Balcony Blues

Rip-roaringly, outrageously funny, then in its final turns predictably conventional, the Judd Apatow-directed Trainwreck presents the one and only Amy Schumer. Both the film’s lead actor and its writer, Schumer portrays a character, Amy Townsend, who takes the words of her rough-hewn dad in the film’s opening scene, and boldly personifies them. “Monogamy isn’t realistic,” dad (a very funny Colin Quinn) lectures his two daughters at the movie’s outset. “What if I told you there was only one doll you could play with forever?” Not even close to their teens yet, the girls seems rapt with attention.

The one daughter, Kim (Brie Larson), goes on to marriage and children; the other, Amy, is much more a chip off the old block. Amy’s basically a disarming yet oddly alluring character who left her filter behind with her inhibitions. Steadily boozing and partying, her escapades include a stiff number of one-night sexual encounters. “Never have them stay over,” she brags in voice-over. When she accidentally does once, she wakes up to an Al Pacino Scarface poster and mutters, “Please, God, don’t let this be a dorm room.”

By day, Amy writes for the men’s magazine S’Nuff. Her boss is a hilarious, practically unrecognizable Tilda Swinton, who, after last year’s roles in Only Lovers Left Alive and Snowpiercer, continues on an incredible roll. Since she basically knows nothing about sports, Amy is given the assignment to profile a leading sports medicine surgeon, Aaron Connor (Bill Hader), who she ends up dating. Among his clients: LeBron James, here playing an amusing if tightwad version of himself. Aaron and LeBron playing a game of one-on-one is worth the price of admission. Other sports celebrities pop up in cameos during the film. Though they often feel somewhat gratuitous, their inclusion basically works, including a highly unusual panel who attempt to come to Aaron’s aid, much to his surprise and annoyance.

Trainwreck goes full tilt in reversing a lot of cliches of raunchy rom-com male tom-foolery. Amy shock-talks profusely, avoids commitment, sidesteps romance, seems to value quantity over quality in relationships. Yet the film makes no attempt to avoid the usual Apatow placement of comfy traditions on a pedestal, albeit one that must be reached through many hurdles. Trainwreck succeeds because it’s damn refreshing celebrating a chick who out-guys the guys. It wouldn’t possibly be the year’s funniest comedy to date if it weren’t for Schumer’s huge on-screen comedic talent.

Amy Comes Up Huge/LeBron James Gives A Nice Assist…4 (out of 5) stars

Director Asif Kapadia took what was the blessing of Amy Winehouse’s family and record company and then relentlessly actually made the film that needed to be made on the life of Amy Winehouse. His biopic wisely throws out any political correctness and eschews a safe approach for an ultimately honest one. The results offer a movie that is hands-down among the year’s best. A film as tough to sit through as 12 Years A Slave, Amy could go down as the quintessential tragic rendering of the abhorrent cost of fame in this unforgiving age. At once monstrous and life-affirming, Amy is the rare film that elicits many an excruciating reaction while also rendering an odd catharsis. Winehouse here on one level is the indomitable beacon of a pop star. Except for her amazing voice and songwriting, she seems just like you and me in so many ways, yet is ultimately destined for tragedy.

Authentically rough around the edges, Amy takes advantage of a wealth of archival footage, some of it as grainy as cellphone shots. When we first encounter Amy she’s but a mere middle-class Jewish kid from suburban London, but what a kid! It doesn’t take long to tell she’s the kind of person who, while loosy-goosey on the outside, is internally devastated by her own intense feelings. The footage of her presenting her demo song to her record company zings with goose-bump-producing edge. Yet her likability is far more primitive than anything tangibly calculated.

At times the film Amy admirably seems like a home movie that is as unsure of itself as Amy the jazz chanteuse is of herself while climbing a gradual reluctant ladder to stardom–and infamy. Kapadia finds his way by keeping his aim on the truth beneath Winehouse’s constantly mocked public persona. From the outset afraid of fame, our heroine can only hope to survive what becomes a paparazzi-laden existence at a time when tenderness of any sort would have been a welcome palliative. Yet, as Kapadia makes clear, compassion was very scarce in Winehouse’s life. Her husband, seemingly eager to attach to her gravy train, introduces the already heavy-drinking Winehouse to hard drugs. Since she’s bound to him with a clearly obsessive attachment, it’s about as fatal a relationship as she could have encountered.

