There have been plenty of sci-fi related films to go around of late. We have seen The Road, Pandorum, District 9, and of course, the summer’s $400mm smash hit Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen.  But now, Jared and Jerusha Hess, the writing team behind the indie hit Napoleon Dynamite, bring us a different kind of sci-fi. The literary kind (that still plays itself out on screen in goofy-as-heck fashion).  Reindeer that shoot guns out of their eyes (and other orifices)? Check.  One-eyed, lo-fi, cyclops aliens?  Check.  Sam Rockwell as both a transvestite and tough guy hero to rival his dual role in another sci-fi film Moon?  Umm, check?  Gentlemen Broncos is a wacky type of work.

The new movie stars Jermaine Clement (TV’s “Flight of the Conchords”) as Ronald Chevalier, a flamboyant science fiction/fantasy novelist of some repute and notoriety.  Unfortunately, he needs a new book as his publisher is unsatisfied with his unsaleable latest effort and is threatening to drop him.  When a down on his luck Chevalier heads to a “Cletus Fest,” a writers summit where he aims to teach teenage fan-geeks his celebrity methods of fantastical scribe, a young man named Benjamin (Snow Angels‘ Michael Angarano) shows up, hoping to tap into the brain of his fave author.  All the while, Stifler’s mom from American Pie, Jennifer Coolidge’s Judith, has son Ben in the most ridiculous get-ups imaginable.  It’s no wonder dude has no friends.  Cletus Fest represents a chance for Ben to submit his “Yeast Lords” story for the grand prize, a 1,000 copy publishing deal across bookstores nationwide.  You see where this is going.  Chevalier steals Ben’s story for his own work in an effort to regain the fame he seeks.

Who doesn't want to ride a missile launching reindeer?

That simple premise alone though, does not a film make.  Ben needs friends, or so his mom thinks, so she hires a Guardian Angel to look after/befriend him.  That angel is caught up in a low-budget filming of Ben’s “Yeast Lords” work that he sells to a director who likely has no intention of paying him for his work.  The film premieres to disastrous results, even while the films “stars” and director are gaining a small level of celebrity.  The low budget movie is so cheesy though (it’s the director’s 84th film) that it’s kinda fun, but Ben is always the one on the outside looking in.  No recognition for his efforts other than being humiliated in public for his attempt at acting which results in one of many upchuck scenes in the film, though this will likely be the most memorable.

While Angarano is able, Clement is the film’s greatest strength, lisping his way through vignettes with the speech redundancy of a pair of shoes and a constant sight gag in a golden bluetooth earpiece. An amusing scene where he adds suffixes to character names for his students registers high marks.  “You can add ‘anous’ to any name to improve it,” he muses.  Illustrations for would-be book covers, including one where women with “mammary cups that shoot laser rain,” are depicted.  “Broncos” has some nice moments in the middle of the bizarre madness.

Ben's Guardian Angel has a snake with digestive issues for protection.

Throughout, the film cuts back and forth between the sci-fi work of “Lords” being narrated, and it’s rework “Brutus and Balzaak,” with Rockwell playing the lead character.  We know what reality is though, as side plots abound as the film progresses.  One particular sub-plot that never fully fleshes itself out in the form of a possible love story aside (was he taken advantage of?), “Broncos” keeps things on a zig-zag path that world-famous Lombard street in San Francisco would be proud of; it’s a little weird getting there, but you still reach your destination.

It’s similar in tone, if not scope, to “Dynamite.”  Bizarre 70’s retro meets modern day (though in a lot of ways, you’d never know it), as everything is stuck in a time capsule.  Wood paneled interior to homes.  Night gown designs by aspiring designer Judith that cross futuristic with extreme conservatism.  It’s like The Never Ending Story meets Lord of the Rings, all done in the oddest way possible.  This is by no means, my kind of story, but it deserves credit for quirk and originality, and undoubtedly for many (myself included), some dumb, stupid laughs at it’s own expense.  Hard to fault it too much for giving such a genuine effort.  This won’t hold the appeal of the Hess duo’s earlier hit, but it should satisfy their fans just the same.

Director F. Gary Gray, with all of his mustered machismo brutality and combustible set pieces, is back and he has the judicial system in his sights with Law Abiding Citizen. Swooping flyover shots of the William Penn bronze statue sitting atop Philadelphia’s City Hall are filmed with a seemingly discerning eye while judges and prosecutors alike are depicted as flamboyantly assertive and dishonest.

This is an oppressive film, with its industrial color palette, clanging shackles and flood of legal terminology. If you could smell a film, Law Abiding Citizen would smell like a musty wrought-iron fence. But wait until the slimy politicians and self-preserving district attorneys start roaming the halls of steel-caged thugs who aren’t any more animalistic and unlawful than the prosecutors who put them there. As they speak, you can even see their corruptness and indecency through the cold, wintry air – that is until they receive a new inmate, Clyde Shelton.

Clyde (Gerard Butler) is a father and a husband who is the victim of a random break-in, which brings about the death of his wife and daughter at the hands of two brutes. The prosecutor in this case, Nick Rice (Jamie Foxx), in an effort to guarantee a conviction, makes a deal with one of the two murderers who is now a cooperating witness and will testify in court against the other. So we have two murderers – one gets the death penalty, one gets off in three years.

The police escort Clyde Shelton (Gerard Butler) to a squad car, just a minor step in Clyde's grand scheme.

