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Released within a year of the novel, this potent Steinbeck adaptation sees a hard-working Oklahoma family through a bitter eviction, an arduous cross-country relocation and a desperate fight for survival near the crowded California coast. Along the lonesome desert highway, they encounter cruelty and kindness, hope and hardship, life and loss. Depression-era America was still a fresh reality at the time of filming, which makes its portrayal less a dramatized dash of hindsight and more of a living testament.

The book's broad themes, while tempered, remain intact. To be honest, Steinbeck's version can be downright ruthless in its many depictions of human greed and life beneath the bottom rung. That’s partly what I loved about it - the brutal, unflinching honesty of it all - but I can forgive an eighty-year-old film for averting its gaze from time to time, so long as the message rings true. In this case, the big-screen rework slices away most of the political messaging and concludes its story in a more optimistic place than the novel, but the plot, trimmed and compressed as necessary, still shines. It’s impossible to replicate the rich, deep characterization of a good Steinbeck novel in a two-hour movie, but this one does a fine job of distilling the important players to more digestible versions of themselves without losing their essence.

As adaptations of classic novels go, The Grapes of Wrath is pretty darn good. Especially so considering its age, and the various competing influences that could’ve derailed its narrative. Compared to East of Eden, it’s night-and-day.

A bleak, moody dose of otherworldly weirdness from artist Yoshitaka Amano (Final Fantasy, Vampire Hunter D) and writer/director Mamoru Oshii (Patlabor, Ghost in the Shell). As this is primarily intended as an artistic (or poetic?) exercise, the story doesn’t make a lick of sense. Something about a young girl in a floating cathedral, crashing into the ocean and then exploring an abandoned gothic cityscape while caring for a head-sized egg. She meets a rugged male warrior, twice her size but with matching shock-white hair (95% of Amano’s character designs share this feature), and the two proceed to sleep, share Biblical allegories and gaze silently into the abyss. Elsewhere, a squad of ninja launch an all-out assault on a school of gigantic, fish-shaped shadows before disappearing into the night. No further explanation is necessary there, I guess.

Cryptic and weird, drab and sluggish, I found Angel’s Egg dull and unrewarding. The expectation that someone, somewhere, will eventually do something of interest is swiftly beaten out of us, amidst the leads’ glacial migration from one sooty, towering temple to the next. By the time it all draws to a close, after a merciful 71 minutes, I felt little more than relief. There’s style on display here, oodles and oodles of style, but no spirit or structure.

Robert Downey Jr. takes the title role in this dramatized biography of the great pioneering silent movie star. Chaplin’s real life was stuffed with scandalous tidbits - romances with much younger women, an ugly paternity suit, clashes with the Hollywood elite, accusations of communism - and those all make it into the film, but muster very little power. Perhaps because they’re noted and discarded so quickly, mere bumps in the golden-paved road that barely cause an inconvenience. The film tries to excuse this with a flimsy framing device, the gray-haired star discussing his career with a biographer and intentionally skipping the difficult or revealing bits, but I don’t buy it. Instead it feels intentionally glossy and reverent, a take that’s more into its subject as a heroic underdog than a real, flawed human being.

And hey, great, I revere Chaplin too. We don’t need to drag him through the mud to make this biopic interesting... but it does need to be interesting. In that crucial respect, Chaplin is a whiff. Intriguing as it may be to see Tony Stark cosplaying as the little tramp, Marisa Tomei as Mabel Normand, Kevin Kline as Douglas Fairbanks (perfect casting) and an underaged Milla Jovovich as one of Chaplin’s underaged brides, there’s very little to carry this film beyond sentiment and star power.

A true coattail-rider, told with a dearth of energy and enthusiasm, which is ironic as those are precisely the traits that have made its subject so beloved in the hundred-plus years since his heyday.

It’s surprising, in retrospect, that The Thing wasn’t better received by contemporary reviewers. Granted, it faced unusually stiff theatrical competition in E.T. and Blade Runner, both less than two weeks old, which certainly stole a great deal of its thunder. At the hour of The Thing’s opening, Spielberg’s family-friendly blockbuster had already established a popular, positive outlook on alien relations (basically the antithesis of The Thing’s overwhelming nihilism), while Ridley Scott’s sci-fi opus was exploring equally bleak tones and mature, ambiguous themes. There’s no room for three films to coexist at the top, particularly ones with such similarities. Public sentiment agreed that John Carpenter’s small-scale saga of a fierce, faceless extraterrestrial attack in the Antarctic desolation couldn’t hold a candle. Fortunately, hindsight has been more forgiving.

What a ride this is. Carpenter leans hard on the suspense, skillfully employing the locale’s smothering isolation as amplification in much the same way Scott did with Alien, just a few years prior. The nature of the beast, as an invisible, corrupting force, is a brilliant device for this type of story. Nobody’s safe and nobody can be trusted, not even oneself. Late in the crisis, when the team has finally developed a reliable blood test, that fear is palpable. We can see it in their widened eyes and held breath: what if I’m already infected? Their uncertainty intensifies our own, heightening tensions to unbearable levels. In this, Carpenter teaches a master class, and the payoff - a series of lumpy, repulsive creature effects from Rob Bottin - are worth the price we pay. When the alien mass sprouts from its living host, the results are car-crash grotesque, all melted flesh and unnatural deformity. Appropriately powerful and haunting, alien but also eerily familiar, they shock and disgust, every single time.