Then there’s her dad. He of the famous “I don’t think rehab is for everyone–Amy’s fine.” Toward the end of her life, we watch her smartly get herself away from the pressures for a months-long sojourn to St. Lucia, only to have her dad show up with his own huckstering agenda complete with a camera crew. It’s enough to give us the heaves…speaking of which, Winehouse’s demise at the age of 27 was as much a product of her bulimia as of her addiction to alcohol and drugs.

Hats off to Kapadia. Winehouse’s dad has an issue that he somehow was portrayed inaccurately in the film. As my own dad used to say, “Go pound sand.” To which could be added–let the record stand for itself. While Winehouse may certainly be faulted for being her own worst enemy, the enormous burden provided by her many enablers was a ravaging, rough mountain to climb. Throughout the film, her dauntlessness looms as the starkest possible contrast to the madness surrounding her.

See this film if it kills you–and, emotionally speaking, it probably will. You’ll never forget the scenes when a confused and disoriented Amy tries to wade through the deplorable paparazzi–a sad symbol for our aggravated era of nonstop, constant social media. Had Amy been born in any other time, she’d likely still be alive and well. There’s only one worse image that lingers. More inane than even the brutally insentive paparazzi, we’re treated to an ugly Jay Leno joke about her that holds forth as a prototypical example of I-don’t-give-a-fuck coldness. It’s enough to make you nuts.

Documentaries don’t get any better than this….5 stars (out of 5)!

Jason Schwartzman, fresh off a relentlessly acerbic performance as a misanthrope writer in Listen Up Philip goes intense again in The Overnight. Similarly, it’s not his fault this film about would-be swingers comes up limp. Schwartzman goes into overdrive with a gushing likability this time that is practically the flip side of his rotten-egg personality in Listen Up Philip. Schwartzman the actor would have been wise to invest as much time and energy in choosing a screenplay as his character, Kurt, does in trying to get a (much) straighter couple to like him enough to let their hair down a little.

Alex (Adam Scott) and Emily (Taylor Schilling) meet Kurt in a park while their little kids instantly bond. They’re new to L.A. and worried they might not make new friends. Wearing a hat that could be mistaken for a Hasidic adornment, Kurt is offbeat, charming and persistent. He invites the couple over for a pizza night. We’re led to believe from the trailer and the build-up that erotic shenanigans will soon ensue. You be the judge. Not only is the build-up far greater than any payoff but the whole evening is pretty much low-level cutesy masquerading as something deeper. While Kurt continues to enthrall with a semi-amusing charismatic pull, the rest of the foursome are duller than Jeb Bush. Kurt’s wife, Charlotte (Judith Godreche) is French and–whoa, he has videos showing her doing online ads for a breast pump. When she sneaks out to a massage parlor with an aghast Emily in tow while the men think they’re out to a liquor store, we’re supposed to be shocked that Frenchie has a brazen fetish.

Somewhere in this film it also becomes clear that Kurt is an artist who paints mostly assholes–literally. The there are bongs and plenty of wine and a pool where Alex is afraid to get naked because he’s, er, undersized. Kurt, wearing a prosthetic dong about a football-field long, reassures Alex size means nothing. Neither does this film, which strives for insight on social awkwardness but merely comes up awkward.

Polymorphous Prattle … 2 stars (out of 5)

In a recurring animated sequence in Me and Earl and the Dying Girl, a moose suddenly appears and instantly tramples a small unidentified mammal. Symbolic of the school knockout’s treatment of the film’s lead character Greg (Thomas Mann), the sequence sets the tone for this quirky, steadfastly unsentimental film about important stuff. It also reveals Greg’s total lack of self-worth–a condition he seems to get uncannily more comfortable with as time goes on.

