In a year already decorated with and defined by a strong, liberating output from female directors, Lone Scherfig’s An Education is a calculated and sophisticated work about a time when women were questioning and challenging their cultural boundaries. Opposed to Kathryn Bigelow’s magnificent war-drama The Hurt Locker or Jane Campion’s lush period drama Bright Star, Scherfig’s film is the first crowning woman’s achievement of the year that’s actually about women.

Set in suburban London in 1962 and adapted from Lynn Barber’s true-life memoir by screenwriter Nick Hornby, An Education charts the coming-of-age journey of 16-year old Jenny (slam-dunk Best Actress nominee Carey Mulligan), who is courted by a rich, slick traveler and his swooning red sports car on a rainy weekday afternoon. The striking fellow is David, a middle-aged smoothie with nice suits, played by Peter Sarsgaard with astonishing intrigue and mystery. He’s so much more mature and suave than Jenny’s long, lanky and more appropriately aged admirer, Graham, that the film decides to play up this dramatic disparity with welcome comedic results.

Miss Stubbs (Olivia Williams) adamantly dissaproves of Jenny's (Carey Mulligan) decision to continue seeing her middle-aged boyfriend

As a smart, book savvy teenage girl with an almost disobedient affection for French cinema and music, the promise of a life of fortune, fashion and adventure can prove to be too much to ignore. Not only for Jenny, but for her father (played by the wonderful Alfred Molina) who is equally hypnotized and spellbound by the allures of David’s protection as he weighs the cost of Jenny’s education at Oxford.

Such is the vulnerability and inadequacy of growing up a woman in 1962. For them, and for Jenny, your choices are to either lock up with the first rich and confiding man you see or work your heart out to live a life of harmless, but stable conformity – something Jenny sees in her English teacher, Miss Stubs, (Olivia Williams). Jenny describes the blank, expressionless educator as “dead” ever since her graduation from Cambridge, implying a disgracefully apathetic life of tedium opposed to her globetrotting affairs with David.

You could say that this film represents the end of an era where women were powerless and susceptible to an easy life of non-conformity, knowing the alternative. Similar to AMC’s hit series “Mad Men,” also set in the early 60’s, the movie represents an age of impending cultural revolution where women were just beginning to question their societal limitations.

David (Peter Sarsgaard) is a natural when it comes to meeting the parents (Alfred Molina and Cara Seymour).

It’s such an honest and perfectly framed film, quaint and classy, jazzy and refined. Nick Hornby’s script is both penetratingly exact yet opaque, without a wasted breath or scene in-between. Scherfig, meanwhile, uses her feminine touch to make the film resonate where it otherwise might not have – similar to the way Kathryn Bigelow’s unnatural masculinity enhanced The Hurt Locker. Also, John de Borman’s rich lensing gives An Education a pleasurable and alluring palette, like a cozy street-side café.

Carey Mulligan, a 24-year old English actress who will be a household name come Spring next year, gives a star-turn here as the perhaps ignorantly confident Jenny. She has such an immediate presence in the film that’s rare for a young actress and it’s easily the best in a top-to-bottom stunning ensemble. Dominic Cooper and Rosamund Pike, as David’s equally posh and carefree friends – plus Emma Thompson as the school headmaster – all contribute to the cause.

As Jenny finds her existential truths and her place in the world around her, An Education reverberates like no other coming-of-age drama of recent memory. “Action builds character,” she says, and although it’s not necessarily in the sense that she means at the time, the message fits regardless. Sometimes, the best education is the one that doesn’t have to be bought.

For the better part of a decade, Nicolas Cage has sauntered through a plenitude of dopey, dead-weight, mid-major action films. But like a true savior, Werner Herzog has turned Cage from the dark side – still sensing good in him – and given the 45-year old actor one of the greatest roles of his career as the reckless, off-kilter and just plain bad, post-Katrina Lieutenant Terence McDonagh.

After a rare bout of heroism during the opening scene in Werner Herzog’s crazily trigger-happy Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans (an update of Abel Ferrera’s 1992 film), our titular subject and plainly described antihero suffers an evidently permanent back injury. His chest now slinks to one side, his gape more deliberate, his appearance more fatigued – the pain becoming impervious to the delicate relief of the merely prescribed pain medication. Such is the life of New Orleans’ most vulnerable powder keg of a police officer, and that’s before being placed in charge of a brutal quintuple homicide case.