There’s no two ways about it: this is a classic. An intelligent, potent, thrilling example of science fiction and horror that's right up there with the best of each genre. Tragic that the poor initial reception had such a negative impact on Carpenter’s career.

As with most blockbuster disaster movies, there isn’t a lot of scientific accuracy in The Day After Tomorrow. It’s much happier placing an emphasis on hand-wringing anticipation and large-scale destruction than minding the boring constraints of reality. I think audiences are happier that way, too. Let’s just get it out of the way, then: this is really dumb, its core message is pre-school simple and it’s not going to make sense when we poke and prod at the weirder bits. There. Now I can exhale.

What this leaves behind is a straightforward, ice-themed survival adventure on two fronts. We’ve got a group of teens, on a field trip to Manhattan, who get stranded in the public library during a deadly freeze. And then there’s a determined dad (coincidentally, also the only scientist on the planet who saw this coming) who bundles up tight and sets off on an expedition to bring the kids home safely. Hundreds of thousands die, shopping malls are buried under snow drifts, ocean liners run aground in Times Square and a pack of wolves escapes from the Central Park Zoo. All factor into their own obvious, self-explanatory set pieces. Well, maybe not the mass fatalities. Those just play as extra background color.

Honestly, as the genre goes, this isn’t such a bad example. It crams in all the expected CG shots (the New York tsunami and Los Angeles supertornado are especially memorable) and there’s a lot of stupid, manufactured suspense, but it knows when to show restraint and the character work is actually pretty strong. Four years removed from Donnie Darko, Jake Gyllenhaal was way too good for this kind of flick, but he doesn’t let that knowledge color his performance as the brainy, brooding young adult who’s accidentally shut in with his teen crush for the winter.

Not a good movie, not even close, but a decent enough spectacle and that’s all it intends to be. This might not be one of Roland Emmerich’s best, but it’s also a far, far cry from his worst.

After losing custody of his kids for, basically, being a big kid, Robin Williams goes undercover as a British nanny so he can remain a part of their lives. While he’s initially unprepared for the rigors of housekeeping, and the little ones almost immediately see through the disguise, he soon finds his rhythm and grows to become an indispensable resource for the family, not to mention a close confidant for his ex-wife. Although he often abuses that position (especially when the wife shows interest in a former flame), in general he’s a more active, responsible parent under the wig and cardigan than he ever was as a traditional father.

This is another weak, by-the-numbers Chris Columbus picture, elevated by a manic, largely-improvised performance from Williams. Credit the director for the liberty he grants in that respect, allowing his star to completely take over and alter the tone of several scenes, but man alive, the nuts and bolts of the film are completely inept and flavorless. That’s something I’ve noticed in most of Columbus’s efforts behind the camera: they just aren’t very well-made, with the best entries (Home Alone, for instance) succeeding in spite of his pervasive, amateurish tendencies. They all feel like big-budget Hallmark movies; broad, hammy and superficial. This is no exception. It’s just a quick-lipped Robin Williams dress-up show, nothing more.

I knew a guy like Scott Pilgrim in college. Likable, witty and talented, but also completely self-absorbed and head-over-heels in love with the idea of being in love. Neither had the patience to maintain a long-term relationship, but that’s not really what they were after, as evidenced by the trail of broken hearts in their wake. For this type, falling in love is about one moment in time, not minding a sustained flame. They’re chasing the spark, that microscopic flutter that accompanies every all-encompassing crush. Eventually, hopefully, they grow out of it and learn that deeper love is about give-and-take, compassion and sacrifice, learning to care about someone else more than you do yourself. I take Scott Pilgrim’s arc like that; a dawning realization that hey, I’m not the only person in the world and hey, it sucks to be discarded by someone you still see as the center of the universe. Not sure if my college buddy ever made the same transition.

At the start of this story, Scott’s a terrible boyfriend. He cheats because he’s too cowardly to break up with his significant other, then moans about the awkward conversations to follow. He’s a walking, talking relationship vortex until he’s swept up in the current of another, more powerful storm. That cyclone is named Ramona Flowers, and her history is so messy she’s tailed by “Seven Evil Exes,” an assortment of bitter former lovers who seek battle with the new guy. Director Edgar Wright, no stranger to offbeat love tales, leaves room for these brawls to get as wild and crazy as they wanna be, with most fights accompanied by a high-tempo tune from Scott’s on-screen garage rock band. It’s all presented with oodles of creativity, a great ongoing soundtrack and a striking, one-of-a-kind retro video game aesthetic, but does sometimes get a bit carried away with so many layers of eccentricity. Michael Cera is well-suited for the leading role, all clumsy and weird, with a shockingly rich cast of name actors present to add extra sound and fury. Still pretty good, but I remembered it being much better.

Following an abrupt leap through time and space at the climax of Evil Dead II, harassed horror hero Ash Williams finds himself stranded in the Middle Ages. There, sword-wielding knights admire his shotgun, unkempt villagers ogle his Oldsmobile and learned village elders are dazzled by the science textbooks stuffed in his trunk. Pulled into a conflict between neighboring kingdoms, Ash unmasks their common enemy (an evil zombie horde), proves he’s adept at the art of decapitation and agrees to stem the flow of marching dead at its source: a lost magical text dubbed Necronomicon.

