Balcony Blues

James doesn’t like Ben (Kevin Hart), who lives with James’ dishy sister. James (Ice Cube) is a real cop and a bit of a rogue one at that. Ben’s only notion of police work comes from his advanced knowledge of video games yet he’s somehow just been accepted into Atlanta’s police academy. In the first of many happy yet hackneyed scenes, we learn of Ben’s addiction to these games when his sizzling betrothed, Angela (Tika Sumpter) has to beg for his attention. Many cliched scenes soon follow as James takes Ben on a ride-along to kill two birds with one stone by discouraging him from a criminal justice career while keeping at bay the prospect of a wimpy brother-in-law.

Saving the film from disaster is pretty decent chemistry between stoic James and self-conscious Ben. It reminds one of The Heat, another film where odd-couple interaction between the leads trumped less than stellar material. Hart is no Melissa McCarthy but he’s sporadically hilarious and steadily watchable. (Bracing oneself for the doldrums of January/February movie releases, half the battle is to grade them on a “winter curve” of sorts. The alternative–to hibernate in front of TCM until the spring and ignore the whole batch–admittedly isn’t very sporting.)

Hart keeps throwing the viewer a life jacket when he repeatedly attempts to go all macho and comes up humiliated and scared. Like Curley in The Three Stooges or the immortal Stan Laurel, he’s the little guy trying to act brave in nasty situations. His first episode of whistling past the graveyard involves him trying to disperse a nasty looking group of bikers. When he mistakes a bearded female biker for a guy, two notions immediately take hold: Hart is a funny physical actor. And we’re in for a long movie.

By the time Laurence Fishburne rolls in we’ve had a few more simpering scenes. One involves a crazy man in a supermarket who keeps smashing things to the ground while disrobing and eventually rubbing honey all over his body. Ice Cube all but rolls his eyes as Hart gets tangled up with the honey and needs to get rescued himself. Then we’re suddenly thrown into a warehouse scene that felt so lengthy I began to wonder if it was a movie within a movie. Fishburn seems to suffer from the unnamed but totally familiar affliction of pointing guns at people but never pulling the trigger. John Leguizamo, who plays a Latin stereotype, also transforms into Hamlet whenever he’s got a gun to someone’s head.

Things come full circle when Angela re-enters the film as –what else?–a woman taken hostage. At gunpoint. Ride Along does its best take the viewer hostage as well but Hart puts his foot down. His silly ass saves. (If you insist on attending January films).

2.5 Buddy Films With Extra Comedy and Action On The Side (out of 5)

In this John Wells adaptation of Tracy Letts’ Pulitzer-prize winning play, The Weston family, long-marinated in misery and malevolence, let it all out at a post-funeral meal. The verbal fireworks are ugly enough to make the most dysfunctional family seem rather normal by comparison. A testimony to the bounty of Meryl Streep’s extraordinary talent and strong buttressing performances by Julia Roberts and a fine supporting cast, August: Osage County scorches. Were you to believe some of the prevalent critical opinion, it has all the cachet of numerous other misguided adaptations of acclaimed stage productions. I heartily disagree.

With all the charm of a rattlesnake, Violet Weston is pretty much losing her grip. She’s a cancer patient/pill addict/truth-telling scourge who’s not even above screwing her own daughters out of their inheritances. Just when it seems she’s out of it, she comes to life with an extra clarity that pierces through the comfort zones of her three daughters, her sister, and their families. If you don’t mind feeling more than a little uncomfortable, there are great rewards here. Roberts is better than she’s ever been and Streep continues to amaze. Their mother/daughter dynamic rollicks with tension on the surface–then hints at underlying subtleties underneath. Has Roberts run away because she sees in her mom a frightening reminder of herself?

Roberts has moved out of the Pawhuska, Oklahoma locale of her hometown to get away from Streep, only to find herself returning for the funeral of her poet father (Sam Shepard). Her siblings Juliette Lewis (zanily affected) and Julianne Nicholson (boringly earnest) bring their own entirely different dramas to the table, as does Streep’s sister, Margo Martindale. Martindale’s husband Chris Cooper seems to be the only calm and sane presence. He’s a joy to watch as he does his best to quietly harness the worst of the vituperative pyrotechnics. Then, in a truly mesmerizing scene, he steps up when you least expect it.