Outside the courthouse, in front of a sea of photographers, Nick shakes the witness’ hand in the view of a sheepish and bewildered Clyde, who has just witnessed the injustice of the legal system first-hand. The fact that Nick was unwilling to go to court and get a conviction for both men because of insubstantial evidence, despite it being the absolute truth, makes it all the more difficult for Clyde to swallow. Fast-forwarding ten years, the film quickly becomes an amoral revenge-kick before switching gears completely (to its credit) into a somewhat rational undressing of the American judicial system through the mind games of the now imprisoned, yet still mystifyingly dangerous, Clyde Shelton. “I’ll bring the whole system down on your head”, he says to the wide-eyed and frustrated Nick, “it’s gonna be biblical.”

The fundamental problem with “Citizen” is that it’s a film that wants to toe the morality line and do it under the guise of a slick package, but it simply doesn’t have what it takes under the hood. Our two protagonists are given bland, lifeless dialogue to just throw back-and-forth while the filmmaking is far too routine to overcome the lack of viable substance and certainty. Compounding matters are the surprisingly flat and underwhelming performances of not only the supporting cast but also the two main stars.

Cell phones are actually really dangerous in this movie. They can be used to make deals with criminals and apparently be rigged to...you know.

Gerard Butler (300, The Ugly Truth) is just plainly miscast here as an unbelievable portrait of a grieving father/husband-turned-vigilante. He’s too rough and prickly with his lisp and toned-physique – the fact that I never bought him as this “wounded soul” could not be compensated for by button-down shirts and raincoats, much to the filmmakers’ surprise. Jamie Foxx, on the other hand, looks like he needed a warm cup of coffee to the face. Supporting players and familiar faces like Colm Meaney and Bruce McGill are almost too ideal for their roles while female counterparts like Leslie Bibb (Iron Man) as an understudy lawyer to the district attorney and Viola Davis (Doubt) as the no-nonsense Mayor are hopelessly derivative.

I do appreciate what the film is trying to do here, but it’s often too non-committal, meandering and preposterous. When Clyde’s secret, or rather how he does what he does, is revealed, it’s both a letdown and a shot to the film’s already crumbling credibility. When it’s over, we get the feeling that Clyde’s goal could have been obtained through simpler means and spared us the lecture.

Although a lot of adults say they wish they could go back to being kids, most kids would say they can’t wait to get older. The Catch-22 of the circle of life. The grass is always greener wherever you aren’t, so adults look back fondly upon their childhood, while youngsters imagine an ability to do anything you could possibly dream of, as long as you were of age. Being a child is no picnic, though. It’s difficult to adhere to a parental figure’s whim and mood. As a non-authority figure, your voice is very rarely, if ever, heard, unless crying. Even then, the objective it determine how to shut you up. At the centerpiece of Where the Wild Things Are, Max experiences similar childhood difficulties.

Max is our nine-year-old hero. He’s an imaginative child maybe not by choice, but out of necessity. His father is no longer around, his mother works and he has a teenage older sister (is there any worse a combination?). Because of these circumstances, Max is left to his own devices and must imagine a world possible for him to inhabit. He builds an “igloo” out of a mound of snow and though playfully at first, gets involved in a snowball fight with his sister and her friends. Things quickly turn for the worse when he retreats to his igloo and one of his foes collapses the structure, scaring him. His sibling offers no help, so he marches up to her room, spreads the dirty frozen water around and trashes the one thing he had bothered to give her. That ought to teach her.

As a single parent, Max’s mother must work to support their family. The two seemingly have a strong relationship between them, as Max possesses the ability to cheer her up with a dance and a story. The quiet moments when he’s able to command attention is when he feels most in his comfort zone. Unfortunately for him and those around him, lives do not revolve around a nine-year-old and when Max’s mother has another man over for dinner, he takes offense to it and makes a scene. Try as his mother might, she’s unable to coax him down from his soapbox and he runs away in protest.

He runs into his own dreamland, occupied by larger-than-life creatures deemed “Wild Things.” Some take the form of enlarged animals, others a purely imagined creation. Upon arrival, Max declares himself their king and they are open to a ruler after living a seemingly aimless existence and unstructured life which knows no borders. Amongst the Wild Things, he is the authority figure they look up to for discipline and Max may figure out being the sole voice of reason isn’t as easy as it seems.

You're never too young to get a sweater from Grandma for Christmas.

Adapting the film from the beloved children’s book could not have been an easy feat, story-wise. The book contains little in terms of plot description, giving only the slightest framework to writers Dave Eggers & Spike Jonze. Instead, the visual adaptation of author Maurice Sendak’s gorgeous illustrations is what makes the film feel familiar to fans of the source material. The actualized Wild Things are a sight to behold, brought to life via a combination of puppetry and CGI facial moments. They are exact physical replicas of Sendak’s characters, able to send chills through the spines of any child who dared dream what Max’s imaginary friends would look like in real life. It’s a truly beautiful look.

The film was originally slated for release about a year previous, but was delayed due to a string of floating rumors. One of them was the studio thought the film was too dark to be a children’s movie and they wanted the tone lightened up. If this new version is “lighter,” they had every right to be concerned. By no means is this a children’s film. If anybody insists that it is, it’s the Leaving Las Vegas of children’s films. Aside from the first few minutes, the movie is largely unsettling and deals with depressed states and unhappiness. The two main Wild Things, Carol (male) and K.W. (female), have had some sort of unexplained past together. They appear to represent warring parents, forever wallowing in unhappiness. There is little to no redeeming value in Max’s trip to their island, aside from perhaps showing even imaginary life is no better than reality.

