"You won't have Nixon to kick around anymore ..."
-- Richard Nixon, on his 1962 loss to Pat Brown for the Governorship of California

That statement turned out, of course, not to be true; we would have Nixon to kick around for decades more. That statement also concealed a different truth, which is that Nixon -- the hunched, scowling, puritan-satyr of American politics -- could not only take a beating, but also dish one out. Frost/Nixon, Ron Howard's film adaptation of Peter Morgan's stage play, kicks Nixon around, but it also lets him kick back, as TV personality (not journalist or reporter, but personality) David Frost faces Nixon in a series of 1977 interviews for an ambitious, expensive and poorly-planned multi-night TV broadcast. Why would Nixon agree to an on-camera inquisition? Because Frost paid him -- $600,000 -- for the chance to do so, and because Nixon thought it might be a chance to re-emerge from his exile after resigning the presidency in 1974. Two men, their careers in decline, circling each other for a shot at redemption: Frost (Michael Sheen) is wagering his fortune on the chance to re-make his reputation; Nixon (Frank Langella), with neither reputation or fortune, is desperate for a chance to escape infamy.

But Frost/Nixon is not simply the equivalent of Thunderdome for readers of The Nation, where two men enter and one man leaves. Morgan's script is smart enough to make sure there are things hidden under that clash, a quieter film about character and communication, modern media and ancient principles. And we also get the interview field of combat, which drapes the slick surface of modern manners over the kind of brute, bloody battle you normally see only in nature documentaries. The film, like Frost's interviews, is not merely about Watergate -- which is good, because we have, I should think, drained that well of venality fairly dry -- but instead about bigger issues of accountability and process and principle. Frost, stripped of all pretense, was asking Nixon a good question: Who the hell do you think you are? Nixon, stripped of all pretense, was asking an equally good question: Who the hell are you to ask?

One would like to think that they're only asking for so much when they opt to see a flick titled Transporter 3, and that fulfills our end of the bargain. We, the audience, provide the expectations, however modest, and they, the filmmakers, provide the execution. Frank Martin knows when he has to deliver; after all, it's his job.

Olivier Megaton, on the other hand... not so much.

Megaton has taken on the job after serving as second-unit director on Hitman. Given that both stories are about stoic bald dudes kicking butt across Europe with a native femme in tow, I'd guess that's as good a qualifier as any, though not good enough in hindsight. Our stoic bald dude is Frank Martin, natch, and he's once again played by Jason Statham with all the steely glares and ab crunches that come with the territory (and seemingly every role he takes).

Last November, Warner Bros. released Fred Claus, a Christmas-set comedy pairing up lead Vince Vaughn with Rachel Weisz.

This November, New Line released Four Christmases, a Christmas-set comedy pairing up lead Vince Vaughn with Reese Witherspoon.

Mere coincidence, you might ask, despite the fact that New Line is owned by Warner Brothers, not to mention the shared initials of both the titles and the actresses playing the love interests? Perhaps, but happenstance loses my vote when the best one can say for Four Christmases is that it's a marginally better holiday romp than the likes of Fred Claus.

Milk is a well-intentioned film, but it's also well-made, and it never confuses nobility of purpose with narrative direction. It's full of inspiration and aspiration, but at the same time, it never kids itself -- or us -- about the tricky, twisty ways of modern American urban politics. It's a sincere plea for equality that doesn't ignore the challenges of prejudice and fear. It celebrates past victories and speaks to current struggles; it mourns devastating losses and is still a hymn to hope. It commemorates a man and spotlights a movement; it avoids cliché feel-good moments but still wrings richness out of moments that feel good. It has a heart, and a brain; it's tender and loving while also being sexy and hot; it features a brilliant performance from Sean Penn but surrounds him with other talented actors doing superb work. Milk is adult and intelligent in ways many films are not, and it's rousing and enthralling in a way few films are. It's a minor miracle of sheer film making joy and determination, and one of the best American films of 2008.