Despite the differences in setting and scale, that’s a pretty similar premise to the first two films. Fight wicked dead things, discover cursed book bound in flesh, recite demonic incantations and smash the big boss. This shouldn’t be surprising, as the second film was already little more than a polished re-telling of the first with a few extra nods, winks and evil, disembodied hands. And besides, no one really watches a Sam Raimi zombie movie for the plot, do they? This particular variety of cult-friendly jam is all about the insanely wacky scenarios, goopy creature effects and egregiously bad dialogue, as wrangled and amplified by its granite-jawed leading man, Bruce Campbell.

In this third installment, Campbell again dominates the screen, one-upping his solo performance with the prop hand by playing both hero and villain, not to mention a dozen itty-bitty munchkin versions of himself in the loony funhouse scene that anchors the second act. He’s the lifeblood of the film, striking badass pinup poses, glistening through all the action scenes, delivering a fiery speech or two and spitting enough hilariously awful catchphrases to be borderline unhealthy. Seriously, how did he keep a straight face through all of this?

As a no-holds-barred playground for one specific actor (and/or one specific type of fan), Army of Darkness hits the mark. It may not be quite as much fun as its predecessor - the medieval setting makes for an awkward fit amidst all the schlocky horror themes - but that certainly doesn’t mean it’s no fun at all. A proud example of loose, silly, uncensored pulp that knows better than to overstay its welcome.

Ignoring the warnings of local pub-goers, a pair of indifferent American backpackers stumble off the main road, encroach upon the wrong rain-soaked pasture and bump into a sharp, furry piece of European folklore. One of the young men is immediately sliced to bloody ribbons, with the other hustling toward the same fate until a late reprieve drops him, instead, in a hospital bed. There, he suffers vivid nightmares, colorful hallucinations, stifling hot flashes and inexplicable bouts of bloodlust before the state deems him adequately recovered and releases him to terrorize the city.

Part early ‘80s gore-horror and part early ‘80s sex comedy, An American Werewolf in London isn’t an especially strong example of either. Fortunately, the real emphasis is (rightly) placed on Rick Baker’s grotesque, groundbreaking special effects work. We skate right past the protagonist’s clumsy flirtations with a cute nurse and silly arguments with an increasingly-decomposed former travel buddy, but linger for ages on the agony of transformation when the switch flips and he finally goes full werewolf. The beast itself may seem a bit tame by today’s standards, propped up by smoke and mirrors as it is, but the bone-breaking metamorphosis scenes remain delightfully repugnant, twisted and squirm-inducing. Extra kudos to lead werewolf David Naughton for really pushing those over the top with a chilling physical (and vocal) performance.

As a pioneer in the emerging laugh/scream subgenre, it’s easy to see how this irreverent take on a once-serious subject would go on to influence films like Ghostbusters, Beetlejuice and, much later, Shaun of the Dead. Writer/director John Landis was brimming with fresh ideas at this point in his career, but still very raw, as evidenced by the loose plot structure and hollow ending.

When I first heard they were making another one of these, I groaned. When I saw the title, I buried my head in my hands. Indy’s last adventure, 2008’s Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, didn’t leave me with much hope for the franchise, and that first impression - an abrasive, clunky moniker - stunk with precisely the same odor. Man, do I really want to put myself through this again? The first three Indiana Jones films are an indelible part of my cinematic childhood. What’s the point in dragging their names back through the mud? I don’t really need to see an eighty-year-old Harrison Ford don the fedora and try to move like a younger man. Do I?

Well, curiosity sometimes makes us do funny things. Nostalgic fondness, too. And, despite my better judgment, I did indeed take the time to breathe deep, hold my nose and sit through the ’23 model. And wouldn’t you know it, it’s not half as bad as I’d feared. Several important lessons have been learned from that preceding misfire, and while I wouldn’t go so far as to put this on the same pedestal as the first three (not even Temple of Doom), it’s still a great relief. Good enough that I felt no embarrassment about watching, at any rate, though I remain unconvinced about the need for its existence.

Like most of the other Indies, even the good ones, the plot involves an international MacGuffin hunt. Our hero has, and then loses, possession of an ancient mathematical artifact that can somehow transport skilled users through time and space. Something of an analog flux capacitor, in other words. Indy thinks it belongs in a museum, but a small pack of Nazi leftovers (including ringleader Mads Mikkelsen) sees it as a means to revive their evil empire. During the pursuit, we catch up with several recurring members of the broader Jones family (many offscreen), cross paths with the Apollo 11 astronauts, endure a thrilling tuk-tuk chase in Tangier (easily the film’s best scene) and meet a feisty prodigal goddaughter. Who, for what it’s worth, represents one of the more valuable items learned from Crystal Skull. She’s no force-fed Shia Labeouf. The stakes aren’t so artificially high, either, with less supernatural mumbo jumbo and (thank goodness for this) more practical effects. The CG in Dial of Destiny is a crutch, an enhancement, not the constant center of attention like it was in Crystal Skull.

So, yeah, Indiana Jones 5 is better than the abomination that came before. I might even say it’s a mildly above-average old-timers' action movie. It doesn’t feel so much like a classic adventure serial, though, lacking the magic that made the first trilogy sing, and I think the dial itself is partially to blame. There’s just no romance in chasing a wholly-invented artifact; not like there is for an ark of the covenant or holy grail. Those probably never existed either, but generations of treasure-hunters clearly felt otherwise and their documented, accumulated conviction lends a certain, tangible sense of history and authenticity that’s missing here. Archimedes’ dial may be shiny and bright, but in comparison to the genuine article(s) it’s just fool’s gold.