A born sociophobe, Greg’s trick of high school survival is to have only casual encounters with every clique but nothing deeper with any particular clique. This includes avoiding the all-important choosing of a cafeteria table for lunch. Instead he sits in the office of his history teacher (the usually daunting Jon Bernthal), along with Earl (R.J. Cycler), who he calls his “co-worker” rather than his friend who he’s known since they were five. Greg and Earl actually make films together–short, deliberately bad parodies of classics. (e.g., “A Sockwork Orange,” “Eyes Wide Butt”).

Then one day, Greg’s equilibrium is thrown off when his mom suggests–no, insists–he visit Rachel (Olivia Cooke), a newly diagnosed leukemia victim who Greg hardly knows. Thus begins a hard-won friendship that contains virtually no false notes nor any of the usual tacked-on sappy ones that usually have us heading for the exits in movies of these sorts. Based on a novel by Jesse Andrews, who also wrote the screenplay, this wholehearted film is directed by Alfonso Gomez-Rajon, and he’s certainly a talent to keep an eye on. Extremely versatile with varied filming techniques, long takes, and Richard Lester-esque madcap edits, in the end he achieves a dexterous balance of unconventional style, ironic off-the-wall funny charm, and bona fide delicate storytelling. No less a luminary than Brian Eno showed up to lend a hand and over a dozen compositions that provide eerie resonance and au aura of import.

It’s hard to choose between the film’s three young adult leads on who is the better actor, so I’ll call it a tie. They’re the year’s best ensemble cast so far. It must be mentioned that Cooke’s Rachel has an uncanny ability to refuse to elicit pity that ought to be checked out in acting schools. A supporting turn from Nick Offerman as Greg’s eccentric toga-wearing sociologist, pigs foot-eating dad doesn’t hurt either. What Brian Eno is to soundtrack music Offerman is to tearing a hole in your funny bone. He’s able to overcome the somewhat obvious notion that his character is probably superfluous to the film. Yet Offerman’s masterful comedic timing lends a heft to the atmosphere.

Some have complained that it’s a stretch that kids today would actually go ahead and make film parodies of classic art movies. It’s a conceit I’m willing to indulge. After all who’s to say a bright high schooler wouldn’t find a young Werner Herzog both highly compelling and a perfect target for satire? (Gomez-Rajon quotes Herzog extensively and hilariously). Our boys’ penchant for filmmaking also sets up a pivotal climactic plot development that is in perfect harmony with this terrific film’s overall spirit of capturing its kids’ cadences and interactions perfectly–their flaws included, of course.

Me and You and No Goo…4.5 (out of 5) stars

Director Colin Trevorrow, fresh off the delightful, small-budget ($750,000) Safety Not Guaranteed, steps up to the $150,000 million Jurassic World. To quote some street jargon, Trevorrow’s not playing. The first flat-out summer blockbuster, Trevorrow’s film knows when to go hard and when to tread lightly. In the spirit of executive producer Steven Spielberg, Trevorrow’s screenplay (with co-screenwriter Derek Connolly and two others) takes its time setting up relationships and events. When the action finally comes, it’s no holds barred. For good measure, the star of the best popcorn movie of last year (Guardians of the Galaxy), Chris Pratt, provides tried and true charisma and bad-ass cred–just in case all the dinosaur talk and theme park politics gets a little stale. I mean this guy actually has killer dinos (velociraptors) eating out of his hands–dolphin style–for chrissake. By film’s end, he’ll be leading his raptors on a life-or-death motorcycle chase.

Since it would be unimaginable for a film in this franchise to be without a couple of kids running around getting in trouble, eleven-year-old Gray (Ty Simpkins) and 16-year-old Zach (Nick Robinson) provide just that. They serve as stand-ins for the 20,000 park attendees to whom the film pays merely intermittent attention. Shuttled off to Jurassic World under the auspices of spending some time with their aunt, Claire (Bryce Dallas Howard), who’s a numbers crunching administrator at the park, the lads get shunned by the workaholic, clueless-about-kids aunt. When they find themselves out on their own roaming among Stegosauruses in a plexiglass gyroscope just when the shit starts hitting the fan, well that’s when–harrumph–Owen (Pratt) comes along to play Mr. Rescue.