Mostly, though, it’s just plain fun watching Streep have such a good time trashing everyone else to smithereens. Whether she’s wearing a ludicrous wig or sporting her chemo-strewn natural ‘do, there lurks a streak of charming vitality throughout her roaring and shrieking spitefulness. Her despairing rants are those of a sad yet proud survivor. She clings to what’s left of her life one insult at a time.

4 Fussing Family Feuds Fantastic (out of 5)

It’s no joke that Scarlett Johansson is generating Oscar buzz as Samantha in Her despite the sum of her role consisting of a remarkable voice but not one visual appearance. Instead, she provides the distinctive, albeit disembodied voice of a computer operating system. Convincingly conveying the notion that she possesses an autonomous consciousness, Johansson gives an adorable, insightful performance.

Her is written and directed by the wildly inventive Spike Jonze (Being John Malkovich, Adaptation). Fresh off an acting role in The Wolf of Wall Street, Jonze once again appears in this film. Savvy cinephiles may recognize that Jones provides the voice of a cyber-character.

Her also stars Joaquin Phoenix as Theodore Twombly. Twombley’s a nerdy yet sensitive “letter writer” for BeautifulHandwrittenLetters.com. Theodore is vulnerable yet instinctive, and above all, tender. He’s good at writing romantic letters because he understands people’s sweet spots. Once the sexy and savvy yet innocent Samantha gets a hold of him, he’s toast.

Jonze’s screenplay approaches the notion of sexual attraction from a new angle. Here he removes the visual component and relies exclusively on the aural to unleash the powers of Theodore’s imagination. For Theodore, Samantha is a perfect match. She can tune into his emotional needs in a manner that proves both perceptive and humorous. She also smoothly leads the interactions while giving Theodore the illusion that he is actually leading. The “games” Samantha plays work on such an ideal level, they are highly prone to lose their footing once a physical surrogate (Portia Doubleday) is introduced, or the perfect machine begins to develop the all-too-human qualities of growth and self-doubt. “I don’t like who I am right now,” says Samantha at a key juncture. “I need time to think.” Conflicting needs will drive a wedge through the “perfect” machine/human relationship just as assuredly as they would unravel a human/human encounter.

What begins with the tropes of a human-potential movement sensitivity session turns itself on its head. Jonze makes the unusual relationship seem perfectly integrated into Theodore’s peer group while convincingly juxtaposing Theodore’s deep-seated doubts. One moment he and Samantha are on a hilarious double date with his co-worker and his girlfriend, who take Samantha in stride while communicating with her via cellphone. The next moment Theodore’s morose with the realization that Samantha is no Catherine (his ex, a very good Rooney Mara). In fact, she’s at the very least a different species, and, it’s increasingly clear, one who’s fundamentally destined for remoteness. Theodore talks about the aftermath of the “honeymoon phase” when Samantha complains they aren’t having as frequent sex. The experiment between he and Samantha itself undergoes a very similar transformation. It’s funny, it’s tender and exhilarating; then it’s awkward and off-center. Heightened sensitivity morphs into the desensitized commonplace, mirroring a familiar trajectory of a traditional relationship. Its tragedy feels more intense because it started off so ground-breakingly promising.

Jonze offers often uncanny insight into the emotional alphabet of romantic relationships. The insecurities and reassurances, the flirting and fulfillments of a budding relationship all seem stone-cold real. Does Jonze seems less assured when he’s demonstrating the societal effects of intimate internal interacting with a hyper-technology? Lured by a perfect first half where Jonze’s premise never seems on shaky grounds, it may seem so. Yet what seems like an arbitrary aside to go global actually works to achieve an alarmist view of a world gone out of kilter while no one notices. In street scenes preoccupied pedestrians talk with their devices throughout the film. In fact they seem to do nothing but talk with their devices.

Far removed from his manufactured misanthropic persona in the pseudo-documentary I’m Still Here, Phoenix rocks brilliantly here. His interactions with pal Amy (Amy Adams, excellent as always) who herself is experiencing a budding cyber-relationship, are fraught with gentle affections of a more straightforward sort than those with Samantha. Yet nothing is obvious. His journey from despair to euphoria and onto something else entirely would have felt dangerously superficial in the hands of most other actors.

Theodore forces us to relate to his notion that “sometimes I think I’ve felt everything I’m going to feel…and the future will only offer lesser versions of what I’ve already felt.” For Theodore to discover that he was anything but unique in experiencing the delights of Samantha is a sad revelation indeed. Her warp-speed ability in processing the everyday (she reads an entire book in two-hundredths of a second) should have been a tip-off she’d also be out on some different plane regarding the important stuff. If you think love is blind, watch out for the machine.