Directed by Gus Van Sant (Elephant, My Own Private Idaho), Milk is radically conventional; it's also subtly, gracefully, innovative and sharp. Best of all, Milk shows us a man who may have been a martyr, but who was most assuredly not a saint -- and makes us respect his accomplishments all the more by showing us the public work and private deals it took to make them happen. Sean Penn stars as Harvey Milk, a New York white collar worker who, at 40, came out of the closet, moved to San Francisco in 1972 with his lover Scott Smith (James Franco) and opened a business and got active -- first as a community organizer, then as a political candidate and ultimately a San Francisco City Supervisor in 1977, the first openly gay elected official in California. Milk was killed in 1978, when his fellow Supervisor, Dan White (Josh Brolin) shot and killed San Francisco Mayor George Moscone and Milk in the wake of White's resignation. It's hard to imagine an audience member not knowing this going into Milk, and yet Van Sant wisely puts it up front, to contextualize Milk's work and to let the film -- and the audience -- commemorate a life instead of merely chronicling a death.

With his previous feature film Australian director Baz Luhrmann came within tasting distance of a Best Picture Oscar, as well as several other awards. Moulin Rouge! (2001) did win two, for Costume Design and Art Direction, but all the glory that year went to other things. He must have taken notes; The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring cleaned up in the technical categories with four Oscars, and Black Hawk Down took two more. Two serious, disease-of-the-week dramas won in the "upper" categories: A Beautiful Mind and Iris. The following year, Luhrmann must have watched while the jaunty Chicago won Best Picture, and Roman Polanski won Best Director for his lengthy Holocaust drama, The Pianist.

So Luhrmann set out to work on his fourth film, Australia. Maybe it started out once, many years ago, as a 90-minute pop-Western about driving cattle and saving the farm. This entire section is bright and quick and exciting -- and lots of fun. But then perhaps he decided that that just wasn't enough, or at least it's not enough for anyone who wants to win a great big Best Director trophy. So at the 90-minute mark, Australia more or less stops, transforms itself into a giant-sized World War II drama, complete with grayness, dropping bombs and angel choruses, and keeps going for another interminable hour. But is it enough to fool Academy voters?

By Jette Kernion (originally published on 10/29/06 -- Austin Film Festival)

I wasn't sure what to expect from a movie called Special, "special" being a word that gets used snarkily and ironically these days. Fortunately, Special turned out to be a good narrative feature with elements of comedy and drama, giving character actor Michael Rapaport a chance to really shine in a complex lead role.

Rapaport plays Les, who works as a meter maid -- only of course, being a guy, he's a parking enforcement officer. He won't admit to feeling depressed, but his job is causing him problems, so he signs up for a pharmaceutical trial of a new antidepressant, Special (Specioprin Hydrochloride). The drug is supposed to remove self-doubt; in Les, this means that he believes he has developed superpowers. He can feel himself floating in midair, and he can hear other people's thoughts. Perhaps he can even walk through walls. Is he becoming a superhero or progressively insane? His friends who run a comic-book store aren't sure whether they believe him, and the doctor who gave Les the pills is acting extremely odd. But Les is determined to pursue a life of heroic crime fighting, and he's not going to stop taking his Special pills.

(We're re-posting this review from CineVegas now that the film is available to rent or buy through Amazon's VOD service. Check it out.)

By: Eric D. Snider

If a comedy troupe like Broken Lizard or The Whitest Kids U Know had made Lars and the Real Girl, it might have turned out like Happy Birthday Harris Malden, a sweet, funny, and very odd comedy about growing up and accepting reality. It's the work of a Philadelphia filmmaking quintet called Sweaty Robot, and the opening credits are no more specific than that: "Written and directed by Sweaty Robot." I like that. The film is about friendship, and it was made by a group of friends.

Granted, making a movie with a bunch of your friends isn't always a good idea -- Adam Sandler, I'm looking at you -- but Harris Malden benefits from Sweaty Robot's familiarity and camaraderie. While it has some jokes that probably only the guys themselves think are funny, the film is so good-natured and charming, almost innocent, that even when I wasn't laughing I was content. It's a movie that wants to be your pal, and hey, doggone it, what's not to like?

Look, I know the drill. If any element of the Twilight movie varies even slightly from the way you pictured it in your head, then it is the worst film ever made and you hate it and Catherine Hardwicke has ruined your childhood. Or, alternatively, you've built up so much anticipation for the movie that you're going to love love LOVE it no matter what, even if it's bad, you don't care, you refuse to listen to any criticisms LA LA LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU. I know how it goes.

The book's most devoted fans are seeing the film anyway, so I guess I'm talking to everyone else -- those who haven't read the book, or who (like me) read it, mostly enjoyed it, then didn't give it another thought. Is the Twilight movie of any use to those people? Or, as a friend asked me, does it work purely as a vampire movie?