Sporting the same humorous interludes of Safety Not Guaranteed, Jurrasic World plays up the strait-laced Claire’s aloof response to Owen, who once dated her. Their interplay, while bordering on sitcom-ish, primarily works–mainly due to Owen’s cajones. She may grapple with having to finally get her hair missed up, but Owen makes it fun, and she doesn’t exactly come up short in turning herself around.

To think there’s a controversy resulting from director Joss Whedon’s tweet that Trevorrow is actually practicing a little sexism here. His complaint sounds like no more than sour grapes. Whedon’s Avengers: Age of Ultron isn’t half the entertainment that Jurrasic World is. If the film’s leading female character may seem a little stereotyped, there’s certainly equal time on the male side. Vic Hoskins (Vincent D’Onofrio) seems to be practically foaming at the mouth at the prospect of converting Owen’s raptors into military tools for dominance. Hoskins seems like a character who roamed into the wrong movie but D’Onofrio possesses such good acting chops he’s allowed to stick around for awhile before he inevitably goes kicking and screaming.

Yet Hoskins is only the runner-up craziest character in the film. B. D. Wong plays Dr. Henry Wu, the mastermind geneticist behind the creation of a hybrid mutation dubbed Indominus Rex, whose aggressiveness far outdoes all the nastiness of existing dinosaurs. (Seems attractions like kids riding baby Triceratop dinos in the park’s version of a petting zoo can only take you so far in building up the ecotourist business). When billionaire owner of the theme park Masrani (Irrfan Khan) questions Wu on his gene-splicing models that seem to have gotten out of hand, Masrani is ludicrously shocked upon discovering the scale of it, as if it were a mere detail along the lines of choosing how much to charge for a soda (Jurassic charges $7.00, by the way, which is only slightly higher than the current going rate at American ballparks). When Masrani accuses Wu of creating a monster, Wu condescendingly mutters back that to a mouse a cat seems like a monster. Humans, accustomed to being the cat, become uneasy when they have to take on the role of the mouse. No kidding, Wu. Maybe you’ve begun to get Jurassic fatigue after appearing in all four of these films.

Despite such lapses into schlock, Jurassic World keeps its foot on the gas. Although I could have done without one or two of the many dinosaur battles, it keeps a brisk pace and delivers the right amount of spark. Horror movie tropes and film references, including snarky nods to Spielberg films, provide optional icing on the cake. This isn’t Shakespeare but it sure isn’t Joss Whedon either.

Did you see that Mosasaurus suck down that shark in front of a full audience? ….4 stars (out of 5)

The low point of last year’s lousy Melissa McCarthy vehicle, Tammy, was when the film completely changed from shrill, unfunny comedy to banal bathos in one ludicrous scene. McCarthy mooing with co-star Mark Duplass looking down at Niagara Falls was enough to make you ill. It’s even worse than the scene where McCarthy holds up a fast food joint to raise bail-money for her her doty, alcoholic aunt, Susan Sarandon. Yet Tammy actually may not be as bad as McCarthy’s turgid turn in the abominable Identity Thief. What happened to the promising comedic actress who was the best thing about the refreshing Bridesmaids? Why, unlike her charismatic role opposite Sandra Bullock in The Heat, was she suddenly unable to overcome nondescript screenplays?

Our worries are over. Reuniting with director Paul Feig (not surprisingly at the helm of Bridesmaids and The Heat), McCarthy has it going again. Her vulnerable yet assertive deskbound analyst turned in-the-field spy, Susan Cooper, hits all the right notes. It’s one of the funniest films you’ll see this year. Feig not only brings out the best in McCarthy, he surrounds her with three absolute pros: Rose Byrne, Jason Statham and Allsion Janney. The trio play their perfectly exaggerated characters to the hilt.

Byrne is Raina Boyanov, a deadpan spoof of a villain Bond-girl who happens to be Bulgarian. The perfect foil to McCarthy, her bitterness is as infectious as her piled-high hairdos and ridiculously tight dresses are absurd. Statham’s sleuth, Rick Ford, likewise spends the whole film insulting Cooper. He does so in rat-a-tat-tat hyper-monolugues consisting of little else besides profane-laden ticking off of his seemingly impossible physical exploits as a spy. Janney portrays Elaine Crocker, a no-bullshit CIA boss who delights in keeping Cooper in her place.