4.5 “Pretty” Love Machines and High-Waist Pants (out of 5)

Perusing the dozens of Best Film Top Ten lists, I’m struck with the same sentiment as in years past:

Some cockamamy choices indeed! Far be it from me to stand in judgement of anyone who seriously included Only God Forgives or The Counselor, as more than one prominent critic has. They must simply be the smartest critics in the room, grasping a hidden angle that no one else got–more power to them! On a similar vein, I can appreciate the out-of-the-box nature of To The Wonder and Leviathan, and even Upstream Color enough to bend over backwards offering respect to particular visions of filmmaking that, while essentially unsatisfying, at least bend the rules to an extent they extend for consideration a new thesis of filmmaking.

In compiling a Best of the Year list, however, vision is only one of several criteria. Artistry that lends itself to watchability as much as to experimentation must, in this humble observer’s view be given at least equal if not extra weight.

Thus my of course subjective list, where my main criteria is how hard a film hit me–whether dramatically or comedically, or both, and, as the ice cream on the cake how unique its concept was, with craftsmanship always important.

Best Dozen (ranked): Before Midnight, American Hustle, Gravity, Blue Is The Warmest Color, 12 Years A Slave, Blue Jasmine, Short Term 12, Stories We Tell, The Spectacular Now, This Is The End, The Wolf of Wall Street & Mother of George

Next Dozen: The Way Way Back, Mud, Deceptive Practices: The Mysteries and Mentors of Ricky Jay, August: Osage County, Prisoners, Side Effects, Disconnect, Dallas Buyers Club, Nebraska, Frances Ha, The Great Beauty, Sightseers

Honorable Mentions: Enough Said, Frozen, Captain Phillips, A Hijacking, 20 Feet From Stardom, Kings of Summer, All is Lost, Computer Chess

Best Films of 2014 (so far): Young and Beautiful, Stranger On The Lake, Like Father Like Son

 

Best Lead Actor:

Matthew McConaughey, Dallas Buyers Club

Chiwetel Ejiofor, 12 Years a Slave

Toni Servillo, The Great Beauty

Tom Hanks, Captain Phillips

Leonardo DiCaprio, The Wolf of Wall Street

Miles Teller, The Spectacular Now

Best Lead Actress:

Kate Blanchett, Blue Jasmine

Adele Exarchopoulos, Blue Is The Warmest Color

Julie Delpy, Before Midnight

Brie Larson, Short Term 12

Amy Adams, American Hustle

Meryl Streep, August: Osage County

Best Supporting Actor:

Jared Leto, Dallas Buyers Club

Michael Fassbender, 12 Years a Slave

James Franco, Spring Breakers

Bradley Cooper, American Hustle

Sam Rockwell, The Way Way Back

James Gandolfini, Enough Said

Best Supporting Actress:

Lea Seydoux, Blue Is The Warmest Color

Jennifer Lawrence, American Hustle

June Squibb, Nebraska

Julia Roberts, August: Osage County

Sally Hawkins, Blue Jasmine

Lupita Nyong’o, 12 Years a Slave

Favorite Scenes of 2013

Tom Hanks on the examination table at the conclusion of Captain Phillips. Jennifer Lawrence and Amy Adams finally meeting in the lady’s room in American Hustle. Toni Servillo picking apart his haughty socialite adversary with subtle yet devastating style in The Great Beauty. Leonardo DiCaprio hosting aboard his yacht the FBI agent who’s investigating him in The Wolf of Wall Street. A distracted, frazzled Cate Blanchett talking the ear off of her seatmate aboard the plane at the outset of Blue Jasmine. In Blue Is The Warmest Color, the cafe scene between Adele Exarchopoulos and Lea Seydoux, leaving Exarchopoulos possibly wiser, infinitely sadder.

Highly fond of recent Coen Brothers efforts Burn After Reading, A Serious Man, and True Grit, I looked forward to their latest offering. Taking place in the pre-Dylan folk music milieu of early 60s Greenwich Village coffeehouses, Inside Llewyn Davis has much bark: it’s musical numbers–and insufficient bite: its story of a dour, shrugging sad sack intent on making it in the business yet quick to allow his quirky, self-destructive behavior to hold him back. The film certainly has its moments, including a spellbinding small turn by John Goodman, but I fail to share the extent of the love it’s been given by much of the critical establishment in vaunting it to the near top of the year’s releases in year-end polling.