Another rumor from the one-year delay in release is supposedly the studio wanted Max to be recast. That’s a move that would’ve been absolutely wrong. Aside from the visually realized Wild Things, Max Records is the saving grace of the film. Max couldn’t possibly have been portrayed by anybody else, as Records is the boy in the wolf suit from the illustrated book. Though the story can be confounding in its message and outright dull at times, Records manages to be rambunctiously perfect. The character can certainly be viewed as a bit of a jerk, but Records has the ability to carry the viewer through, by his side.

It’s impossible to discount the creative effort attempted by Spike Jonze and his collaborators, as within the first five minutes I couldn’t help but think to myself, “what if all children’s films carried this wealth of ingenuity?” The film may be visually spectacular with a strong lead performance, but is almost excruciating to sit through. It left me in a daze, knowing but one thing, I didn’t love it. The rest of the area had to settle down a bit, like my mind had just endured a dirt clod fight. Where the Wild Things Are is a spectacular attempt at innovation, but falls far from the mark it set for itself. Perhaps more authority would have been a good thing.

As a kid, McDonalds pretty much has you pegged. When not involved in some sort of movie tie-in, their Happy Meal toys were always separated by gender. Hot Wheels were for boys, girls were given some sort of Barbie-related item, and as a child, you’re good with that. I wasn’t entirely obsessed with Hot Wheels or cars in general, but when recollecting playing with small plastic/metallic objects in a fantasyland, they spring to mind. Back then, it was always competition that drove me, so naturally I pitted the toy vehicles I owned in a head-to-head match for top-line speed. I propped up a flat board on a steep incline and held two vehicles at the top, releasing both at the same time in a single-elimination tournament, bracket style. However, I always favored one slightly over the other. It was the Batmobile I’d give it an unfair advantage. It dominated these tournaments. That favoritism resides throughout life. You have a favorite movie, a favorite book, a favorite child (you know you do). In Toy Story, that favorite toy for Andy was Woody, until Buzz Lightyear came along.

That’s what started it all for Pixar, a company born out of John Lasseter’s desire to use computers to help the process of animation. After finally securing financing from a technical visionary in Steve Jobs and producing a few short films, Toy Story was released in 1995, blending a heart-warming story to match the limitations their technology possessed. It was the first computer-animated feature of all-time, which certainly didn’t hurt its chances at success, but without an effective story, it could possibly have buried the medium forever. Story is what Pixar thrives on and remains as the reason they’re at the top of the hill, peering down at their competition.

It seems fruitless to me to describe the plot or even critique either Toy Story or Toy Story 2. I’m sure most have seen the films multiple times and if not, still have a darn good idea about what they’re about and where critical consensus falls on either. The only thing I’ll say on those terms is Jessie’s song, “When She Loved Me,” always bothered me in Toy Story 2. I recognized it was a beautiful song, but was always upset at the filmmakers for choking me up in an adventure I hoped to enjoy from beginning to end. It still plays as sadly devastating as before, but I’ve since realized I wouldn’t want to do without it.

Instead of purely priming audiences for the June 18, 2010 release of Toy Story 3 with a couple of re-releases, Disney has at least been courteous enough to offer editions of the films remastered in 3D. That’s the way the industry is heading right now, certainly for computer animation, so it was a nice treat to see a couple of beloved Pixar classics infused with a hint of modern technology, or so I hoped.

Do those glasses actually protect or hurt your eyes?

You’d be hard-pressed to find a bigger Pixar honk than I, so it comes with great sorrow that I have to associate any negative criticism with the studio. It isn’t the films or the re-release that mars what’s come before, but does the 3D really add? I don’t think so. The films weren’t designed to be in 3D in the first place, so it’s almost like colorization in an additional dimension, but after being primed for a new version of 3D without paper red and blue cellophane optics, I remain underwhelmed.

There are a few times the third dimension offers visuals I could at least deem “inspiring,” and to be fair the first few minutes of Toy Story 2, which appear to possess great 3D potential was ruined by a faulty projector/projectionist at the showing I attended, but overall it seemed to add little. The most mesmerizing part of the process is during dissolving scene transitions, which truly offer a depth to the image. I don’t tend to blame the problem on this re-release specifically, but more on the 3D fad in general.

The only 3D film I’ve truly been amazed with so far was Robert Zemeckis’ Beowulf. Unfortunately, it was the type of film that I didn’t feel I’d need to see again at home once reverted back to standard 2D. Bolt, Monsters vs. Aliens and Up have all offered less than hoped for in my eyes in terms of 3D adding anything to the movie-going experience. With this release, I feel I’ll finally be siding with Roger Ebert regarding recommending audiences just opt for the 2D version instead. You’ll save money and be treated to a brighter saturation of colors.

I wouldn’t write the process off just yet, as I’m still willing to let James Cameron’s Avatar and Joe Dante’s The Hole (which won the Venice Film Festival prize for Best 3D Film over all other previous released films this year I’ve mentioned, but still hasn’t found a U.S. distributor as far as I know) persuade me. It’s just that the hope and enthusiasm I’ve maintained for the past couple of years is starting to dim.