This leisurely adaptation of one of Jules Verne’s most extraordinary voyages sends us on a breakneck race to circumnavigate the globe in a then-unthinkable two and a half months. As more than eight decades had already passed since the book's publication, the filmed version takes some liberties with the source material, but most deviations are for the better. The famous flight in a hot air balloon, for example, was culled from a different Verne novel and has since become one of the tale’s most enduring images. The protagonist's French butler has seen his ethnicity swapped to suit the latin star Cantinflas, a popular foreign comedian whose unique brand of energetic charisma breathes life into a number of floundering scenes.

As travel and culture are essential themes, we’re treated to a great number of panoramic vistas and unique set designs. The route doesn’t make a lot of sense, given the urgency of the trip, but I’m willing to forgive that in the name of a little extra international flavor. Each destination gets its chance to shine, with a heavy emphasis placed on costume and set design, and the constant cultural crash courses feel earnest and celebratory despite a bit of common western bias. Worst of those offenses: casting lily-white Shirley MacLaine as an Indian princess (she studied for a semester in London, we’re told). But that kind of thing is to be expected of 1950s Hollywood.

Verne novels aren’t really regarded for their depth, and in that respect the film is completely loyal. This is just a flowery concept that’s thumped and beaten for every ounce of superficial value, offering no more insight or meaning than a travel agency brochure. It’s a voyage, after all, not a character piece, and despite a literal cast of thousands, loaded with cameos, the finished product can’t quite support its own weight. Without the top-notch production design, it would’ve been a total bore.

A wild and wacky dose of neon-shaded night club jams and inner-city kung fu action that snags the spirit of silly 1980s big-box cinema in a quaint, lower-budget bottle. Wearing its Hong Kong inspiration on both sleeves, The Last Dragon tracks a skilled, naïve young martial artist in his quest to walk the honorable path through an increasingly dark, jaded urban streetscape. On an open-ended trek to discover and master an ill-defined mystical power, he dodges challenges and provocations, crosses a corporate bigwig, rescues a sorta-famous singer / late-night TV host and defends the honor of the family pizza parlor.

Clunky and awkward, but in precisely the ways that usually work for movies of this vintage, this plucky cult film draws strength from its many holes and missteps. Take the leading man, for example; Taimak (aka Bruce Leeroy) was lifted straight from the local martial arts scene and learned to act on the job. The inexperience shows - really, really shows - but his blunt delivery and vacant expressions jive with the ultra-pure, simplistic character he’s playing. And, when it comes time to put up or shut up in the final battle, his transformation from a vanilla do-gooder to a newly confident, empowered ass-kicker is all the more effective for it. He still can’t act, but that’s not so important when you’re just spitting cool lines and trading lightning-gold wheel kicks with the Shogun of Harlem.

In the end, this a decidedly mixed bag. The opening chapter is electric, a joyous helping of pure ‘80s mayhem that’s so deliciously ludicrous, I wanted to share clips with everyone in my address book. It lulls badly in the middle, where we’re assaulted by several atrocious musical numbers and the story does nothing but tread water, but the payoff is worth those labor-heavy scenes. Come to think of it, a more proficient production may have actually spoiled this sauce. Let’s call it enthusiastically flawed.

Identical women, born on the same day to different corners of Europe, subconsciously influence each other’s lives. Though they never meet - only a brief sighting from across a crowded town square - their shared extra-sensory connection is deep and profound. Doubly so when one suddenly collapses and dies during a choral performance. Across the miles, a drastic mood swing shows us that the other is immediately aware of her loss. After experiencing that moment of heavy, inexplicable grief, she develops a newfound appreciation for life’s little delights and a fresh attraction to love.

Though its plot may be limited and often confusing, there’s something intrinsically seductive and alluring at play here. The film’s technical warmth and rich visual tones deserve recognition, but I think its star is the real reason everything comes together. Irène Jacob plays both characters, on-screen for nearly the entire running time, and displays a rare degree of cinematic magnetism. A quiet and understated actress, she single-handedly carries the story’s weight, conveying complicated emotions with subtlety and nuance. And it doesn’t hurt that she’s a certifiable knockout, effortlessly gorgeous in even the most mundane of acts.

A critically imperfect, but emotionally entrancing, mix of sights and senses.

Set between world wars, Amsterdam chases a trio of unlikely misfits who uncover a conspiracy to replace FDR with a fascist-friendly puppet. As the three sleuths are also old friends with a complicated history and unfinished personal business, we spend nearly as much time exploring their past as we do probing the contemporary plot. That’s where the famously free-spirited capital city comes in. Having met in a Dutch military hospital during WWI, grown restless together and summarily escaped, they proceeded to paint the town red until responsibility drew them back home to America and life got in the way.

Given the wealth of potential flavor in the mix, it’s downright shocking that this makes for such dull cinema. Secret Nazi societies, mentally-unhinged aristocrats and purveyors of postwar facial prosthetics? Speakeasies and sterilization clinics and posh, theatrical labor rallies? Christian Bale, Robert De Niro and Margot Robbie are here! Taylor Swift gets pushed under a bus! This thing is dying to be all loose and quirky and shocking, trying its hardest to mimic the Coen Brothers, but evidently it took the wrong notes and learned the wrong lessons from that filmography. Like peering through the window of a Ripley’s Believe-it Or Not, then visiting a doctor’s waiting room instead.