“It’s not new music and it never gets old,” Llewyn (a sound Oscar Isaac) explains. Most of the songs performed are folk standards with Ewan MacColl’s “Shoals of Herring” (which Davis sings to his catatonic father) and “The Death of Queen Jane” standing out. “Dink’s Song: Fare Thee Well” is performed three times during the film, and a couple of Dave Van Ronk (who was the loose inspiration for the Davis character) tunes and a Tom Paxton song add to the mix. The film contains a Peter, Paul, and Mary take-off as well as representations of fellow folk scene hallmarks the Kingston Trio, The Clancy Brothers and Jean Richie. The latter two acts are referred to by Davis as “four micks and Grandma Moses”. His disdain for his performer counterparts, will, by film’s end, result in him heckling the Richie-like character and yelling out loud at her concert, “I hate fuckin’ folk music.” The film’s cleverest song, “Please Please Mr. Kennedy (Don’t Shoot Me Into Outer Space)” was also the one altered for the film from its original form as an anti-draft song. Similarly, heavyweight leftist folk singers of the time like Pete Seeger and Tom Lehrer, are nowhere to be found.

Kindly put, Davis’s human interactions are hit and miss. His sister keeps throwing him out after he curses in front of her kids, the girl he just got pregnant (Carey Mulligan) is hyper-pissed at him in no small part because her boyfriend (Justin Timberlale) is Davis’ friend and benefactor, who keeps finding Llewyn studio gigs; and make-or-break talent bookers (F. Murray Abraham as Bud Grossman, an obvious clone of legendary Albert Grossman) reject him. He also insults the wife of the uptown denizen and Columbia professor Mitch Gorfein (Ethan Phillips), not long after losing their cat, Ulysses. Ulysses will keep showing up in the film almost as frequently as Professor Gorfein and forgiving spouse Lillian (Robin Bartlett) inexplicably keep inviting Llewyn back. For this viewer, the Ulysses device came off as dull as it sounds.

Equally drab is the complete lack of drive on Llewyn’s part. It takes a nearly superfluous scene in terms of Llewyn’s story arc to enliven the proceedings as Goodman’s sardonic wild jazz guy spends the whole time trashing Davis. Unlike the lead characters in previous Coen films, such as A Serious Man,whose victimization wasn’t matched by an equally intense self-absorption, Llewyn seems to quietly revel in his rut. Perhaps that’s the Coen Brothers’ point.

Yet the feeling lingers that after the atypical-for-the-Coens runaway success of True Grit, the brothers may be engaged in a little purposeful, compensating obliqueness. As reticent as True Grit was straightforward, Inside Llewyn Davis, while effective in fits and starts, unfortunately takes on the personality of its lead character.

3.5 First There Was Folk, Then There Was Dylan (out of 5)

You may know Idris Elba, who plays Nelson Mandela in the new film Mandela: A Long Walk To Freedom, from his stint as Stringer Bell in The Wire.

Despite Elba doing essentially a nice job, Mandela is no The Wire. That may not seem like a fair comparison on the surface yet actually it speaks volumes. A subject as heroic and inspiring as Mandela’s begs for artistry of the highest order. What we get here is a nearly three-hour long replica of the worst aspects of a made-for TV movie. Dull around whatever edges it possesses, it’s hard to get away from the notion that Mandela, in the same month as his death at 95, deserves better.

Much of the problem lies in the enormity of such a long life in all its varied aspects. Some have suggested a mini series would have better served, or the narrowing of its focus on an aspect of Mandela’s life, much as the film Lincoln did last year. Going whole cloth on such a long and important life limits much of the proceedings to a stiff and sweeping rush job. When Mandela, during his 27 years of incarceration, is forbidden leave to bury his oldest son, it’s more told AT us than given enough emotional detail to resonate. Similarly, when Mandela is finally released from prison and reunited with his second wife, Winnie, their emotional disconnect barely begins to register when we’re whisked away to another chapter.

The film is bookended by Mandela’s personal struggle with the morality of and strategic efficacy of violence as a tool for social change. His transformation from bomb thrower to Gandhi-esque denier of vengeance once apartheid finally loses hold on South Africa is also sadly more of a sketch than a serious study. Despite a fine performance by Naomie Harris as Winnie, the film merely shows her progressively violent viewpoint after her own jailing rather than offering a look at the feelings that provoked her rage.