It might also seem fruitless to be reading this the day the two-film re-release was supposed to end, but it has been announced the duo will stick around theaters for a bit longer, as long as it continues to haul in some cash at the box office. The whole purpose of this “3D Review” was more about letting you all know that if you’re planning on seeing it, it may not be worth your time and money and if you weren’t anyway, you have no reason to feel left out. Unless, of course, you just want to see the Toy Story 3 trailer in 3D, then by all means, go buy a ticket.

Stress is a killer. If it isn’t one thing, it’s another. When it rains, it pours. These are facts of life, which no one wants to experience, but will eventually come crashing down around them at one point. It seems like nothing is going right. Everywhere you turn something else occurs, compounding your inability to be comfortable. With each little thing, whether it being hot enough to make you sweat or a fly treating your arm like a landing strip, these are monumental events only working to fuel your fire of frustration. You curse the heavens, asking what it is you did to deserve such punishment, but hear no answer. Sometimes you didn’t do anything. It’s just happens. The absence of an answer doesn’t make it easier to take. This is the situation facing Larry Gopnik in A Serious Man and he finds it difficult to wade his way through it.

It’s 1967. Larry (Michael Stuhlbarg) is a physics professor at a university. He is constantly bombarded with messages whenever he walks into his office, it’s a wonder he doesn’t just stay in his classroom all day. His most incessant pursuers are the Columbia Record Club (a company we’re no doubt familiar with in its current incarnations), requesting payment for the albums sent to him unwillingly, after his free introductory 12. Sy Abelman, a friend of the family, is another unrelenting persona, for reasons Larry would rather not know. When a young South Korean student walks into his office, he at least has an excuse to ignore the telephone. The student claims he received an unjust grade (an “F”) on his midterm and it would bring shame to his family if it remains. Larry assures the young man nothing can be done, but when the student leaves the office, he leaves behind an envelope full of 100s. Surely, anyone can be persuaded.

Larry’s home life isn’t the relaxing utopia one would desire after a hard day’s work. His unemployed brother, Arthur (Richard Kind), stays confined to the sole bathroom in the house, suctioning leaky fluid from the back of his neck. His teenage daughter steals money from his wallet in order to hang out with her friends. His son, who’s supposed to be preparing for his bar mitzvah, spends his time smoking weed and avoiding the big-boned neighbor who sold it to him without receiving payment. The crème-de-la-crème, however, is his relationship with his wife, Judith (Sari Lennick). The marriage is no longer viable and she wants a divorce, so she can marry Sy Abelman (Fred Melamed).

With his home and office life spiraling out of control, the foot continues to press down on Larry’s stress pedal. Sy Abelman is a calming presence, believing a sit-down talk with Larry and Judith can produce positive results. The man is impossible to get angry with, because he does his best to handle tense situations in a civil manner, even when he and Judith request Larry be the one to move out of the house he pays the mortgage on and relocate to a dingy motel in town. Any question Larry asks fails to produce an answer, so he seeks advice from the people at the top of his Jewish faith, the rabbis. What he soon discovers is not everything has a logical explanation.

As a vegetarian, Larry can't stand the sight of sniped deer.

The Coen brothers (Joel and Ethan), have been critical darlings for some time now, but their magnum opus, at least when viewed by the Academy, was 2007’s No Country for Old Men. No matter what they accomplish from then on will almost certainly attract mass attention, for better or worse. In A Serious Man, the Coens have made the film that hits closest to home. It takes place in Minnesota, where the brothers were born, set around the time they were both adolescents. Their father was a professor, like Larry, and it whole-heartedly revolves around the Jewish faith. However, they claim all the similarities between the film and the life they’ve lived end at those basic comparisons. The involvement of Judaism is the most key element in the film, and although accessible to an extent to everyone, one wonders if the film would be better appreciated by those in the know.

The brothers are indeed unlike many other filmmakers working today, in their penchant for risk-taking. Quentin Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds immediately came to mind, as there are scenes and shots and sequences and moments nobody else would dare attempt. They are designed almost exclusively to keep the viewer on their toes. No one could possibly accuse the Coens of being predictable, which they may consider the greatest sin of all. However, unpredictability doesn’t necessarily equate to greatness. Uniqueness, sure. There are seemingly random events, which arise out of nowhere, only to disguise the story as building to some sort of crescendo. Sadly, the film meanders quite a bit, lacking the drive to compose a story completely compelling.

Credit must certainly be given to Coens for the cast of unknowns assembled, finding capable actors and extracting strong performances all-around. The two recognizable faces belong to Richard Kind’s (“Spin City”) Uncle Arthur and Simon Helberg (“The Big Bang Theory”) as Junior Rabbi Scott. However, they are but bit players to the commanding force of Michael Stuhlbarg. The character of Larry isn’t a strong-willed one. He’s quite meek and feeble, allowing himself to be taken advantage of by overbearing personalities, making it difficult to truly feel sorry for him, except that things continue to compile upon him. Stuhlbarg shows himself to be a likable lead, which hopefully gains him exposure for the future.

With A Serious Man, the Coen brothers have made a decidedly Coen-esque film, sitting somewhere between their last two efforts, No Country for Old Men and Burn After Reading, in terms of tone. Fans may consider it a godsend, but although there are elements absolutely worthy of admiration, much like Larry’s plight, some things just don’t make sense. There’s a sense of pretension with this film the Coens feel they can possess, simply because of who they are. Sometimes confidence grows into arrogance, and they’d be better to come back down and join us for a bit.