Jef, a meticulous professional hitman, is hired to knock off a Paris club owner during the evening’s entertainment, but his escape is clocked by several members of the staff. Fortunately for the killer, none get a very close look at him, and he’s turned loose after witnesses can’t manage a positive ID. The lead detective isn’t ready to let things go so easily, however, and his continued inquiries spook Jef’s clientele and stretch his seemingly-waterproof alibi to its limits.

A sparse, moody play on the old cat-and-mouse game, Le Samouraï is essentially a quiet duel between smart, studious professionals. Both well-versed in the art of conspiracy, they jab and feint like veteran boxers, seeking weaknesses in the other’s guard while cautiously shoring up their own defenses. Increasingly paranoid, Jef scarcely has time to cover his tracks before the detective (or an emissary of his unhappy employer) comes along to poke holes and kick dirt.

I’ll normally lose interest in slower-paced foreign films like this, with their limited plots and heavy reliance on atmosphere, but there’s something different about this one. Watching two perfectly-prepared parallels work the angles and improvise was just enough to keep me engaged and curious. Riveted? No. Impressed? Maybe a little. I think the greater value of this film is in its influence upon later directors. John Woo, for example, practically remade the film for 1989’s The Killer.

While a sleepy Mississippi town tries its best to ignore the turning racial tides elsewhere in the nation, it’s shocked by the early-morning murder of an important businessman. A visiting Philadelphia police detective is initially suspected, primarily for being a black stranger with a fat wallet, then grudgingly enlisted to help solve the crime. In turning over clues, he also uncovers the flabby underbelly of an ugly southern society that sorely needs a kick in the pants.

Many such films from the heart of the civil rights era tend to be narrow and stilted; easy morality plays with limited desire to directly confront the hard truths. This one’s an exception - there’s a tangible sense of important, uncomfortable change churning right on the surface. A tribe of middle-aged white guys, suddenly forced to challenge their lifelong prejudice. A proud, big city black man who struggles to mask his indignance in the face of slack-jawed (and loose-lipped) yokels. Both slip in the wrong direction at times, giving way to knee-jerks and outbursts, but growth often comes hard and real change is never a straight line.

Though well-written, with a multitude of complex characters and a crafty mystery at the core of it all, In the Heat of the Night is really all about the performances. Key among those are the dual leads, Sidney Poitier and Rod Steiger, who keenly embody the roiling emotions of their parts. Poitier’s barely-contained rage is intense and understandable; a refined man doing his best to maintain his composure in an impossible situation. By contrast, Steiger’s dumpy police chief fumbles and falters his way through an awakening, grumpy and bigoted but gradually willing to change. Their tense arrangement never quite becomes a friendship, but it does become mutually respectful, and in the end that might be even more meaningful. An excellent, timely effort that had no qualms over pushing the limits of a very difficult, dangerous social atmosphere.

A well-curated catalog of nuclear test footage, military training films, sanitized media coverage and general nationalistic propaganda from the dawn of the atomic age, offered without commentary. Which isn’t to say it lacks an agenda. Set to the tune of musical obscurities like “Atomic Love,” “When They Drop the Atomic Bomb” and “Jesus Hits Like an Atom Bomb,” The Atomic Cafe overwhelms us with evidence that, not only was the establishment lying through its teeth, but the public was lapping it up like a thirsty pet. Were we ever really that gullible? Or did we just choose to accept those happy lies in lieu of a terrifying truth? Given the striking amount of religious assurances in these state-approved missives, the men in charge knew exactly which buttons they were pressing. God is demonstrably on our side here, folks, and if you ask too many questions, you risk exile in the afterlife.

Now, some eighty years after the first bomb hit Hiroshima, we all know far more about the dangers of nuclear warfare and, as a result, these simple doses of bald misinformation play like dark comedy. The model family who dives for the safety of their picnic blanket after spotting a nearby detonation. The troops who gleefully lift their heads from their test range foxholes, only to catch a mouthful of radiation as the ensuing shockwave slaps them head-on. I was amused, but also increasingly incredulous. It’s insane to imagine our society once operated like this, but not half as insane as pretending our superiors have actually stopped the practice. Yikes.

A twenty-something loser (Seth Rogen) and his affable drug dealer (James Franco) get in over their heads when the former witnesses a murder and leaves behind a crucial bit of evidence: his half-smoked joint. As it contains a new, rare strain of marijuana, the killer is able to trace the roach back to its source and give chase to the spooked stoners, who then stumble and bumble their way through a number of hopeless escape plans while inhaling their entire inventory.

As Rogen/Goldberg/Apatow jams go, I’d rank this near the bottom. Neither as witty as Superbad, as earnest as Knocked Up, nor as wildly over-the-top as This is the End, it’s a shallow, one-note show that doesn’t provide many big laughs. Basically just a few talented buddies, with a studio budget, having a good time and amusing each other without really worrying about how that’s going to translate to the screen. Franco is great as the stereotypical weed hookup who secretly harbors a sensitive side and Danny McBride is, as usual, good for a loony, disconnected dose of white trash chaos. Otherwise, it’s a bunch of stuff that sounds funny on paper but doesn’t deliver in action... even if you’re a member of the tree-smoking population.