Stevie Pruit (Val Kilmer) and Terence McDonagh (Nicolas Cage) -- New Orleans' finest.

With stress on the job and in his lower back, McDonagh takes advantage of his employee discount and acquires a taste for a more radical dose of painkillers. With the help of a cooperative yet cautious co-worker (Revolutionary Road‘s Michael Shannon) and offenders who would like to avoid jail-time, McDonagh recklessly spirals into the life of a drug-addict. Of course, drugs lead to inebriated impulsions and our Lieutenant soon finds himself buried in debt to his regular bookie (Brad Dourif) and the target of a powerful city kingpin after an encounter with a non-paying customer of his prostitute “girlfriend” (Eva Mendes) turns sour. Then, when a break in the case is revealed, placing a cooperating witness in police custody, it’s McDonagh’s job to keep him in town and out of harm’s way.

But this police business proves to be tough sledding when you’re having to dodge your backwoods alcoholic father and sister or the precarious foot-long iguanas that aren’t actually there, if you’re listening to the advice of partner Stevie Pruit (Val Kilmer). There are no pulled punches in the provocation department, and like his main character of interest, Herzog proves to be an addict of the offbeat and the eccentric.

A renowned and legendary German director and documentarian, Herzog is best known for his 70’s/80’s masterpieces Aguirre: The Wrath of God (’72), Nosferatu (’79) and Fitzcarraldo (’82). The two of those films that don’t dredge in vampire legend are warped personal character studies about men who have lost themselves in an attempt to gain something (both played by Klaus Kinski). Here, decades later, Herzog is tapping into similar fundamental material – despite the fact that, at times, it’s unclear what Lieutenant Terence McDonagh actually wants – in a nevertheless, equally disturbing and fiendishly straight-forward study about a man in a serious crisis.

McDonagh doesn't resort to usual interrogation techniques at Deshaun Hackett's (Lucius Baston) home.

But this isn’t Aguirre, or Fitzcarraldo, or one of Herzog’s better films. Its maniacal tone and schizo-comedic shape outperform and upstage the film’s weaknesses and thematic shortcomings, resulting in something categorically auteurist in its own dark and comedically stimulating way. Shot with mostly handheld cameras on location in Louisiana and parts of Southern Mississippi, “Bad Lieutenant” looks like a post-Katrina doc on law enforcement insubordination. Interior lighting is limited to window streaks and only the wide-angle scene-setters of the New Orleans cityscape really glisten. It has all the spark and finish of a direct-to-DVD release.

What Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans has in manic energy and perverse excursions, it lacks in genuine artistry. It’s a pot-fumed, pass-the-joint cult classic in the making but it never calls itself out or gives any rhyme or reason to its motives to become anything more amply deserving. Neither does Terence McDonagh ever evolve over the course of the film, and even though Nicolas Cage is absolutely brilliant at this kind of pulsating, itchy and oddball acting, he’s never fully formed – there is never that moment. Still, it’s endlessly entertaining to watch an actor like this at the top of his game after such an Eddie Murphy-like drought of substance. Like McDonagh, Cage should apply to the theory that sometimes, it’s good to be bad.

A few years ago, a new talent was unleashed upon the unsuspecting public in the form of Muay Thai martial arts sensation Tony Jaa. Jaa was the star of Thai film Ong-Bak, which after two years in release and a couple of celebrity endorsements, namely Quentin Tarantino and RZA, the film made its way onto U.S. shores and a new hero for all fans of martial arts films, replacing Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan and Jet Li, was born. Jaa carried a similar athletic reputation with him and the requisite “he does his own stunts” mantra, making him an instant person-of-interest in future action films. His Muay Thai style displayed in the film contained a ton of brutal elbows and thumping knees landed upon his opponents, eliciting a resounding “wow” factor from audiences. Though the film’s plot had much to be desired, the feats contained within made it a bit of a cult classic and now years later, Jaa has returned to the well that made him famous outside of Thailand, with Ong-Bak 2: The Beginning.