In last year’s The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, there’s a great sequence which breaks down the cause-and-effect small events have on the future. If just one tiny thing hadn’t happened that way at that exact time, the next series of events would be drastically altered. It’s the defining thought which fuels the ideology of everything happening for a reason. If it didn’t, the current situation wouldn’t have arisen. The characters in The Burning Plain are caught in a decade-spanning chain reaction which largely stems from one singular event, but had it not been for a frowned-upon affair, that event wouldn’t have taken place at all.

Sylvia (Charlize Theron) is a manager for a fairly upscale, Oceanside restaurant, happily greeting her usual customers with a smile, while privately suffering immensely. She leads a life of promiscuous sex, throwing her body at anybody willing to accept it. Even when one of her bed-post notches confronts her about her distance, she refuses to let him in. She smokes to fill her lungs with imminent death, scars her thigh with jagged rocks and contemplates taking a dive off a cliff, all in attempt to make her feel a different sort of pain, just for once, instead of the lingering past which haunts her.

A good decade plus in the past, Sylvia, then known as Mariana (played by Jennifer Lawrence), is a high schooler, living the nuclear family life in a dusty, urban town. She has a few younger brothers and a mother and father who are still together and married. Mariana’s suspicions arise about her mother, Gina’s (Kim Basinger), poor excuses for being out late and not making meals on time. One day, she follows Gina on her bicycle to the middle of nowhere and finds an old Winnebago. Her mother is there to meet another man, Nick (Joaquim de Almeida), with whom she’s been carrying on an affair for months.

A matter of time goes by and Gina and Nick have been burned alive inside the motor home in the middle of adultery. Nick’s family has a funeral for the departed husband and father, putting in his son, Santiago (J. D. Pardo), in an awkward position, as his mother refuses to attend the funeral. Mariana’s family shows up at the funeral to heckle the family and the departed Nick for taking Gina away, although she was fully committed to the infidelity. Santiago takes note of Mariana and they develop a bond between them, trying to make sense of their parents’ indiscretions.

It's easy to ignore someone when you face away from them. Harder, is staring them straight in the face.

Writer-director Guillermo Arriaga is no stranger to non-linear storytelling. In fact, he might be the king of it. The Burning Plain is his first stab at directing, but he’s written Amores Perros, 21 Grams and Babel for Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu. He brings his tried and true formula, the cinematic version of a chopped-and-screwed song, back again, but it doesn’t seem to work like his previous scripts. As the film bounces back and forth from the past to the present, there’s little to no indication about which is which unless one character just happens to be absent from the current scene. Adding to this confusion is Mariana/Sylvia having two different names, seemingly for the sole purpose of throwing the viewer off. The audience member is granted a sense of discovery once things have been pieced together, but there’s a sense of disjointedness up until then.

Arriaga’s directorial style is somewhat staid and as the title would suggest, plain. In many instances, that certainly isn’t a bad thing, but in this case it keeps the film at a distance, continuing to make it more difficult for the viewer to enter the story, no matter how compelling. Arriaga, the screenwriter, has certainly crafted a tale full of drama, but the layer by layer unveiling of the full story is far less enticing than in previous ventures. You can’t help but wonder if the film would have been more successful and inviting had Inarritu been at the helm.

For their part, is should be said the performances are fantastic. Theron and Basinger serve as the heart of the piece, and both deliver troubled and challenging portrayals of women in conflict. Basinger’s Gina is a woman caught between taking care of her family and taking care of her needs as her husband seems either unable or unwilling to provide. Sylvia is just permanently stuck in her harrowing place, screaming to get out, but Theron pulls this off with a quiet graciousness. However, the standout character depiction belongs to Jennifer Lawrence’s Mariana. She’s is caught between both worlds and is the one who must transition from suspicious daughter into the emotional wreck Sylvia is to become. Her reaction in the film’s inciting incident is haunting.

Though great performances abound, Arriaga’s storytelling technique is what mars the film, as most characters are spared the revelations necessary to make them work competently in a story with this type of structure. Arriaga has proven to be an excellent writer, but either he chose the wrong script of his to direct or simply hasn’t caught up to his skills with the pen, while behind the camera. For now, The Burning Plain can be chalked up to a learning experience, although it does retain elements of excellence. Hopefully for Arriaga it’s the second time which proves to be the charm.

Making his directorial debut after writing the screenplay for the Oscar nominated The Wrestler, Robert Siegel returns to his apparent comfort and understanding of the low-life fringe participators’ sports world. It’s regrettable that Big Fan is a not-good-enough portrait of lower class Northeastern sports loyalty and obsession. Sure, it’s a wholly authentic and believable entrenchment into the sports bar, gutter-rat football culture, but with a vacant, hollowed-out core.

Paul Aufiero (Patton Oswalt) is a parking garage booth worker, an overweight basement dweller and a massive New York Giants fan. He scribbles down a script to call into the local late night sports talk radio show where he’s made a name for himself – a mainstay simply known as ‘Paul in Staten Island’. He and his best friend, Sal (Kevin Corrigan), go to the Meadowlands for every home game, only to sit in the parking lot come kickoff, watching it on TV.

One night, while snacking on foldable pizza slices, Paul and Sal spot a familiar face across the street at the gas station – it’s Quantrell Bishop, the Giants’ fictional pro-bowl linebacker. Star struck, the pair quickly tail Bishop’s car to a Manhattan nightclub in Paul’s mom’s beaten-up, red hatchback. Once inside, Paul and Sal observe Bishop and his hefty entourage from a distance, contemplating how to get his attention until they finally work up enough courage to approach the group at their elevated back table.