Undeterred by the sudden appearance of fuzzy boulders in the water, a small group of Florida retirees continue their practice of sneaking into the neighbor’s private pool for clandestine afternoon swims. When the stones act as an instant salve for the rigors of old age, their visits increase in frequency and they finally take serious notice of the odd new tenants. Who, as it happens, wear removable skin suits and glow in the dark.

Despite the spacey premise, Cocoon is a relaxed, slow-moving film that handles its sci-fi elements with a light touch. There’s no anxiety to watching this; the sailing is smooth and the waters are warm, which can be a nice change of pace in today’s sometimes overwrought cinematic landscape. After the initial shock wears off, the old-timers don’t make a big deal about the extraterrestrials next door. They just accept them as eccentrics and find ways to relate; a sweet little slice of morality that lands without pretension.

As this is a Ron Howard production, there’s a whole lot of sentiment to be had. Misty eyes and hugs abound, almost to the point of over-indulgence, but at least this suits the story and gives the cast (largely comprised of faded former stars) a fond industry farewell. Wilford Brimley gives the most memorable performance of the bunch, but he was still a relatively young man at the time (he turned 50 during filming, which seems almost impossible) while vets like Don Ameche and Jessica Tandy hand in strong efforts at the very end of their careers.

Not a bad night’s entertainment, but also nothing revelatory or extra-special.

Now a little older and more comfortable in his secret identity, Miles Morales is still the same bright, personable kid we left behind after Into the Spider-Verse. He excels at school, immerses himself in the arts and makes shallow private excuses for his web-slinging adventures, but also pines for his lost friends from divergent timelines. Particularly Gwen Stacey, the Spider-Woman of a parallel universe who took a little piece of his heart when they parted ways, seemingly forever, at the climax of the first film. Well, unsurprisingly, she’s felt the same way about Miles all this time, and by imprudently using her new connections within the multiverse to drop in for a visit, she’s set motion to a potentially reality-ending disaster. Or something. Honestly, it’s a little convoluted.

Although Sony has tried to match the formula several times in the interim, there’s still nothing else that looks or moves quite like these Morales Spider-Verse films. Thoroughly hip and fresh, they flaunt their connections to the printed source while imbuing the screen with an up-tempo blast of contagious kinetic energy. It’s impossible to sit still through this, or to watch without a dazzled grin on your face... at least, not if you have the slightest bit of appreciation for classic superhero comics. As this is a sequel, and thus not altogether fresh territory, I was no longer taken by surprise, but I also wasn’t disappointed. The love and craftsmanship on display is top-shelf, from the bombastic color tones and exaggerated pinup poses in the foreground to the rich detail and Easter egg wealth that floods the scenery. It’s a worthy theater spectacle, but also promises to be a rewarding Blu-Ray rewatch, particularly in frame-by-frame mode.

That said, we do experience some growing pains. For the first hour and change, the new model is every bit as loose, free and energetic as the first. Then it gives in to the urge to get SERIOUS and CONSEQUENTIAL and the plot’s home stretch quickly grows mired under the weight of it all. The story is far too ambitious, as this chapter runs for a heavy hundred-fifty minutes and doesn’t wrap a single plot point, but the greater issue is its penchant for long, dry exposition at the cost of momentum. I don’t want to watch Gwen and Miles screech to a standstill while the older heroes breathlessly explain things. I want to watch them laugh and joke, kick out the jams (great soundtrack btw) and strike anatomically-impossible poses as they fire webs from their wrists. Plenty of that in the first hour. Much less from that point forward.

Though he’s merely an important supporting player in the plot’s bigger picture, Anthony Hopkins completely dominates The Silence of the Lambs as the complex, cultured mass-murderer with a taste for human flesh, the disgraced Doctor Hannibal Lecter. It’s a genuinely transcendent performance, the likes of which we’re lucky to catch once or twice per decade. Jodie Foster more than pulls her weight in the leading role, a tenacious FBI cadet who endures misogyny and harassment at every stop, but it’s Lecter who brings the real sizzle, and their mutually perplexing psych ward interactions transform a rather pedestrian production into something downright hypnotic.

Himself a trained psychiatrist, Hannibal has made no effort to disguise his contempt when confronted by the bureau’s more highly-accredited shrinks. He’s the smartest, most refined man in the room and they all know it, so why pretend otherwise? Lecter clearly stopped following such social niceties years ago. By contrast, he sees something intriguing in the young, ambitious Clarice Starling. Maybe it’s her open honesty, her bald naïveté or her willingness to brazenly march straight into the lion’s mouth. He senses a not-so-distant trauma in her past and gamely chases it, indulging his professional instincts and savoring the hell it puts her through. For her part, Starling is perfectly willing to play that charade, even if it means plumbing a number of deeply uncomfortable personal depths, to aid the state’s pursuit of a different psychopath. Though it’s faltering and unsettling, the quid pro quo works for both of them. And for us.

I alluded to this earlier, but the nuts and bolts of The Silence of the Lambs really aren’t very good. The editing is hammy, the score’s worthy of a TV movie and the production values are obviously low. Neither Hopkins nor Foster were the studio’s first (or second, or third) choices, but fate, gladly, intervened. With those actors, in those roles, reading from this screenplay, it’s bonafide movie magic. Damn near perfection. I’d gladly watch Hannibal and Clarice match wits and decipher puzzles in that clammy prison basement for hours upon hours, and suspect I may do exactly that over the course of the next few decades.