While I still recommend Mandela as a primer on this very important and highly inspiring subject, pursue this film only as an introduction. To get underneath the real Mandela, and to more deeply understand Winnie, including her far worse crimes than those depicted here, you’ll need to investigate further on your own. Panoramas like Mandela; A Long Walk To Freedom, while well-intentioned, are often as stodgy as their string-swelled soundtracks.

2.5 Humdrum If Well/Intentioned Odes To A Great Man (out of 5)

You will likely think Martin Scorsese’s The Wolf of Wall Street is either a marvelous spoof on avaricious assholes complete with its own brand of sex-and-drugs magical realism, or you’ll find it an excessive glorification of the very depravity it is lampooning. The likelihood that its leg-pulling challenge, its unnerving dare, will polarize its audience is itself refreshing. See this film and it’s further likely, you’ll either love it of hate it. What’s sure is you’ll get an outrageous take, send-up or not, on greed and it’s love child, hedonism.

Securities fraud and money laundering bring on tons of cash which gives rise to drug abuse, frequent prostitutes, even dwarf flinging. Based on Jordan Belfort’s memoir, the film goes over the top to equate the scale of his subsequent desensitized debauchery with the enormity of the sudden wealth obtained from Belfort’s “pump-and-dump” scamming of innocent clients to buy risky stocks. The temporarily enormously inflated stocks were then sold off from “rat hole” accounts controlled by Belfort and his sidekicks, who would be legally required to hold on to them for a designated time if they kept then in their own names. The investors were left with worthless paper.

Belfort made $23million in two hours after one particular deal, $49 million the year he was 26 years old, and ended up with a worth estimated at $200million. Lots of cash was smuggled into Switzerland. Unlike the excellent 2000 film Boiler Room, which also was based on Belfort’s firm, Stratton Oakmont, The Wolf of Wall Street captures the con of Belfort’s incredibly salesmanship, and then zeroes in on its grotesque aftermath.

Belfort was eventually fined $110 million, and sentenced to four years in prison, of which he served 22 months. Once out of jail, 50 percent of Belfort’s gross income as a motivational speaker, often at $30,000 a clip, goes towards the fine. He’s paid $10million so far.

As far as the incessant drug-taking, there are shades of DiPalma’s Scarface here, except, unlike DiPalma, Scorsese goes off the rails into caricature, then like a bumping car hitting the barrier, comes back to an equilibrium, albeit one that remains at all times uncomfortable for the viewer. You’re not about to get the viewpoint of the poor schmuck victims who DiCaprio and company literally give the finger to while on the phone closing their swindling. No, this film is all about the perpetrators. Sandwiched in its three hours of office orgies, fights and mock-fights of its lead players, and $2 million Vegas weekend (counting the “reconstruction costs”) are human interest scenes that are not only highly believable but entertaining in a more conventional Scorsesean sense. Belfort’s scene with his FBI agent pursuer (a very good Kyle Chandler) aboard his nearly 200-foot long yacht is one for the ages as DiCaprio peels off hundred dollar bills (and lobsters!) and tossing them toward the departing FBI agents off the yacht’s balcony. An earlier scene with a riveting Matthew McConaughey as Belfort’s authoritatively wild mentor at his first Wall Street job zings with a table-setting energy and freakishness that forewarns these are not conventional dudes whose world we are about to enter. They’re a special breed, and like McConaughey, they are all about the narcissistic thrill of putting their own rapaciousness above any iota of concern for their clients.

Later scenes with Belfort and his second wife (Margot Robbie) get as close as we will come to any demonstration of a human toll for all the greed and trickery. Yet this movie is about Belfort and, to a lesser extent his right-hand man, Donnie Azoff (Jonah Hill). If you think Belfort is getting off scott-free, check out the scene where he is so out of it on quaaludes. DiCaprio needs to channel Buster Keaton and Jerry Lewis when he finds himself at a country club but literally unable to talk or walk. It’s beside the point but interesting nonetheless, that Scorsese has admitted to having his own personal drug abuse demons during the ’70s.