The first difference from the initial film is an obvious one as the story no longer takes place in a modern day cityscape, but the 15^th century Thai jungle. Ong-Bak 2 is a prequel if ever there was one. The story focuses on Tien, a young boy born into nobility, but after the murder of his parents is stripped of his title and relegated to poverty. When in horseback transit to another village, with a bodyguard, Tien is ambushed by a rival tribe and the bodyguard sacrifices himself in hopes of Tien making a great escape.

The guard’s efforts don’t hold up for long, as Tien is picked up almost immediately by the gang of thieves. Tien’s first instinct, however, is not one of fear, but instead he enacts an insubordination and resistance to authority destined to get him killed. This is indeed the gang’s plan, as they force Tien to walk the plank into a muddy pit inhabited by a ferocious crocodile. Tien displays all the mighty heft and angst toward the crocodile as he does his captors and his rambunctiousness is rewarded and his life spared.

After his display of skill, Tien is taken to a martial arts training ground with tons of young students, like a Muay Thai Hogwarts. With a childhood consisting of learning an unwanted dance, Tien is able to quickly adapt to his new surroundings as his acquired skills transfer fittingly to his new teachings. Over a short period of time Tien earns rank in the training ground and is soon promoted to the number two man in charge. However, the breeding is solely for future thieves and murderers and in order to avenge his parents’ death, he must take down the very man who helped him get back on his feet.

The croc's breath is positively abhorrent.

Ordinarily, I’m the type to think it unfair to compare one film to another, especially when determining quality. I believe each film should be given a chance to stand on its own two and not be beholden to any film which came before it. This ideology has to go somewhat by the wayside when discussing sequels, though. It’s inevitable to compare it to parts of the same franchise as they’re supposed to be a continual telling of one story, just in multiple parts. Ong-Bak 2 pales in comparison to the original in many ways and should hardly be considered part of the same franchise, though Ong-Bak 3 is said to fill in the cap between the two. Therefore in George Lucas-ian logic, the chronology of the franchise will eventually be 2, 3 and then 1, forever dooming any child learning to count based on the Jaa-starring series.

As the film’s star, making his directorial debut (as co-director alongside mentor and writer Panna Rittikrai), Tony Jaa had a lot riding on this film. He seems to have taken his position so seriously he is said to have broken down during the middle of the shoot and retired to the jungle, undergoing a personal Hearts of Darkness in the process. He had good reason to be stressed. It’s impossible to blame the filmmakers on desiring to create an artier or more respectable film than the primary entry, but despite that film’s storyline shortcomings, it at least had the action to fall back on. Ong-Bak 2 possesses an even less engaging story, compared to its predecessor, but sadly has not even a handful of the athletic and artfully violent prowess.

The first 60 of the film’s 90-minute runtime will leave action fans sorely disappointed and disheartened. Though Ong-Bak was mainly an exercise in showcasing Jaa’s talent, it did so greatly. With dialogue sprinkled thinly across the film’s surface, Ong-Bak 2 appears to perhaps solely exist to bank off of the Ong-Bak name. Jaa displays little of what made him famous, aside from an overlong 10-minute period toward the film’s end, but done so in a straightforward and somehow disorienting manner, rendering the effect as lackluster. The film’s final pathos is largely devoid of dramatic heft, regardless of how you’re “supposed” to feel

To say I was disappointed by Ong-Bak 2: The Beginning would be understatement, though not a feeling entirely unanticipated. Jaa’s Ong-Bak fallow-up, The Protector, was a letdown from his first film, but at least was able to deliver on an impactful, visceral level. Ong-Bak 2 will leave you yearning for the new discovery once again and perhaps have you doubting Jaa will ever see another uptick in his career trajectory. We would rightfully have felt robbed if Jaa had chosen to let Ong-Bak stand by itself, but these poorer efforts only dilute the initial classic. Instead of spending your life with Ong-Bak 2, give the original one more spin and remember the promise that once was.

