version: Humanity used to all speak the same language, and got so organized and capable that The Almighty felt threatened (“we” were building a tower to equal the height of Heaven) so he gave the ant farm a big hard shake and made everyone speak different languages, so we wouldn’t be able to get along as well. That, plus the setting(s) and the arthouse street-cred pretty much tells you the final moral of the story to begin with: “Boy, people not being able to communicate sure does cause a lot of trouble!”

Interestingly, language-barrier doesn’t come up as much as you’d imagine, and certain main characters self-generate a secondary moral: “Boy, stupid people sure do cause a lot of trouble!” For example, if you are testing the range of your brand-spanking-new rifle… moving automobiles are not the smartest choice for target practice. Also: If you are an illegal alien from Mexico, crossing the border again, this time with two American toddlers in tow and your DUI-prone no-goodnik nephew at the wheel… probably wanna re-think that plan.

The Mexican nanny in question is trying to get back home for the wedding of her son, complicated by the issue of the kids belonging to a recently-unseperated couple (Brad Pitt and Cate Blanchett) who’ve just called to say their Moroccan re-connection vacation has been unexpectedly extended… because the wife has been seriously wounded by the bullet the two Moroccan boys fired at their tour bus for target practice. The shooting touches off an international incident after the American Government (booo! hiss!) raises the possibility of a terrorist connection and hacks off their Morrocan counterparts. The third, and arguably most compelling, story involves the increasing sexual-frustration of a deaf-mute Japanese girl, who’s story is so thinly connected to the others that it feels like an entirely seperate (and frequently better) movie.

It’s all very intriguing to watch this all play out and see who fits where and why, the direction and cinematography are consistently beautiful and the actors are on-poinu. But once you get past that and down to the supposed “depth” of the thing theres not really a lot going on here aside from some heavy-handed commentary on world affairs and heavy dollops of moral messages that are beyond cliche: “Try to understand those different from you.” “Dire situations remind you what’s REALLY important.” “Don’t fire weapons are moving traffic.” “Sometimes, life just sucks.”

Inarritu is a tremendous filmmaking talent, and along with Guillermo del Toro and Alfonso Cuaron is part of a crucial wave of artists doing the Great Work of dragging Spanish/Latin Cinema out of the “all-Almodovar-all-the-time” rut it’s been in for far too long. But this feels too much like going through the motions, even if you put aside the prior two films. I get it, already, we’re all one big human family and it’s amazing how many little coincidences connect us in unexpected ways. I bet he kicks all kinds of ass at Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon… but I found this one a little on the underwhelming side, though theoretically admirable.

FINAL RATING: 7/10

WE ARE MARSHALL
Here we have the (mostly) true story of what happened to a small town that lived and died by it’s college football program when nearly the entire team, coaching staff and “booster” fandom was killed in a horrible plane crash.

What happened next – a charismatic outsider coach (Matthew McConaughey) took the open job and tried to ressurect the new team’s, and the town’s, spirit – has the makings of a Hollywood sure-thing… but the final summation (an unremarkable losing season) not so much.

Thusly, the film veers back and forth uncomfortably between rousing sports heroism and “victory isn’t everything” catharsis, and never settles these contradictory vibes. Director McG, straining for legitimacy beyond his commercial/“Charlie’s Angels” roots, shows visual restraint but little sense of narrative or innovative punch.

Final Rating: 6/10


THE GOOD SHEPHERD
The instant problem with presenting a movie about purporting to relate a names-changed version of “true secret history of the CIA” is that the subject matter undercuts the presentation: It’s difficult to forget that if it really were the case that director Robert DeNiro and his crew were able to ‘blow the lid off” the CIA they wouldn’t BE the CIA. But, once you power through the films’ adopted “window on history” pretense, it’s entirely enjoyable as a finely-cast, effortlessly self-assured flashback to the glory days of Cold War skullduggery.