Oh, heavens, no. Noooooo. This is not a vampire movie. This is a somber teen romance that happens to have some vampires in it. Little attempt is made to establish the mythology of the bloodsuckers, and the supernatural elements are downplayed -- a wise move, since the special effects, when they are necessary, are at about the level you'd expect from a movie that is more focused on romance than sci-fi action.

All of which is in keeping with the tone of Stephenie Meyer's book, which is eight parts romance and two parts action/fantasy. That's why it's been such a phenomenal success with women, and why the male-dominated geek industry -- the Nerderati, if you will -- has been so skeptical of that success. "What?" they scoff. "A super-popular vampire book that we, as men, AREN'T interested in? Inconceivable! It must be terrible, and its popularity is probably being over-reported!"

I'm trying to muster up some enthusiasm for Disney's latest animated film, Bolt. It's cute. It has funny pigeons. My eight-year-old niece is going to like it, especially since Miley Cyrus is involved. It's the first non-Pixar Disney feature produced by John Lasseter, who directed the Toy Story movies and Cars. It's got Hollywood jokes in it, including a director voiced by James Lipton, and a comically pushy agent. And yet I never thrilled to the story or the characters; I wasn't half as amused as I'd been by Kung Fu Panda, a film for kids I saw earlier this year.

The story should sound familiar to anyone who grew up with Lassie movies or other animal-road-trip films, but with a Hollywood twist. The title character, a cute dog called Bolt (John Travolta), is fiercely attached to "his person," teenage Penny (Miley Cyrus). Bolt saves Penny's life on a regular basis as she and her dad are pursued by the evil Dr. Calico and his nasty cats ... or so he thinks. The truth is that Bolt is the star of a TV series, but the cast and crew are very careful not to let him know that he's not in real-life situations. So he believes he's a genetically engineered dog with laser eyes and amazing strength and a supersonic bark. When Bolt is separated from Penny and ends up halfway across the country on his own, for the first time he's in a world that isn't a soundstage or his trailer. Now, how will he get back to Penny?

Remarkably faithful to the spirit of its source material, the film version of Twilight crams most of the key episodes from Stephenie Meyer's novel into its breathless, 122-minute running time. Under the direction of Catherine Hardwicke (Thirteen), Twilight gallops along handsomely, showcasing the cloudy, misty beauty of its gorgeous Pacific Northwest forest locations; you can practically smell the pine trees and feel the crunch of fallen leaves beneath your feet. Using voice-over narration sparingly, screenwriter Melissa Rosenberg trots out all the major (and most of the minor) characters from the book, recounting the story in abbreviated fashion while demonstrating respect for Meyer's novel and its huge, faithful audience.

Twilight may not add up to much more than the sum of its parts, but those parts can be mighty entertaining, especially when handsome Edward (Robert Pattinson, oozing uncertain charm) is whooshing through the woods with plucky Bella (Kristen Stewart, self-assured and determined) on his back. Still, the romance at the heart of the book has been shorn of some of its heart in the translation to the big screen, sacrificed on the altar of a broader demographic. Readers of the book could feel somewhat shortchanged by the relentless emphasis on forward momentum rather than romantic fantasy; the flip side is that newcomers can enjoy the whirlwind pace and the brooding, ominous atmosphere, and everyone can revel in the spectacle of flying vampires playing a pinball version of sandlot baseball.

By Kim Voynar (reprinted from 05/16/2008 -- Cannes Film Festival)

Arnaud Desplechin's film Un Conte de Noel (A Christmas Tale), playing in competition here at Cannes, is a tragically comic tale of love, death, and familial strife and forgiveness. The film centers around Junon (Catherine Deneuve) and her husband Abel (Jean-Paul Roussillon), whose oldest child, Joseph, is diagnosed at a young age with Burkitt's lymphoma.

The boy's disease is curable only with a bone marrow transplant, and neither the parents nor his younger sister, Elizabeth, are compatible. The couple conceives another child in the hopes of making a match to cure their son, but the third child, Henri, is also incompatible, and Joseph dies at the age of six. Eventually the grieving parents have a fourth child, Ivan, and in time the family's wounds over the death of the eldest son heal ... but not really.