With his modest looks, receding hairline and jolly, precarious smile, Michael Sheen is the “soup of the day” when it comes to playing historical figures on screen. In Tom Hooper’s The Damned United, which could be considered the final part in a trilogy of English biographical collaborations between Sheen and screenwriter Peter Morgan (The Queen, Frost/Nixon), Sheen plays the cocky, outspoken and infamous football manager of the 70’s and 80’s, Brian Clough.

Playing Prime Minister Tony Blair and talk-show host David Frost, Sheen has slipped into the shoes of these seemingly tepid yet charismatic and committed real-life figures with unobstructed ease and mild, respectable results – until now. Before the closing credits, we get to see archival footage of the real Brian Clough, where the resemblance between actor and subject is startlingly revealed. It only confirms what we were eluded to prior – that Sheen, for all of his previous workmanlike endeavors, has pulled off a performance that no other English actor could have inhabited with such clarity and reverberation.

Sheen plays Brian Clough, the fatally ambitious English football manager who took over for his arch rivals briefly in 1974.

The title, The Damned United – based on a novel by David Peace – refers to the 44-day period in 1974 in which Brian Clough (Sheen) took over as manager of his ruffian nemesis Leeds United after their beloved Don Revie (Colm Meaney) was beckoned by the national club to get England back to the World Cup. The board of the club, in their blind faith and desperation, turned to the rising star of the football world – the film explains why it never worked.

Manager Brian Clough, who would become one of the most renowned football managers in the history of English football, began his career as an easygoing, joyous and agreeable leader of the struggling Derby County in the late 60’s. When coincidentally handpicked to play mighty Leeds United in the 3rd round of the FA Cup in 1968, Clough saw himself and his club as more of a welcoming party than an opponent.

When Don Revie and his ferocious football club (known historically at the time as a group of “dirty” players who take after their manager) treat Clough and his players like an unsightly pest, refusing to shake this unknown manager’s hand, it ignites an unquenchable rage and ambition in the formerly passive manager, who will stop at nothing to gain football glory over Don Revie. Even when a close friendship with Peter Taylor (Timothy Spall) is in jeopardy or an unwilling chairman (Jim Broadbent) pleads him to use reason – ambition, like anything else, has its limits.

Don Revie (Colm Meaney) receives a hand from the Leeds United crowd, who disapprove of Clough's lack of results.

Through permissive spending, timely scouting and unmatched aggression and commitment, Clough turns Derby County from relegated bottom-dwellers to saintly underdog champions. As the film bounces back and forth from Clough’s Leeds fiasco in 1974 to the Derby County miracle story years earlier, the two sides of the manager’s stubborn, wildfire aspirations are plainly illustrated for what they are: an advantage and a detriment.

TV director Tom Hooper (“John Adams”) and director of photography Ben Smithard capture the rolling hills and cloudy temperament of the North English countryside with a green hue resembling the definable moments before or after a rainstorm. Each scene captures the muddy, wind-swept 70’s English landscape of gritty football, seamlessly co-existing with archival footage of the actual Derby County on the pitch.

The Damned United is a perfectly pitched – if shortsighted and modest – biographical account. In addition to Sheen’s terrific performance (in my opinion, the best of his career), it captures its era and environment with clarity and assuredness before surprising you with its insight and its emotion. At one point in the film, a highly noted and like-mindedly flamboyant and controversial American sports figure is seen on television calling on Clough, this spirited, talkative and contentious English football manager to, “stop it”. “There is only room for one Muhammad Ali in this world,” the greatest boxer of all-time touts.

The relationship is valid, but with one discernible difference. Ali, for all of his opinionated controversies and pre-match jeering, could always rely on the notion that he was, in fact, the greatest boxer in the world, without a flaw. Clough, on the other hand, revealed in a remarkably intimate later scene on a studio set, had to live with the fact that his unruly ambition, not to mention Don Revie, got the best of him.

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.

As the decades turned over to the 70’s, it was time of international social and political unrest, where to rebel and to reject was to live. Some did it in a modest, harmless and nondestructive manner – innocuously listening to rock ‘n roll or experimenting with drugs – while others reacted in a more radical manner, heading straight to the source to confront it with unrelenting passion and hostility.