“Bogart and Bacall” shouts the poster, and that’s precisely what we get. Long, heavy doses of both stars, just as their very public off-screen romance was at its peak. For Bogart, it’s just another day at the office. He growls through two novels’ worth of witty dialogue, wears a trench coat and fedora like a second skin, throws and catches haymakers, flirts with all the girls and outsmarts all the gangsters. It’s Humphrey Bogart as the private detective in a noir movie; you probably already know how that’s going to look and sound. This was only Bacall’s second film (though a delayed release meant it’s actually listed third on her filmography) and, though her performance often feels stiff and forced, those qualities suit the role. Which, from all indications, was written and tailored specifically for her.

As that movie poster implies, The Big Sleep is very clearly a showcase of the stars first and a cohesive story second. Or maybe third, actually, behind the dark and moody atmosphere. Come to think of it, the story might not even place. It’s a tangled web of similar characters with confusing motives; a messy spiral of blackmail, murder, intimidation and thinly-veiled innuendo that only Bogart can navigate with any shred of confidence. He’s two steps ahead of the bad guys, which puts him three ahead of the audience. Trying to keep up amidst all the false fronts and betrayals is an exercise in futility. Instead, at least, we can enjoy the tasty scenery, admire the pointy dialogue and appreciate the film’s acrobatic efforts to address risqué subjects without offending the censors.

A listless former soldier gets himself arrested on a triviality, then shipped off to serve two years of hard labor on a sweaty deep south chain gang. There, he establishes a strong reputation with the inmates and tests his limits with the guards before tiring of the tough conditions and attempting escape. Evidently, prison wasn’t the panacea Luke sought and his particular brand of stir crazy still thrives behind bars. Shame, then, that this isn’t a hotel and he can’t check out on a whim. Upon re-capture, his relationship, with both guards and prisoners, changes overnight and he grows increasingly unraveled.

Paul Newman is superb as the confused, complex character at the center of all this noise. At the best of times, we’re drawn in by the raw strength of his personality, his anti-authority vigor and his chummy, jovial wit. At worst, we see why he’s never been able to maintain a serious long-term relationship with anyone, including his immediate family. He has a nasty tendency to self-sabotage when trapped or complacent, and to suddenly turn on those he once held dear when things aren’t going his way. His closest pal in the clink, the long-tenured camp leader Dragline (portrayed by a fresh-faced George Kennedy), experiences both sides of this duality. Luke will go through hell for you in the morning, then spit on your corpse in the evening. Their friendship confounds Dragline, start to finish, and leaves him a changed man at the end of the picture. Much like the viewer.

Offbeat adventures and social awakenings with a terminally anxious introvert and the assertive, spontaneous older eccentric who cracks his shell and opens his eyes. Trapped in a stifling social circle and thoroughly smothered by his mother, nineteen-year-old Harold’s sole outlet is his obsession with death. It seems that this particular avenue is only available because the subject makes everyone too uncomfortable to engage, but the kid relishes that opportunity all the same. Whilst he drives around town in a hearse and repeatedly fakes his own death, Maude notes the boy’s frequent appearance in private funeral services and takes him under her wing. She enjoys death’s strange atmosphere, too, but also savors all of life’s more peculiar varieties and is quite happy to share/rediscover them with an inexperienced youth.

There’s a bright sweetness to this relationship, one that’s validated by the performance (and relative obscurity) of the two leads. Their connection is so potent because it’s so unusual, a matched pair of wayward souls that spans several generations, but we linger in the celebration for too long. Harold experiences personal growth, embraces the delights of discovery, finds a kindred spirit, but then falls into another type of complacency. The film seems ready to move on to its heavier messages long before they're actually covered, as if it’s afraid of letting go. Which, in my opinion, runs counter to its message. Enjoyable as a sanguine change of pace, particularly for the era, and for the well-matched Cat Stevens soundtrack (really excellent musical selections here), but it doesn’t exactly stick the landing.

When scientists aboard an orbiting research station begin to lose their wits and drop off the grid, a psychologist is sent hurtling through the cosmos to seek answers. He discovers the vessel almost completely abandoned and manages only fleeting contact with the high-strung survivors, then sees and interacts with a vision of his long-dead wife. Convincing hallucinations seem to be a common trend here, believed to be an unorthodox method of communication for the sentient ocean on the planet far below, but the depths of its knowledge and the purpose behind its entreaties remain shroud in mystery.

I’ll normally go in for cerebral sci-fi, particularly films that deal with the unstable nature of human perception. Ghost in the Shell considers similar themes in a different context, and that’s one of my all-time favorites. It doesn’t move fast, but I’m never left wanting. Solaris, by contrast, bored me to sleep on three separate occasions. I think my biggest objection, besides the grueling pace, is how much metaphorical air is left in the room. There’s just one central question, left to linger throughout, and then a mild conceptual tickle at the very end. It offers a near-total lack of variety or plot progression. What atmosphere exists is left oppressively bare, bleak and sterile. God, it’s dull. Hopelessly, smotheringly dull.

Sometimes long, well-crafted films can feel much shorter than their run time. Alternately, a densely-packed short film will sometimes feel much bigger than its duration. Both circumstances can be attractive, if properly managed. This is a long film that feels like it runs for a century. It dwells, stares and deliberates for nearly three hours, poring over the same single, open question without interruption, then offers next to no resolution. Not my idea of a good time. Not at all.