The film charts a broad, partially-speculative recounting of how the aforementioned Agency grew from a small collective of U.S. covert-liasons to British Intelligence during WWII, culled largely from Yale’s ultra-secret “Skull & Bones” brotherhood, into the powerful entity we know (or at least “know of”) today. The central figure is Edward Wilson (Matt Damon) a patriotic, WASPy Bright Young Thing who sacrifices happiness, family and even his own security for Honor and Duty.

An expectedly top-tier supporting cast including DeNiro himself, Michael Gambon, Billy Crudup, Alec Baldwin and Angelina Jolie (only in Hollywood do you get shotgunned into marrying the sister of your buddy because she got pregnant from your one fling… and she turns out to be Angelina Jolie) provide solid foundations and scene work, but primarily this is Damon’s show and it’s a convincing, affecting performance despite some questionably-minimalist “aging” makeup. Overall, reccomended.

FINAL RATING: 8/10

A sampling of song lyrics from “Dreamgirls”:

We are family
like a giant tree
branching out toward the sky

I’m sorry, but that’s f*cking awful. “We are family, like a giant tree?” Seriously? And keep in mind, this is an in-story song, not part of a performance, which occurs at a pivotal moment with essentially the entire main cast circling one another, somberly intoning these inane, syrupy lyrics like some kind of holy scripture. Oh, and whenever the lyrics get to an “e” sound, everyone takes turns stretching it out in that loud, show-offy throw-my-voice-all-over-the-grid-to-prove-what-amazing-range-I-have fashion.

Eggh, what a frustrating movie…

“Dreamgirls” is one of those based-0n-a-Broadway-classic movies that you’re only supposed to critique in terms of the skill of the adaptation and the visual work. The dialogue, the characters, the lyrics, the MEAT of the thing… you “can’t” criticize that, because the original stage version won a mess of Tonys back in the day, and it’s been pre-enshrined as “great.” Fooey! No, I haven’t seen “Dreamgirls” the play before seeing the movie, but I know melodramatic fluff when I see it and if the play boasts the same trite, hammy dialogue and obvious, cheeseball lyrics then it’s likely not all that good, either.

The story, just so we’re clear, is a roman a clef biopic of “The Supremes” and, by proxy, Diana Ross, Berry Gordy and the Motown musical phenomenon. “The Dreams” are a black female singing trio who get they’re big break when ambitious would-be manager/producer Curtis Taylor Jr. (Jamie Foxx in the Not Berry Gordy role) drafts them as backup singers to flamboyant R&B artist James “Thunder” Early (Eddie Murphy in a sensational, show-stealing James Brown/Marvin Gaye riff) in the early 1960s. Fame soon has them touring as an act unto themselves, the cash-cow of Taylor’s Motown-esque “Rainbow Records” label.

Frustrated by the reality that “black music” can’t become mainstream until it’s appropriated and re-sung by white artists, Taylor masterminds a break into the charts by loosening the “soul” of the music and re-tooling his artists as friendly, non-threatening pop acts. A key part of his master plan is a lineup-change in “The Dreams”: moving “full-figured” soul-belting lead Effie White (Jennifer Hudson, late of the national embarassment known as “American Idol”) to backup and putting slender, fair-featured Deena Jones (Beyonce Knowles as Not Diana Ross) into the lead. It works, as everyone gets rich and Deena becomes a megastar, but this and other events soon spiral into blah, blah, blah… …and everyone learns a valuable lesson about being true to yourself.

The movie is predictable, plain and simple, and as a result no amount of musical heart-pouring or directorial flourish can keep it from being a crushingly dull exercise. Even if you don’t know thing one about the history of Motown, you can pretty-much chart the entire story’s progress from the first scene where we see the girls together and Effie complains about wearing a wig because “store-bought hair AIN’T natural!” You know what her arc is, and what the arc of the movie will be, and what everyone will have to learn. Everyone is a broad archetype, a caricature in a larger-than-life Gospel According To Oprah morality play ruminating on it’s First and Second Commandments: Thou Shalt Keepeth It Real! and Thou Shalt GO, Girl!