Paul (Patton Oswalt) and Sal (Kevin Corrigan) on the holiest of Sundays.

As a result of a misunderstanding in which Bishop categorizes Paul and Sal as threatening stalkers, Paul is brutally beaten and hospitalized with a concussion and a baseball-sized black eye – his face and his Giants loyalty taking equal blows. However, once back at home, Paul is hesitant to file charges against Bishop when he learns of the Giants’ losing streak and their disciplined star player now indefinitely suspended. With a lawsuit in the balance, he is forced to choose between team success and life success – prosperity on the field or off it.

One certainly worthy trait of Big Fan is the performance of Oswalt as Paul Aufiero. With his indefinable haircut, stubby limbs and puffy features, he’s a model for obsession. Someone who is either so caught up in their own passion that they’ve failed to maintain simple self-preservation or a social outcast who has turned to the one thing he truly loves. Oswalt, a recognizable TV character actor (“The King of Queens”, “The United States of Tera”) is perhaps best known to the film-going world for lending his voice to Remy, the ambitious rat of Ratatouille. It’s good to see a relative unknown getting their face out in the open and pulling it off. Oswalt is so convincing as this hypersensitive fan that I almost half expect him to be at the Meadowlands every Sunday this season.

Behind the camera for the first time, Siegel captures the cold and uninviting staleness of a Staten Island winter effortlessly. The sun, if out at all, always seems to shine a stark white with windows as intrusive entry points. Using nosy close-ups, he also finds the untidy features of the actors’ pale and lifeless features, all contributing to Big Fan’s unmistakable clarity for the hopeless and the weak. But the film misses even where it hits. There are too many self-reflective bus rides, too many call-in interruptions by Paul’s slumbering mother and just a forceful, over-exultant sense of pity attempting to be bought through repetition.

In Siegel’s script for The Wrestler, he made a poignant, emotional and occasionally beautiful film under the sure-handed guidance of Darren Aronofsky. Where that film felt humanistic, tragic and defined, Big Fan feels a bit self-loathing, redundant and curiously weightless. Paul, played wonderfully by Patton Oswalt, is a sympathetic character, but Paul is never given any real retribution or reward for his devout faith and the climax is absurdly unsatisfying – a disappointing end to a well-intended, but minor debut.

Review written by The Film Nest “Guest Contributor” Chase Kahn (same name in the “Comments” section).

Five years after director Shane Acker won an Oscar for his animated short film 9, the director is back helming a feature-length expansion of his own premise about a group of rag dolls in a post-apocalyptic setting. The short film is a delightful slice of animation — dialogue-free, inventive, stylized and fun. As it turns out, some things are better left alone. With all of its visual and technical innovation, and intrigue to burn, 9 is nevertheless a bland, repetitive and hackneyed inflation of the eleven-minute short film with as many bad ideas as good ones, until the source material is proven overexposed.

Trying to duplicate the moderate success of Coraline ($75 million domestic gross), Focus Features has an odd blend of genres rolled into a niche package. The PG-13 science-fiction action-adventure animated film is too dark, bleak and humorless for anyone under the age of twelve, yet too undemanding, unpolished and meandering for anyone old enough to carry a driver’s permit.

Beginning with an aged, painful voiceover narration, 9 begins brilliantly with the awakening of its title character (voiced by Elijah Wood) in the workshop of a now deceased scientist. After flipping open the tapping, wind-battered shutters, we’re exposed to a hazy, smog-ridden ruin of what used to be a great city – think 1940’s London crossed with Soylent Green. #9 soon meets a resourceful old “sackboy” like himself, named #2 (Martin Landau), who is quickly snatched up during an attack by a roving machine known simply as, “The Beast”.

9 (Elijah Wood) and 2 (Martin Landau) scavenging through the apocalypse.

Wounded from the attack, #9 awakens under the hospitality of #5 (John C. Reilly) and a band of fellow “stitchpunks” (courtesy of Mr. Acker) led by #1 (Christopher Plummer) who, it appears, has been seeking refuge and solitude from “The Beast” for quite some time. Through various plot devices and tactics, we come to learn that the human race has become extinct at the expense of their own ambition. Through newspaper clippings, a scientist is identified as the man who built an army of intelligent machines for this nameless “State,” who then became self-aware, turning on their creators with unremitting numbers and hostility. This war is depicted briefly during the origin story of the numbered “stitchpunks,” much to the delight of this reviewer.

Unfortunately, 9 can’t sustain its opening passages, nor can it duplicate (not to mention expand on) the wondrous and artistically rendered short film upon which it’s based. It’s quite obvious that Shane Acker and screenwriter Pamela Pettler (Corpse Bride, Monster House) are spreading this premise thin to the point of tedium. It boils down to a series of capture-and-escape, machine-versus-rag doll monster battles spliced with a MacGuffin/post-apocalyptic, “save the world” narrative – a short film on repeat.

This happens a lot in "9."

Dialogue, all too prevalent here, is a barrage of banal moralistic debates perfectly fitting our archetypical, straight-laced, pint-sized heroes.  The voicework by everyone involved is non-essential with the exception of keeping Elijah Wood busy these days. John C. Reilly, Jennifer Connelly and Christopher Plumber, among others, are given no range here to make an impression, simply a vehicle for the action like everything else. The kind of exacting, strength-building inspiration for the characters and their voiceover counterparts, noticeable in any feature made by Pixar, is plainly absent here.