So fault Scorsese, if you must, for going straight to the hundredth floor of overkill parody, staying there for three hours, and finally going out on the balcony waving his fist. If you’re starting to feel a little guilty for enjoying the considerable laughs included in the outrage here, fault him all the more for perhaps attempting to implicate you, the viewer, as part of the problem. Just remember, for all of Stratton Oakmont’s excesses, the number of people hurt were a pittance compared to the damage done a decade or so later once the humongous investment banks, encouraged by deregulation, led us into a debilitating global economic crisis with much the same mind-set of me, me, me. They may not have been snorting coke off of hooker’s bare asses but they exploited an entire country in much the same manner Belfort and his group of clowns ripped off their victims. The particularly obscene outrage typified by Goldman Sachs’ Abacus deal requires an outrageous film, and we get one here in spades.

4.0 Salacious, Sullied Salesmen From Hell (out of 5)

Take a couple who deep down are essentially two deceitful people (Christian Bale and Amy Adams) who have made themselves successful at scamming the vulnerable. Add a hyper-pushy FBI agent (Bradley Cooper), who offers them a stay-out-of-jail deal dependent on their trusting each other. Mix in a big-time hood (Robert DeNiro) and a loose-cannon bimbo (Jennifer Lawrence) who both will affect this plot’s outcome in ways in which they are highly aware (DeNiro) and comically unaware (Lawrence). Now take the best director on the planet at blending comedic and dramatic elements (David O. Russell). Give him a real-life 1970s scandal (Abscam), itself stranger than fiction, and have him stir up a stylish, loose take on the scandal as a gateway to an outlandish romp concerned with human ambition, loyalty, and the art of the con. The result? Unrelenting, exhilarating fun and the year’s best time at the movies.

One of the most memorable ensemble casts in recent history seem to be getting such a kick out of out-acting one another it would almost be distracting if Russell himself wasn’t so distinctly front-and-center. Rollicking edits, crazy pans, slo-mo, brilliant song segues– and that’s just the techniques. The real gun in his pocket is in the makeup and costume designs. When is the last time hair so dominated a film? From Bale’s unusual combover to Jeremy Renner’s Jerry Lee Lewis pompadour to Cooper’s hair-curlers-produced ‘doo, there’s hair everywhere. And we haven’t even gotten to the women yet. Lawrence’s beehive makes most beehives you’ve seen before look like crewcuts. Her personality matches her hair perfectly in one of the year’s very best performances. (Let’s hope the idiot reporter who asked her if it was all downhill from here after she won her Oscar last year is watching). As Irving Rosenfeld’s (Bale’s) wife, Rosayln, she’s aware her of husband’s longstanding affair with Sydney Prosser (Adams). At first, she keeps us guessing about just how pissed she is about the whole thing, while issuing Irving her very unique brand of emotional Chinese water torture. Her climactic scene with Adams gave me shudders and goosebumps simultaneously. Let’s just say it’ll catch you by surprise.

Moments earlier, when Robert DeNiro makes his entrance as a reclusive mob boss checking out the veracity of the fake Arab sheikh at the center of the FBI’s sting operation, the rest of the cast seems to take on a new tone, like jazz musicians putting down their instruments out of respect for a master soloist.

More than the sum of its parts (and what parts!), American Hustle both lets you in on its playful exaggerations of both the scandal and the 70s and, then, plays you as well. Not to be outdone by his conniving two leads, Russell manages to stay a step ahead of everybody. Like a good magician, he throws out wonderful diversions (Cooper trying to put the make on Sydney while she deftly keeps him at bay, all the while continually nearly popping out of her various plunging necklines) while the plot moves from one unexpected direction to another. Manipulation never felt so good.

Renner, as Carmine Polito, based on former Camden mayor Angelo Errichetti, adds a lot as a basically good guy who gets somewhat innocently lured in–apparently quite unlike the real Errechetti. Additionally, the real-life Sydney had nothing to do with any of the derring-do. Not to worry. Russell declares at the film’s outset that “some of this actually happened.” If Russell were to have depicted all the victims of Abscam as acting purely out of greed, the film would actually have missed its chance to counterbalance the FBI’s equally ambitious bent, as exemplified by Richie DiMaso (Cooper) character, or lost out on Irving’s surprising core conscience. Remove Sydney and you leave out the film’s fulcrum, its catalytic centerpiece. You’d also be left with a bunch of white guys made a whole lot less interesting once deprived of the sensational female energy in this film.

Some films are not only better once they shed any slavish devotion to the facts surrounding a true story, but they actually are more able to get to the heart of their subject once they embrace their poetic license. Russell’s project, in preferring to be true to his vision of the American Dream in all its harsh and resilient manifestations rather than offer a journalistic reading of history, actually paradoxically renders a better, experiential understanding of that history.