Adding to the spoils of three such fine supporting performances are two more. British TV comic Miranda Hart plays Cooper’s brutally honest sidekick, Nancy. Peter Serafinowicz offers an Italian spy a and driver, Aldo, who has a flair for most of the stereotypes of the aggressive, libido-driven Italian while he is clearly more interested in hitting on his ally in espionage, Cooper, than in any traditional spy-oriented tasks.

McCarthy’s Cooper is somehow good-natured yet at the same time unbridled and defiant. She is without regard for any of the hyper pretensions of Ford, the sardonic stuffiness of Boyanov, or the silliness of Aldo. Almost parenthetically, Jude Law is also in the film as Bradley Fine, a suave yet slight operative who would be nothing without Cooper coaching warnings and strategies in his earpiece while he dismantles a coterie of thugs in the film’s opening sequence. Just as Fine is indebted to his unheralded assistant, a rejuvenated Melissa McCarthy should thank her lucky stars she’s again in good hands with Feig. She might do well never to work with anyone else again.

Melissa McCarthy Rises Like A Phoenix From The Ashes Thanks To Paul Feig And A Great Cast… 4 stars (out of 5)

No doubt some crybabies will turn apoplectic at the stark contrast of Paul Dano and John Cusack splitting the challenging chore of portraying popular music genius Brian Wilson in the new biopic Love & Mercy. They’ll whine neither one (especially Cusack) looks like Brian and, furthermore, the two actors don’t even look like each other. None of that matters a lick. If it’s the essence of the Brian Wilson mystique that you are after, this film provides much insight and resonance. Although not perfect by any means, the film overcomes the inherent limitations that a Brian Wilson biopic by definition presents.

When it comes to white boy pop icons in the rock era Wilson is possibly surpassed by only Bob Dylan and John Lennon. The finest aspect of this Bill Pohlad-directed film is the attention given to the creative process. Brian’s panic attack on an airplane serves as a catalyst to spark him to stop touring at the height of the group’s success in order to create a more intricately textured album. He’s a mere 23 years old at the time. It’s loads of fun to witness just how cutting edge was the recording studio process and just how much respect Wilson received from the classically trained studio musicians he gathered to meticulously record what would become Pet Sounds (1966).

It’s a shame he got mostly scorn from his bandmates, which included two of his brothers, once they returned from the tour. Brian’s cousin, Mike Love (Jack Abel), leads the charge, telling Wilson, “Even the happy songs are sad.” Then there’s Brian’s dad, Murry (Bill Camp), who we witness offhandedly dismissing Brian’s new direction as far too off-formula and wimpy. Ironically, Murry’s wrath is directed at an early sketch of a song that would soon be “God Only Knows” — a track no less than Paul McCartney would come to call the greatest pop song ever written.

The bulk of Love & Mercy deals with Brian’s tenuous mental state and the efforts of Melinda Ledbetter (Elizabeth Banks) to help Brian come to grips with it. Melinda, a car salesperson Brian meets while shopping for a new Cadillac, would come to be Brian’s second (and current) wife, but not before she battles an additional thorn in Brian’s side. As if his dad (who beat his sons unapologetically) weren’t enough to deal with, the Cusack-era Brian must contend with a “guardian,” Dr. Eugene Landy, (Paul Giamatti), a dubious psychologist who monitors Brian’s every action via bodyguards. His misdiagnosis of Brian’s mental state as paranoid schizophrenia is just the beginning of his abusive treatment of him. Landy keeps Wilson doped up and a virtual prisoner. The always sharp Giamatti puts a plausible sheen on what could have been an overwrought depiction of a monster. Cusack, spacey and genuine, seems like a mere kid emotionally in many of his scenes with Belinda and Landy. Yet underneath his kowtowing to Landy lurks a rebellious nature just waiting for the right moment.

As performances go, though, the film belongs to Dano. His sheer innocence, coupled with a certainly tangible neurosis, permeates the early going. I can’t think of a finer actor to capture the rawness of the joys and setbacks of this fertile yet ultimately futile period. Screenwriter Oren Moverman (the bizarre but intriguing Bob Dylan biopic I’m Not There) decides to shift back and forth between the 20 years separating the two Brians rather than go chronologically — a wise move. Musical selections, while kept to a relative minimum, are well chosen. The segues from a live Dano hammering out a demo of a tune to the full-blown original recording couldn’t be better. The group’s hits are represented but so is as essential a Beach Boys non-hit as Caroline No.