By: Scott Weinberg (review reprinted from 04/27/08 -- Tribeca Film Festival)

Even at film festivals, my tastes generally run towards the dark, the funny, or the weird movies -- but I've always had a real soft spot for all things Irish, so as I browsed through my film guide I found a good option called Eden. Based on the award-winning stage play of the same name, Eden is about not much more than the slow disintegration of a marriage -- just as the couple is about to celebrate their 10th wedding anniversary, no less. Gee, that sounds like fun, doesn't it? OK, so Eden isn't exactly a "fun" movie -- but it is one of the most honest, touching, and quietly insightful "people stories" I've seen in quite some time. And that sort of experience is definitely "fun," albeit in a decidedly grown-up way.

Clocking in at a brisk 84 minutes (and without a wasted frame in there), Eden tells the tale of Billy and Breda, a seemingly contented -- but actually quite bored and uncommunicative -- married couple who have slowly come to take each other for granted. The spouses obviously still love one another, but there's nothing there in the way of spontaneity, passion or surprises. Breda hopes that their upcoming anniversary will smooth things over a bit, but it's pretty clear that this couple is suffering from a few quiet years of "going through the motions." Billy is a good provider and a loyal dad to their two children, but he seems to be on the cusp of a seriously embarrassing midlife crisis. For her part, Breda (like most women, regardless of age) simply wants to feel wanted -- and Billy's not exactly delivering the goods in the affection department.

By Kim Voynar (reprinted from 03/17/08 -- SXSW Film Festival)

Quick, raise your hand if you're a Harry Potter fan. Yeah, there are a lot of boy wizard fans, which is probably why a documentary about Harry Potter fandom sounded like a great idea. We Are Wizards, though, is not so much a documentary about Harry Potter fandom in general, as it is about the "Wizard Rock" bands that have grown up around the franchise, and a couple of the bigger Harry Potter fan sites.

The film introduces us to some of these Wizard Rock bands, including Harry and the Potters (brothers Paul and Joe DeGeorge), Draco and the Malfoys (brothers Brian Ross and Bradley Mehlenbacher), and The Hungarian Horntails, headed up by seven-year old punk rocker Darius and his four-year-old brother, Holden, who write songs they call "dragon rock."

Remove all proper nouns from the equation and Quantum of Solace isn't a B+ action flick. It's brisk and shiny, partially smart and frequently flashy; it's got loads of chases, escapes, fights, and explosions, as well as a game cast and a leading man who really sells the physical stuff. The plot is nothing more than your standard "angry spy on a mission" hoo-hah, but it works well enough to support the sport and the spectacle ... so why is it that Marc Forster's Quantum of Solace also feels like a missed opportunity, kind of an also-ran, and sort of a day late and a dollar short? Oh that's right. Because this is supposed to be a James Bond movie.

The 22nd James Bond movie, to be precise, and if you haven't checked into the series since the days of Moore or Dalton -- and you happened to start here instead of with Casino Royale -- you'd be absolutely stunned to see how stripped-down the character has become. Call it a combined effort between three screenwriters, numerous producers, and a stern-looking lead -- but this particular version of 007 has become pretty one-note in rather short order: The guy's a lug. A bad-ass, quietly noble, and effortlessly believable movie hero ... but where's the charm? The ambiguity? The escapist fun in trotting along with a confidently capable super-spy? I know Bond isn't the deepest character in the annals of fiction, but in his latest flick he's been fitted into an acrobatic grump with a basic grudge. This time out the angered agent sets out to track down the killer of his beloved Vesper, only to realize that, yep, another egomaniacal super-tycoon has secret plans that are both greedy and evil.

In a gloomy urban German nowhereland, morose 60-something Edmond (Vadim Glowna) walks the streets alone, the surrounding prison-bar railings and angular staircases framing his solitary stroll as well as mirroring his feelings of being trapped by his past. Did his wife and daughter die accidentally in a car crash or was it suicide, he wonders, a depressing, unshakable fixation that spurs an old friend of his, Kogi (Maximilian Schell), to recommend that he visit a clandestine establishment where elder gentlemen can sleep alongside slumbering young women.

These heavily sedated sleeping beauties cannot be awakened nor do they remember their nocturnal rendezvous, a situation that hints at deviant sex but, for Edmond, merely provides an opportunity to freely talk about love, life, transience, his deceased spouse and child, and his mother, all topics which he expounds upon while lying naked next to his comatose companions. Is, as he wonders, the mysterious proprietor of this business, Madame (Angela Winkler), the "bringer of death"? Are the dead bodies of certain girls being surreptitiously removed from the premises in the back of a car? Is Kogi somehow mixed up in Madame's strange enterprise, which cautions clients against forming emotional attachments and forbids them outright from following the ladies during the day?