The movie’s heart is in the right place, and it’s not that these messages aren’t worth repeating.. it’s just so blunt and shallow about it. Being true to yourself is important. Selling out is bad. Power corrupts. Some things are more important than money. Already knew all that? Well, too bad, because the film doesn’t have any depth beyond those fortune cookie nuggets right there. It’s not BAD, in the direct sense, it’s just not much of anything. I didn’t care.

The musical numbers, ironically the most difficult part of adapting a musical to the screen, are a mixed bag. Most of the songs are trite, though earnestly performed, and the ones that don’t occur in the context of a performance or recording session all come off weird and forced: It doesn’t happen enough, so when the characters “in-story” break into song it comes off jarring, silly and yanks one right out of the story. Say what you will about “Phantom of The Opera,” but this is why they sing almost every damn word they say in it, so they won’t have this problem. Jennifer Hudson’s fearsome performance of “I’m Telling You” is, as you’ve heard, a showstopping and potentially starmaking moment… but it’s just that, a moment, an isolated vignette that barely registers as part of a fractured, narratively incohesive film.

The highlights, where they are, are in the acting department. Hudson is a genuine talent and a terrific singer, though she tends to overact here in a manner that (to me) suggests poor direction than poor acting decisions on her part (memo to the filmmakers: We get it. Effie is a Proud Black Woman. WE GET IT. It is overkill to have her delivering every major “big” line swinging her head around like it’s mounted on a spring. That’s caricature, and it doesn’t work.) Foxx is basically doing a Mephistopholean upgrade on his slick huckster bit from the “Booty Call” era, but it works. Danny Glover shines in a small but important role. But for me, the turn to celebrate comes from Eddie Murphy, giving probably his finest performance in a decade or more imbuing “Thunder” Early with great sympathy, energy and power. It’s a fantastic “I’m still here and I still matter!” job from him, and my interest in the story leaves whenever he does, period.

Beyonce’… look, I’m sorry, but this is the final proof: She’s not even a good actress when she’s essentially PLAYING BEYONCE’ KNOWLES. Can we please stick a fork in this doomed attempt to turn her into a movie star, already? She’s pretty, she can sing, can we let that be enough, please?

I tried real hard to find a way to like this, and I just don’t. At best, I can’t completely despise any film that theorizes the invention of Disco as an apocalyptic event, but that’s all. That this is already being talked up as a serious Oscar contender, and even a likely winner, is depressing but not at all surprising: It’s a safe, shallow, utterly un-challenging bluehair-approved showpeice with ham-handed writing and sledgehammer-delivered moralizing.

Oh, well.

FINAL RATING: 4/10

Okay, so… busy time of year for me. Really busy. Too busy to do big on-time relevant reviews, and for some at this point there wouldn’t be a point. So, here’s some quick-takes:

BLACK CHRISTMAS (2006)
It can’t touch the genre-defining original, a classic sadly forgotten as the film that “loaded the bases” for “Halloween,” by this remake at least gets credit for going all-the-way with the ramped-up tastelessness and secular blasphemy promised by the title and premise. Gore, blood and scantily-clad babeage abound, sure; but the film also piles on psychopathic backstories, child-abuse, seedy love-triangle twists, incest and kills that seem to have been thought up by walking through the Holiday department of a Craft Store and asking “how can we kill someone with that? Or that? Or one of those.” Kind of like a glossier, shinier Troma offering.

THE PURSUIT OF HAPPYNESS
What a wonderful, modest, sincere little movie. It’d be so easy to turn the true story of a man who, literally, will-powers his way from homelessness to stockbroker wealth all while keeping his young son safe and secure during the hard times into treacly, over-sentimental Oscar bait… but this film avoids the easy route and trusts it’s fate to a mezmerizingly genuine performance by Will Smith, who WILL snag an Academy nomination even without the bait. Happily, the film is entirely self-contained: There’s no messageering, no partisan snidery about class and economics one way or the other, it even entirely sidesteps all issues of race. A treat.