Che Guevara was trying to ignite a revolution in Bolivia, the United States’ intervention in Vietnam was ongoing and the Israelis and Palestinians were as volatile as ever, climaxing with the terrorist attacks at the 1972 Munich Olympics. Thus, rebellion was the order of the day, the college-age fad and the result of a tumultuous global climate. But it was one group in particular that impetuously took the next, seemingly appropriate step.

Uli Edel’s The Baader Meinhof Complex has been, and could fittingly be described as, the true story of the birth of terrorism. It chronicles the establishment and decade-long struggle of the Red Army Faction (a.k.a. “The Baader-Meinhof Group”) against the fascist, imperialistic state of West Germany and the general world order of governmental authority. This was a new generation of Germans, citizens who were adolescents or non-existent during the reign of the Third Reich. As Stefan Aust, a member of this generation and the author of the source novel, (which bears the same name as its adaptation) says, “The moment you see your own country as the continuation of a fascist state, you give yourself permission to do almost anything against it.”

The calm before the storm -- German communist activists protest the war in Vietnam.

The film traces the origins of the group through its leaders in the social unrest of West Berlin society, which reflected the worldwide anxiety and general disapproval of government power-flexing abroad and at home. (Protests and the resulting police brutality across the globe are shown in one of many news-style montages.) Ulrich Meinhof (Martina Gedeck) plays a well-known journalist who shares uncommonly radical, anti-governmental, views amongst her media peers. She meets Gudrun Ensslin (Johanna Wokalek) for an interview after an arsonist display in a high-rise department store, where she first hears of minor, premeditated terrorist attacks in an attempt to gain exposure and express distrust and disapproval. The arrogantly boisterous Gudrun and her cocky, confidently adamant counterpart, Andreas Baader (Mortiz Bleibtreu) form the foundation of the Red Army Faction (RAF), whose hierarchy and long-term business plan is hardly an envious model.

The first half of the film is a seductively rebellious political-bruiser. Our militant revolutionaries, with their wigs and aviator glasses and hip-hugging jeans, rob banks, bomb state buildings, break out their comrades when they’re in a tough spot and spread their anarchist views through writings and recruiting. As the stakes get higher and the tasks more extravagantly violent and reckless, The Baader Meinhof Complex takes on a more reflective tone, focusing on the consequences, influences and results of this initial wave of RAF expression. Baader, Ensslin and Meinhof, as well as the film as a whole, may not come to the conclusion that one would expect and it counteracts almost all of the flashes of glamour and bravura that came before it, hinting that these acts may have been impulsive, misjudged and underdeveloped.

Gudrun Ensslin (Johanna Wokalek) and Andreas Baader (Mortiz Bleibtreu) fight the power in West Germany.

A 2008 nominee for Best Foreign Language Film at the Oscars but unreleased in the United States until this year, The Baader Meinhof Complex is a capably committed portrait of political unrest and a really good political action-drama. With its worldview and broad scope, it carefully and rightfully captures the era as an evolving, emerging and budding anti-political landscape and the foundations that were laid out to be felt to this day. Therefore, whether intentional or not, it gives the film an extra dose of relevance when viewed within the framework of our current society.

Pacing is a bit of an issue, but not in the immediate sense that you might be thinking. It moves at breakneck speed, actually, but to the film’s detriment. It’s a good deal of mischievous West Berlin RAF activity and when it isn’t focused on the key members of the group, it’s advancing the story through time-lapse montages or newscast footage reels. Spanning an entire decade, even at 154 minutes, the film is too condensed and it never breathes.

The performances, on the other hand, are top-notch, especially from Martina Gedeck (The Lives of Others) as one-half of the titular “Baader-Meinhof Group.” She starts out as a fighter and a revolutionary with her words before turning into the leader of this terrorist group, taking on a more physical, activist role. The fact that her ideals and agendas may have been lost in the translation is one of the film’s strengths.

The Baader Meinhof Complex is compulsively watchable in the way that a fascinating account of history or a gripping historical documentary would be. It’s extremely well-acted, well-crafted, uncompromising and fit for its subject, but it doesn’t ever completely take off. Similar to the result of the RAF’s futile acts of aggression, the film’s desired impact and effort is never truly felt by its audience. It’s a silenced handgun – it gets the job done, but it doesn’t resonate very loudly.