Given the influence of rose-tinted nostalgia and the remarkable staying power of the original, Tom Cruise and company could be forgiven for just running everything back and cashing it in for the Top Gun sequel. And, as far as the plot is concerned, that’s pretty much what they’ve done. Sure, we’ll see a few mild distinctions, plus a shift in perspective (Cruise certainly isn’t going to play a student pilot, nor is he apt to give up that top billing), but the bones are essentially the same. Cocky kids in an elite dogfight academy are ordered to set aside their differences and accomplish an impossible mission in hostile airspace. Adrenaline, testosterone and pheromones run wild. We even get a reprisal of the YouTube-famous beach volleyball scene. It’s a fitting tribute and a worthy successor, modernized to suit today’s high-end home theater equipment, but not half as gloriously ‘80s-tastic as the first film.

Where Maverick really soars (if you’ll pardon the awful pun) is in a technical sense. This was evidently an area of special concern for filmmakers, and they deserve special credit for the accomplishment. All that work to embed an array of super-resolution cameras into the pilot’s seat has paid off: this is a major level-up moment, on par with the very best IMAX showpieces. Paired with a persistent soundtrack of strained grunts and rapid breathing, the footage does a fantastic job of conveying the intense physical effort that’s required to maintain control of a fighter jet, while also portraying the stunning vistas and dizzying speeds of afterburner combat. More than just special effects for a film, Maverick’s vision of airborne cinema borders on a true life experience. As a film, it’s a light-hearted flex of the bicep, designed to pluck memory threads and evoke warm feelings established by the original. Worthwhile, especially for long-term fans, but not particularly special. The cockpit scenes, though, especially that blood-rushing one-cut takeoff from the aircraft carrier, will stick with me for a long while.

In an appropriately timely role-swap, Mario and Princess Peach team up to save Luigi from the clutches of evil, with assists from Toad, Donkey Kong and a whole army of bit players. It’s all in the name of fan service, no two ways about it, and in that respect the long-awaited Mario movie is a smash hit. When it’s punching blocks, donning furry costumes and leaping great expanses, this is everything a Nintendo fanboy could ever ask for. The world bursts with color, life and excitement; a perfect mesh of the game’s shiny-happy cartoon aesthetic and Illumination’s similarly joyful, plucky brand of stylized CG. A match made in heaven that effectively captures and expands the spirit (and high-risk thrills) of the game’s world without making any creative sacrifices. Honestly, in this age of constant, needless reinvention, it’s comforting to see an adaptation stay so true to its roots.

As for the story? Well... that also remains true. There isn’t all that much hidden depth here; someone important has been kidnapped and the heroes race past all manner of Easter egg and window dressing on the road to rescue. Once the novelty dries out, when visual interest usually gives way to plot or character moments, the film struggles to find a hook. It’s about forty minutes of sugar buzz, extended to fill ninety minutes of screen time. Fun while it lasts, and probably more than enough to please younger audiences, but parents should be prepared to do a bit of watch-glancing on the home stretch.

While out late at the park, capturing ambient sounds for a low-budget slasher movie, a young audio engineer (John Travolta) accidentally records a fatal automobile accident. He’s able to rescue the passenger, a delirious young woman, but the driver is left DOA at the bottom of a lake. We’ll soon learn that the victim was an important political figure and Travolta’s recording contains proof that this was no mere accident. What follows is a hearty dose of suspense mixed with intrigue, as the villains slowly tie off loose ends and various innocent parties stumble into the crosshairs.

Travolta provides a surprisingly adept leading performance, effortlessly cool and on-the-ball alongside a creepy supporting turn from John Lithgow (young but already balding) as the callous hatchet man who successfully spins a serial killing spree into cover for the real story. Nancy Allen (then married to director Brian De Palma) is sufficient as the bimbo survivor / love interest, a walking, talking time capsule who manages some strange natural chemistry with the star. De Palma’s direction takes unusual risks which almost always pay off. The most memorable example is a mesmerizing split-screen act that conveys important plot details via TV news broadcast while also establishing the engineer’s meticulous studio work in parallel. The story feels a little dated, but the daring production concepts are way ahead of their time.

In the far-off year of 2022, pollution and overpopulation have relegated most of the planet’s population to the streets. There, in teeming piles, they await the next delivery of clean water and highly processed food products. The projection is that New York City alone houses some forty million people, and we see evidence around every corner. Police detective Thorn (Charlton Heston), fortunate enough to afford a tiny, one-room apartment amidst such squalor, literally trips over the homeless as he navigates the lobby staircase each morning. His latest job whisks him to the environs of the über-wealthy, whose spacious, luxurious furnished quarters include video game consoles and conveyable live-in concubines. There to investigate a high profile murder, he happily samples such forbidden fruits and entrenches himself on the wrong side of powerful people with dark secrets.

Although its climactic reveal has been spoiled by half a century of references and punchlines, the actual context of Soylent Green is still, mostly, apt. Shot in the early 70s, but inspired by a mid-60s science fiction novel, it’s very much an of-its-time depiction of a bleak and hopeless future. The metaphorical slope wasn’t quite slippery enough to get the real world to this point, fortunately, but it’s easy to understand the older generation’s concerns... mostly because we still share many of them. These big ideas are realized quite effectively on the big screen, and they’re the primary reason to tune in. The murder plot and corporate cover-ups, marred by Heston’s excessive histrionics, haven’t aged half as well.