NIGHT AT THE MUSEUM
Some movies just happen in the wrong era. “Night at The Musuem” ought to have occured as a Disney vehicle in the early-1960s, and it ought to have been Don Knotts stuck in a magic History Museum who’s exhibits come to life at night. Instead, it’s 2006 and Ben Stiller is the one taking the pratfalls, but it’s cute anyway. Stiller knows enough to hang back, play it cool and let the FX and stuntmen do their work, and what a nice surprise to see Robin Williams opt to underplay it as Teddy Roosevelt. A fairly nifty twist is kept mostly in check, as well, thanks to a canny bit of casting.

ROCKY BALBOA
I liked it. A nice, slow-burn drama working off beats it’s maker knows like the layout of his own bedroom. Stallone gives Rocky as proper sendoff that’s uplifting, exciting and moving without being treacly, goofy or preachy.

Let’s be clear about one thing: The critical drubbing “Eragon,” a studiously average teen-targeted action movie, has taken has (likely) more to do with it’s genre than it’s own merits, or lack there of. The mainstream critical press, by-and-large, has always looked, looks now and will continue to look down it’s collective nose at the fantasy genre. The unprecedented undeniability of excellence in three successive genre-franchises, “Lord of The Rings,” “Harry Potter,” “Narnia,” have made some converts and drawn largely grudging respect from more, but make no mistake: As a composite-being, The Critical Press is still wholeheartedly in agreement with Hugo Dyson’s famously to-the-point “LOTR” critique: “Not another f*cking elf!” They’ve waited patiently for a weaker genre offering to emerge so that they can vent their simmering distaste, and now with “Eragon” the knives are out.

This isn’t to say that “Eragon,” a semi-loose adaptation of a novel primarily famous because author Christopher Paolini was only 17 when he wrote it, ought not be criticized. It should be. It’s not a great film, and in spots it’s downright lackluster. The script is dumbed-down, shallow and frequently lazy. The characters are, for the most part, thinly-sketched, and it resembles other better films FAR too closely. In other words, it has all the same problems as any other average, unspectacular film. It’s just okay. It’s not a keeper. But for me, here’s the bottom line: Between a so-so movie with a dragon and a so-so movie without a dragon, with-a-dragon will win every time. And “Eragon” has a pretty kickass dragon, a statement which summarizes both the strengths and general plot of the movie.

Eragon, for the record, is our main character: A poor boy living on a farm with his uncle who dreams of joining the rebellion against the tyranical overlord oppressing his far-flung fantasy world, soon to realize that he is heir to an ancient but recently-decimated order of supernaturally-powered heroes, in this case magic-using “Dragonriders.” And if that sounds a little familiar, it get’s better: He’ll need the aid of a wise elder teacher (Jeremy Irons) who was also a Dragonrider, who has personal history with the evil overlord (John Malkovich) the great betrayer and destroyer of the Dragonriders. You’ll also find a rebel base, a semi-butch action-heroine princess and a pre-finale side-trip to rescue said damsel from the baddie’s fortress.

So, yes, it’s a little bit like “Star Wars.” Okay, it’s exactly like “Star Wars.” Annoyingly-so, even, though the idealist in me mostly wants to give Paolini and his adapters the benefit of the doubt, and presume that this is more a case of Joseph Campbell being right once again than outright semi-plagiarism. Though it must be said that the shot of Eragon looking longingly up at that sunset makes it really difficult to do so…