Brian Wilson carried The Beach Boys on his back. His efforts to “keep up with” The Beatles as they were going through their revolutionary change to the Revolver/Sgt. Pepper era were basically done not only with very little help from his bandmates, but against the grain of their wishes. The film implies Brian’s pending descent into LSD-fueled despair was in large part the result of the commercial disappointment of Pet Sounds and Brian’s subsequent inability to finish its successor, Smile.

In the interim years between the Dano-era and Cusack-era Wilson, Brian would not leave his house and more or less not get out of bed for a few years. Although these years are referenced rather than depicted, in one eye-opening scene, he revealingly sits barefoot at his piano which lies on a bed of beach sand. That this genius not only recovered, but is recording and touring to this day at the age of 72 is no small feat. That he created such an immortal body of work amidst personal demons that would have killed most of us is even more stunning.

Gritty Portrait of a (Disturbed) Genius 4 (out of 5) stars

Viewed without the accompanying perspective of John Schlesinger’s 1967 version of Far From The Madding Crowd, Thomas Vinterberg’s new version of the Thomas Hardy novel might seem sufficient in capturing the 19th century period of rural western England. Michael Sheen may also seem a fine enough brooding Mr. Boldwell, as well as Carey Mulligan a well enough complex heroine, Bathsheba Everdene, wearily fighting the customs of the age she lives in.

Taking into account the earlier adaptation, even given as fine a performance as Mulligan delivers, Julie Christie offers a more vibrant character and Peter Finch’s performance as Boldwell, providing much greater depth and dignity, blows away Sheen’s. Schlesinger proves he’s a master filmmaker who gets all his detail perfectly, offering a much more majestic, insightful view of not only the ways of the village people but also the stings fate provides throughout the film’s deliciously extreme plot.

That said, Vinternger has crafted a rather fine film, and with the presence of Matthias Shoenaerts as Oak, has managed to give a much richer account of the relationship between Bathsheba and Oak than that provided by Schlesinger. (His character is admittedly underwritten so it’s not totally his own fault, but how often can the claim be made that Alan Bates was out-acted?) Whereas Vinterberg prefers to use shorthand in revealing the attraction Bathsheba feels for Troy (Tom Sturridge) and to cut key scenes of Troy late in the film, he makes up for it in not falling prey to Schlesinger’s own stillborn treatment of the Bathsheba-Gabriel dynamic. Sturridge also somewhat surpasses Terence Stamp in acting out the cad-like qualities of Troy although it’s pretty close to a wash.

“It is difficult for a woman to define her feelings in language which is chiefly made by men to express theirs.” Thus, with Bathseha’s words, deftly delivered by Mulligan, we come to view Bathseba as an incipient feminist. She is one whose societal challenges–here symbolized by the three men competing for her hand–may prove much too great. If the enormous pressures surrounding her and, also, her own vulnerabilities, don’t quite allow her to win her war it is comforting to witness her win individual battles.

So if you view the original film version as well as see the new one, you’ll come up with not only a richer experience but might be even more inclined to read this classic novel, a work of art whose supremacy rises above the two film versions–both in ways stellar yet each limited.

Far From 48 Years Apart…..
Far From The Madding Crowd (2015)….3.5 (out of 5) stars
Far. From The Madding Crowd (1967)….4 (out of 5) stars

Tommy Egan (Ethan Hawke) suffers from a new kind of culture shock. An F-16 military pilot with six Iraqi tours under his belt, he now finds himself inside a claustrophobic trailer that serves as a drone command center near Las Vegas. Major Egan, surrounded by newcomers recruited because they “were a bunch of gamers,” has also become an increasingly rate breed of specialist–one with actual combat experience. The triggerman for numerous drone strikes in Afghanistan and Yemen, he pines to get back in the cockpit of an jet airplane–a place where the fight is at least fair. In a plane he felt an oddly intoxicating fear. Here he feels revulsion and self-loathing.