4.5 Cynical, euphoric, touching and hilarious rewrites of history (out of 5 stars)

Judi Dench has had a remarkable career earning her stripes mostly playing intelligent women who possess that extra edge to make themselves the smartest person in the room. Steve Coogan has, with some notable exceptions, staked out a reputation as an outlier comedic actor. In Philomena, directed by Stephen Frears (The Queen), they both go against type. Too bad the film itself, while watchable and at times sharp, finds itself too often stuck in a schematic rut.

Dench does her best to channel Judy Holliday and Lucille Ball as the less than bright common woman with a big heart and unwavering ideals. The talented Coogan plays it totally straight as the far more aristocratic, atheist savvy journalist. Comedic moments demonstrating their significant differences work pretty well when they’re not clashing with the film’s bigger theme of Catholic Church hypocrisy and a woman’s forgiveness.

It all feels a but too pie in the sky at times despite a Coogan co-written screenplay that goes for a nuanced, complex look at a woman, who after 50 years, is looking to find her born out-of-wedlock son, who was sold out from under her by the nuns operating a virtual prison for banished moms. Dench recalls being forced to work the County Tipperary abbey’s laundry while only allowed visiting privileges with her son for one hour a day before he’s eventually sold off to American parents. Adding insult to injury, she’s forced to sign a contract forbidding from tracking her son’s whereabouts.

Although The Sisters of Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary has disavowed the film’s contention that any babies were sold or birth records burned, the practice of thousands of unwed mothers sent off to these institutions was a common practice in Ireland for decades. Philomena, based on a memoir by Martin Sixsmith, the real life Coogan, sheds light on the long-term impact of one incidence of insensitivity and impropriety with an emphasis on the human element. For a more compelling and sweeping look at the same subject without the sidetracking comedic hijinks of Philomena, check out Peter Mullan’s comprehensive look at monastery vulgarities in 2002’s The Magdalene Sisters. You won’t find Judi Dench in that one but your subsequent far greater understanding of the subject will be its own reward.

3 Road Trips With A Leg Up On Going After the Church But Stopping Off At Forgiveness (out of 5 stars)

Frozen, an intelligent, fun film for all ages, is helmed by the first female director (Jennifer Lee) of a Disney animated feature. Combined with its two female leads, Anna (the voice of Kristen Bell) and Elsa (Idina Menzel), the expectation here is that of a film more for girls than boys, a Disney chick flick. That would be a an exaggerated assumption.

With eight accomplished original songs, an adorably playful, hilarious Snowman sidekick, and a plot harvested from Hans Christian Andersen, Frozen scares, jokes, thrills, and delights its way to the heights of animated merriment.

Based on The Snow Queen, Frozen tells the story of estranged sisters with a seemingly impossible mission. Separated since childhood from her sister Elsa and her considerable powers to conjure, redheaded Anna comes to encounter Elsa, now a relative stranger, at her coronation after their parents’ untimely death. Anna meets a Prince Charming, Hans, at the wedding but Elsa forbids their own suddenly planned union. Losing her glove, which protects her from the overreaching powers of her own hands. she accidentally brings on an instant and eternal winter to their kingdom, Arendelle. She retreats to a mountain hideout, and Anna, believing she can compel Elsa to reverse the spell, heads out solo to find her. Failing to become unhinged, she’ll soon encounter Kristoff (Jonathan Groff), an ice-dealer with heightened outdoor skills who guides a reindeer who harbors ideas of his own. Their scenes together click–heightened by their interplay with the wordless but expressive reindeer and the loquacious snowman, Olaf (Josh Gad).

Highlights include Olaf’s musical number, “In Summer,” where the snowman with a carrot for a nose imagines an improbable day at the beach where he experiences a mysterious melt-free protection. Tony winners (for Book of Mormon) Robert Lopez and Kristen Anderson-Lopez also penned the wonderful “Fixer Upper,” where a bunch of cool trolls attempt to sell the dubious charms of Kristoff to an innocent Anna.

Its numerous audio pleasures matched by its visual ones, Frozen hits all the classic marks of animation films that are all too rare these days. Interwoven with its sisterhood-is-powerful message, it creates a contemporary Snow Queen more complex than its original inspiration.

4 This Year’s Best Animated Film Not Directed By Hayao Miyazaki (out of 5 stars)