The film lives and dies by it’s dragon, Saphira, an (interestingly) female beastie that probably represents the best live-action realization of it’s species since at least “Dragonslayer.” The action scenes featuring Saphira in flight are the highlight of the show, and she gets all the snappiest dialogue (with the voice of Rachel Weisz, no less) via ESP voiceover. The slightly “off” relationship between Eragon and his steed is, in fact, the most interesting thing going on, though the film is either blind-to (or unwilling to explore) how just-this-side-of-creepy it veers with what what is, in the broader strokes, an unusually close relationship between a decidedly young man and what amounts to a more worldly, willful but ultimately-submissive older woman. Or maybe it’s just me being an easy mark for any scenario where in Rachel Weisz continually demands to be ridden…

I don’t know if this story gets any better in the (promised) next-installment, but for now what we have is a so-so, not-bad genre effort. No prizes for originality, but the dragon scenes are fun and Robert Carlyle seems to be enjoying himself as a waaaaay over the top vampire-like evil wizard. Not bad, not great, moving on.

FINAL RATING: 6/10

WARNING: Since the film’s trailers have been telling you almost nothing about the movie, for a change, this review can be considered positively loaded with SPOILERS. You have been warned.

When you get right down to it, Mel Gibson’s “Apocalypto” is really just one more action/chase movie in which a single man makes mincemeat of an army of foes in order to (alternately) rescue and avenge the deaths of his friends and family, dressed up with subtitles and symbolism so that it may (partially) cross-dress as an experimental arthouse exercise. Imagine that Michael Bay has killed Werner Herzog, fashioned his skin into a suit and charged, shreiking, off into the wilderness and you’ll have a pretty good idea what the result feels like: A schizophrenic hobgoblin of a movie that appears to have bound forth fully-formed from the diseased recesses of a dark and troubled mind, careening back and forth between the dreamlike state of a nightmare and the more familiar realm of rigid, lockstep genre formula as Gibson further refines the “Boy Versus The World” mythology he’s been mining as an actor and director since we first met him as Mad Max all those years ago.

It’s been said for quite some time that most, if not all, testosterone wish-fulfillment actioners function as love-letters to primitivism; their heroes so often successful only after embracing their inner cro-magnon. Recall “Die Hard’s” John McClaine, streaked in blood and stripped of his shoes before he can confront the suit-clad Euro-foes. Recall John Rambo’s retreat to the Forest Primeval to gain the edge of his better-armed pursuers in “First Blood.” Recall that same John Rambo again in the sequel, rising camoflauged from the mud, shorn of clothing down to rags and a bare chest, taking down his enemies with weaponry which represents an entire epoch of pre-industrial human civilization… a bow and arrow.

“Apocalypto,” in a way, represents an absolute boiling-down of this particular aspect of the genre’s subtext; it’s hero need not return to The Forest to recharge his heroic instincts, he’s already there: Jaguar Paw (newcomer Rudy Youngblood) is a young husband and father in an unnamed hunter/gatherer tribe still living a peaceful Stone Age day-to-day existence despite their living (unknown to them) just on the outskirts of the advanced Mayan civilization during what is presumably sometime between the late 16th to 17th Century.

It’s through this fascinating choice of setting that the story is able to continue it’s overall merging of outward-otherworldliness with structural-formality: Amusingly, despite the filmmakers’ gutsy achievement in crafting the first major motion picture set entirely among pre-Columbian Native American peoples in a Native American language, the film still manages to place it’s characters in the same basic formula that Native American stories have been limited to for the last few decades: The clash of a good, Earth-centered, nature-connected tribal group (Jaguar Paw’s people) and the evils of a corrupt, ecology-despoiling “advanced” civilization… the sole (but key) difference this time being that the Big Bad City-Dwellers are the also-native Mayans instead of the usual Europeans.