Egan’s maintains a steely, reliable demeanor that exists in his work sphere only. Once he gets behind the wheel of his vintage Mustang and drives home to his wife (January Jones) and kids, his fragility begins to emerge in between the fissures of a complacent family life. Good Kill veers between revealing scenes of what drone warfare actually looks like close up and the effects such a dehumanized, vile activity has on a “good soldier.” It mostly succeeds, although its family scenes are less convincing.

Practical arguments defending the practice of “prosecuting” specific targets despite the very real constant danger of collateral damage, are advanced by Egan’s sidekicks, and especially by his commanding officer Colonel Jack Johns (a very good Bruce Greenwood). Taking the opposite position is new-girl-on-the-block Airman Vera Suarez (Zoe Kravitz) who is Egan’s assistant. Yet she’s not the only one who squawks when CIA (“Christians In Action,” jibes Colonel Johns) superiors seem to be going too far. Many in the team express regret that the CIA has changed the requirements for a kill from a specific target to a “pattern of behavior.” This expansion’s wider scope endangers even more innocent civilians.

It’s hard for a viewer to come out of Good Kill with an unenriched viewpoint on drones. Director Andrew Niccol introduces meaningful nuance on the subject. War is still hell, only hell has suddenly changed its dimensions. People required to work with drones are penting up an enormous amount of negative energy. In Good Kill, it’s just a matter of time before Egan unravels–the only question is how. Niccol has crafted a credible look at a moral quagmire. He gets a little greedy with the film’s ending where he rather ceremoniously tries to do too much but it’s a fairly minor complaint. Hawke, on a roll as an actor lately, takes possession of his character, offering a victim worthy of empathy and, however ironically, valor.

From Xbox to Armageddon….3.5 (out of 5) stars

Tomorrowland comes off like an expanded Super Bowl TV advertisement: cocksure of itself and sure to dazzle but ultimately a hollow, superficial gewgaw. Director Brad Bird (the excellent Ratatouille and The Incredibles) even has a wonderful young actress (Raffey Cassidy) and two venerable pros (George Clooney and Hugh Laurie) going for him, but the film’s fatal flaw is it fails to provide an inspiring vision of the future. It resurrects Dale Carnegie’s The Power of Positive Thinking, and (shudder) not a little Ayn Rand in declaring a shrill diatribe against all the disabling negativity of our current society. Look how humanity holds back this utopian future by believing it has to be this grim! How self-defeating!

What future? Here the wonders of this ideal society only appear in a few squishy scenes of ubiquitous whirring vehicles in the air and well-groomed people walking around what seems like a pretty shopping mall. All the cranky, shrill sermonizing in the film’s closing sections seems like a poor substitute for a coherent story and deeper insight into its characters. Unlike the riveting Remy in Ratatouille, his equivalent here is Casey Newton (Britt Robertson) but she ultimately fails to inspire. We’re told over and over how special she is but Bird barely shows us why she is singled out.

I’ll refrain from revealing much in the way of spoilers, but what we have here is a kid, Frank Walker (Thomas Robinson), takes a bus to the 1964 World’s Fair, proudly lugging along his bulky invention: a jet pack that almost works. Here he encounters a gruff and dismissive David Nix (Laurie) and also an encouraging, sharp-as-a-tack young whippersnapper, Athena (Cassidy), who provides him with a key that unlocks the treasures of either an intoxicating (to Frank anyway) vision of the future or a parallel universe.

Then Tomorrowland jumps to Casey, a precocious and daring teen who, despondent her NASA engineer Dad (Tim McGraw) will soon be out of work once the Cape Canaveral launch site is disbanded, takes matters into her own hands. She also feels scientific frontiers should be continuously explored. Athena’s key reappears and we’re on our way to the four main characters staging not-so-jolly reunion after reunion, complete with robot bad-guys and random acts of violence.

Is any of it fun? Yeah, some of it, for sure. However, you’ll want to forget as soon as possible the creepiness of Clooney’s scenes with Cassidy. Walt Disney himself just might be rolling over in his grave over those.

Jumbledland…2.5 stars (out of 5)