If there is one thing worth chewing on in 9, it is the animation, a kind of stop-motion/computer-generated hybrid. Interiors are appropriately dark and faintly lit with exterior sequences, which expose the pinkish-yellow beauty of the sky, looking gorgeous. The character design and the imagination involved with the detailing of the environment and the set pieces are undeniably impressive. For instance, the numbers on a calendar serve as a scorecard for which “stitchpunks” are still alive and a saltshaker’s silver top is efficiently used as a jousting mask.

Regrettably, only in this aspect does anything about 9 signal any stroke of inventiveness. In fact, nothing in the film is definably awful, but what you have here is a harmlessly dull and dreary piece of action-animation – stubbornly visceral and tirelessly unprogressive.

When Michael Jackson died a couple of months ago, it appeared the world had found a new hero: Michael Jackson. The new hero, same as the last. All of a sudden, it was the 80s again. All Michael Jackson, all the time. The self-proclaimed “King of Pop.” And people complain Kanye West has an ego. All-day marathons on radio stations across the country pumped his greatest hits. Tribute songs were made by artists to pay homage to the fallen Jackson. Los Angeles spent millions of tax-payer money on a televised public memorial. The funny thing being Jackson had been virtually irrelevant for the past decade plus. He released one album in the aughts (2001’s “Invincible”), but good luck hearing any track from it during the all-day radiowave tributhons. If it wasn’t for his pedophilia scandals, he would have been dead to us long ago. A similar situation arises in World’s Greatest Dad in which it takes a death for a life to be remembered, or in this case, manufactured.

Lance Clayton is the titular father, but you’d be hard-pressed to find anything resembling “great” about him, especially in his parental role. Lance is a failed writer who’s written just under a double digit number of manuscripts with nary a nibble to show for it. In fact, he’s made a promise to himself that he’ll give up this writing business if his latest manuscript fails to make a splash. To maintain a foot in the industry he yearns to be a part of, he teaches a poorly attended high school poetry class. Not poorly attended because of Lance’s teaching prowess, but merely for the fact that “it’s poetry.” The school principal makes sure Lance is aware that unless something dramatic happens to his classroom numbers, he’ll find himself out of a job. Lance is divorced and about the only positive he has in his life is his art teacher girlfriend, Claire, twenty years his junior. If only his young adult son, Kyle, was worth a damn, his life might even be on the incline.

Kyle is about as inglorious as a motherless child gets. He attends the same high school where Lance and Claire teach, but certainly wouldn’t be caught dead in either one of their classes. He hates the arts like Hitler hated Jews and denounces the mere mention of renting a movie with a word more closely associated with a British cigarette. The only art he’s concerned about is of the pornographic persuasion. Every waking a moment of his is spent ogling the undressed figure of the opposite sex online, even delving into the darker “German scheize porn” his sole friend can’t even get behind. Kyle is so fixated on the act of self-gratification, Lance catches him in a bout of autoerotic asphyxiation. Lance pleads with him to at least refrain from that particularly dangerous act as it has the potential to cause more than blindness.

Desperately trying to bond with his seemingly lost son and trying to keep a grasp on his fledgling relationship, Lance brings Kyle to one of his dates with Claire. Kyle can’t stand her even though he refers to her as the school TILF, for the simple fact she still has her clothes on. His interest is slightly piqued however, when he realizes she’s wearing a skirt. If it weren’t for her blasted underwear, the cell phone pictures he takes underneath the table would rival Sharon Stone’s scene-stealing performance in Basic Instinct. No mind, though, they’ll do the trick. Lance drops Kyle off at home afterward and vows to be back as soon as he says “goodnight” to Claire at her house. Lance comes home horrified to find Kyle in a familiar position, only this time he’s no longer breathing. If only Kyle were real or David Carradine had been able to see the film, one would have served as a cautionary tale for the other. Not wanting to see his son go out with a whimper, Lance does what any loving parent would think of. He hikes Kyle’s pants back up to his waist. He types out a suicide note and places is it gently into his pocket. Finally, he hangs his son from a pull-up bar in the closet. All the ingredients of a purposeful self-inflicted death. When Kyle’s Lance-written suicide note is published in the school paper, Kyle is posthumously revered by the people who didn’t know him and Lance’s writing becomes beloved although no one knows it’s him behind the scheme.

"I'm researching sperm whales."

I’ve been down on Robin Williams at times throughout his career. He’s always been known as a funnyman, but his antics have proven too bizarre and outlandish for me. I appreciate him more in his reserved roles, like One Hour Photo, Insomnia or his Oscar-winning supporting performance in Good Will Hunting (he’s perfect). The darkly comic subject matter of World’s Greatest Dad provides Williams with another understated performance, but allows him to give off some of his natural humoristic qualities. He is great here as Lance Clayton, who does something loving for a son who treats him so poorly, but is able to capitalize from the tragedy as well. He does so in a way, we don’t despise him for it, although he continues to perpetuate the thought of the words coming from Kyle’s untapped mind. Williams’ new heart transplant has seemingly given him a new lease on life and although no one could blame him for wanting to make wacky comedies, I hope he stays put in the darkly comedic, where he excels.