The Mayans sack the Peaceful Village of the good guys, snatch up Jaguar Paw and anyone left standing (JP has managed to hide his son and very pregnant wife in a rocky crevase, promising to retrieve them) and march them off to the Capitol City as sacrifices. They are, we learn, themselves ravaged by plauge and famine which, the film argues, are larger symptoms of a civilization rotting from within. Gibson dwells on the gory pagentry of the Mayans in a showpeice central scene of heart-ripping, head-hacking temple sacrifice. He lingers on the details of a field of corpses or the gatuitous (but undeniably awesome from a veteran-gorehound stanpoint) effects of stone-age axes, spears and arrows on the human skull with an eye that resembles no other filmmaker so much as Ruggero Deodato, the infamous Italian exploitationeer who’s “Cannibal Holocaust”-era lost-in-the-jungle madness Gibson appears to have absorbed wholesale into his growing repetoire of personal psychosis. (And for those who thought that there was no possibility that even the maker of “The Passion of The Christ” could find a way slip a crucifix into a movie about the ancient Mayans, well… you’ll just have to see.)

By astonishing coincidence (a phrase that can describe more than half of the big scenes in the film, just for the record) JP escapes this fate and beats feet back to the wife and kids with a platoon of Mayan Soldiers on his heels. the film holds so rigidly to formula and often outright-cliche that, were it to crop up to this degree in almost any other context it would be nearly unforgivable: Jaguar Paw’s people are set-upon and ravaged by the Mayans in a scene that mimics almost beat-for-beat it’s analouges in “Conan the Barbarian,” Gibson’s own turn in “The Patriot,” and pretty much every other movie that has used this same opening to this same story before. There’s the Pre-Setup Benign Tool That Later Becomes A Crucial Weapon from “Straw Dogs,” the Hero Clasps Trinket Of Dead Or Endangered Loved One For Strength from “Rambo,” the One Vine Above The Quicksand from, well, from every jungle movie ever made, there’s the Leap Of Fate From The Waterfall from… take your pick, really. But here, perhaps, such adherence to the familiar is important: In a film with no recognizable stars, language or even terrain for the majority of it’s prospective audience, the formula serves as both an anchor and a portal through which said audience can enter and find footing.

Less easy to forgive is the fact that it’s 2nd act is, literally, a ludicrous succession of Deus Ex Machina escapes for Jaguar Paw, as he’s aided in his flight from the Mayans by everything from a solar eclipse to a handily-placed viper to an actual Jaguar… all of these mounting coincidences “excused” earlier by… no, I’m not making this up… a plauge-ridden little girl who appears to the Mayans hissing a symbolist prophecy of impending doom. No, really, that’s actually what happens.

Let it not be said that Gibson doesn’t have an eye for detail: I’m no historian, but the costuming and occutraments of the Mayan bad guys look authentic as hell to me, as does the functionality of their lethally-ingenious weaponry. And the film has great fun (and invites us to join in) showing off the way Jaguar Paw turns his forest surroundings into one big arms cache; lobbing beehive “grenades” at his foes and snatching up a brightly-colored frog to assist him in quickly preparing some poison darts. My personal favorite: A brilliant application of ants in the suturing of a wound. By now, in addition, he’s a well-learned stager of action scenes, giving what is essentially a prolonged foot-chase the kinetic thrills of a high-speed pursuit, and he knows how to turn a rain storm into a mini-armageddon in it’s own right. And while I’ve seen more than enough movie moments where childbirth complicates an already-raging action scene, I doubt I’ve ever seen it quite like this.

Putting aside, as best one is able, all the hangups and obsessions of it’s maker (be they the ones screamed at police officers or the ones evident in the filmmaking) “Apocalypto” is a one-of-a-kind animal, and that in and of itself qualifies it as something you should seek out. It’s as brilliantly-realized a work of mad, hell-bent genius as you’re likely to see this year; an action movie with the energy of a madman… crafted by a onetime action movie-star who just might be one himself. Whether or not continued exposure to the deeper and darker corners of the Mind of Mel will be, in the long term, a learning experience or an ordeal for The Cinema as a whole remains to be seen, but this time… THIS time… it’s yeilded something genuinely worthy of study.

FINAL RATING: 8/10