Writer-director Bobcat Goldthwait is probably best known (or at least most remembered) for his role as the long-haired, slightly off-kilter Zed from the Police Academy series. He entered into the realm of directing with the alcoholic clown comedy, Shakes the Clown in 1991, before moving exclusively into television before 2006s Sleeping Dogs Lie. With  just two films prior to World’s Greatest Dad, he’s quickly coming to establish himself as the Chuck Palahniuk of cinema, willing to explore taboo subjects, but with a slightly less bizarre bent. I’d even be willing to venture a guess Goldthwait has a great film in him, though this one isn’t quite there yet. The film never quite ventures far enough beyond its premise to deliver a completely satisfying experience, but over time I’d expect Goldthwait to iron out those wrinkles.

Goldthwait has created characters which ring true, no matter how unlikeable they may be. Kyle is the epitome of perversity, going as far as hollering his nastiness down the locker room hallway. He’s the definition of a son only a father could love. It’s then a tribute to Goldthwait’s script, Williams’ acting and the harrowing situation which enables the viewer to feel immediate sympathy and shock upon the discovery of Kyle’s death. The dissection of the nostalgia (albeit completely manufactured) developed after one’s death is an important one. Although slightly absurd, Goldthwait’s take paints a picture perfect portrait of the mystery of death and the way it affects the living.

A friend of mine feels almost instant hurt at the mere mention of a dead person’s name. He can’t be counted on to laugh at a joke, no matter how funny, if the deceased is used as comic fodder, even if the joke was originally told while the person was still breathing. As the saying goes, death is the only certainty in life, but the way we react to it varies wildly. World’s Greatest Dad breaks down the absurdity to a point where it holds up a mirror to society that makes us all the better for it.

In the last few years, the popularity of online gaming has soared to new heights. Games like “World of Warcraft” and “The Sims” have begun taking up many Americans free time. In these games, you are transported to another world, where you are in control of a character of your creation and with that control you can act out all of your wishes with the push of a button.

This concept is taken to the next level in the new film Gamer, directed by the same team behind the Crank series, which starred Jason Statham, Neveldine and Taylor. The film is set in a future where online gaming has reached a record amount of players, as well as unparalleled realism. What can be more realistic than controlling actual people?  You see, in the world of Gamer the public has become enamored with a new game called “Slayers,” the creation of genius designer Ken Castle (Michael C. Hall), in which death row inmates are controlled by players at home and pitted against one another in a massive fight to the death – for the entire world to see. The prisoners that are placed in the game are promised that if they can survive thirty sessions they will be given a full pardon and then, released.

"Do you know how hard it is to concentrate on the road with you yelling in my face?"

No single inmate has ever reached the lofty goal of surviving thirty missions but, “Slayers” biggest star Kable, is the closest with 27. Kable (Gerard Butler), is described as the perfect soldier and if he can survive the next few missions, while under the control of 17 year old Simon, he can get his freedom back and rejoin his wife. Kable’s wife Angie (Amber Valletta), is also going through her own mind control nightmare. After losing custody of their daughter (however, we are never told why this has occurred), she finds herself working as an “actor” in Castles’ first hit game, “Society.” Society is a Sims-like game, where the players are controlling real life humans. And the human controlling her is a particularly perverted guy, who has her wearing and doing, increasingly degrading things.

Add to all this a group called the “Humanz,” a rag tag group of rebels led by Brother (Ludacris) who are fighting to bring down Castle’s whole mind control empire, and you have a film that includes many elements we’ve seen used more effectively, in much better films. With the film being made by the duo behind the Crank films, we know we are in for a wild ride, but Gamer, for all its action, blood, and nudity, is clearly lacking what the Crank series offered in spades, a sense of fun. The lead performance by Butler is rather one note, he scowls and kills, but we never find out much more than that. Gerard Butler does his best with what he has to work with, and in the end he comes out with the film’s most solid performance.

Don't worry Kable - a geeky, unarmed kid has your back.

The same cannot be said about Michael C. Hall as Ken Castle, the film’s villain. He plays Castle as a semi-redneck who becomes an instant billionaire after creating these new forms of entertainment. With his southern accent and over the top acting, I couldn’t believe for a second that he ever created such a complex piece of entertainment. Hillbillies in most cases are not technological geniuses.

The supporting cast is made up of Kyra Sedgewick (TV’s “The Closer”), playing an investigative journalist trying to get the story behind what makes Castle tick. Also in the film is Alison Lohman (Drag Me to Hell), as a member of the “Humanz,” and it seems her role is to merely provide the audience with what is happening with the plot, so we don’t have to even think about what’s happening on screen. “Look, boobs and explosions!” is all we need to think about, I guess.

The film is shot with hand-held cameras (same as the Crank films), and in Gamer, the same “million cuts per second” are used as well. This film being of the action variety offers plenty of said action, as long as you don’t get sick from staring at the screen, trying to decipher who is blowing up whom.  The action actually takes a backseat to the story in the second half, but the characters are painted so thinly that I lost any real interest in who wins or loses by then anyway. We all have seen this type of movie enough times to know how it all will end.  Directors Neveldine and Taylor haven’t showed us anything we haven’t seen before here, but if you are seeing Gamer I’m sure you are well aware of the type of film you are getting yourself into anyway. As I said in our preview of the film, the production values and star power of Gerard Butler are the only reasons this film made it to theaters. Otherwise, Gamer would be sitting on the direct-to-DVD shelf. In other words, I found Gamer to be, well…played out.