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.

“You can vote? But you are woman?…In Kazakhstan, we say God, man, horse, dog, woman, then rat and then small [crustacean].” Those are Borat’s words when discovering a female head-of-household was allowed to vote, during a door-to-door meet-and-greet alongside congressional candidate, James Broadwater, in a segment for “Da Ali G Show.” Although humorous to think even his country hadn’t caught up with the times, there was an era in which even the United States ignored a woman’s right to vote. It wasn’t until 1920 when the 19^th Amendment went into affect. That was right in the middle of when Amelia Earhart was in pursuit of becoming the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean, thus breaking down another wall in the crusade for equal rights.

As far back as she could remember, Amelia Earhart always wanted to fly planes. She’d stare up at them from the ground, surrounded by hayfields as the iron giants flew up above. No fear was struck in her, unlike the classic scene from North By Northwest, but more of a serene loneliness. She liked being by herself and being her own person, not having to conform to somebody else’s sense of time and rules. This independency from others continued to dominate Amelia’s form of thought as she ascended through the piloting ranks.

After logging 500 solo hours in the pilot’s seat, Amelia was given a chance in 1928 to become the first woman to fly across the Atlantic Ocean, just one year after Charles Lindbergh’s historic flight. The catch was that all she needed to do to qualify for such a feat was to be flown by two men, while Amelia could only play the role of backseat flier. Though problems emerge with her male crew, Amelia is determined to make it across the ocean come hell or high water and practically wills the team into the record books. She remains unsatisfied with her “achievement,” however, and vows to be the first female in the pilot’s seat to reenact the feat.

Her “historic” flight was set up by publicist George Putnam, who is determined to create a celebrity persona around Amelia after her trip around the Atlantic, regardless of where she sat inside the plane. She’s featured in corporate print ads and speaks at sold out concert halls. Eventually, George becomes enamored with his female subject and asks for her hand in marriage. Amelia, being the independent woman she is wants to pull a Beyonce, but eventually caves. George continues to orchestrate Amelia’s quest for personal glory through the air, but their relationship faces turbulence while grounded, due to the presence of Gene Vidal (author, Gore’s father), who is the director of the Commerce Department’s Bureau of Air Commerce.

The only time Amelia is truly happy, by herself.

The funny thing about Amelia is it depicts its title character not as someone who is into pushing for women’s rights, but is much more of a selfish loner only out for number one. George and Gene warn of her image in the media as someone who indulges in literal flights of fancy for her personal gain. Newspapers report she shills herself for endorsements like a real-life Krusty the Clown, purely to lavish more attention on her accomplishments. Sure she encourages a young female flier and starts an organization of female pilots called The Ninety-Nines, but those scenes are glossed over with nary a hint of meaning. The film portrays its star exactly like the media contained within it pretends to condemn.

Rather than focusing on her accomplishments or her courage to push the boundaries and confinements of women’s suffrage, the film is far more concerned with Amelia’s romantic exploits. It seems like a huge misfire given the character and heroics she brings to the table, but it could at least be partially forgiven if her romantic transgressions were in the least bit interesting. The script by Ron Bass (Entrapment) and Anna Hamilton Phelan (Girl, Interrupted) wants you to feel for Amelia’s relationship with both George and Gene, but there’s so little spark from the disinterested Amelia, why should we bother to care when she doesn’t? Due to this oversight, director Mira Nair’s film is largely devoid of any drama, aside from the inevitable final scene of Amelia’s life.

From the outset, it would seem a biopic on the life of Amelia Earhart would be an actor’s dream about a strong, determined and successful Midwestern girl. I’m sure those were the traits that attracted the two-time Oscar-winning Hilary Swank. She brings her typical tour-de-force self to the character, complete with hick-like accent and a stubborn wonderment to it all. Sadly, the material handed to her almost assures her of not reaching the heights she achieved in her two previous statue-winning performances. Much the same can be said of both Richard Gere’s George and Ewan McGregor as Gene. They’re both competently solid, but have next to nothing to work with, especially McGregor, whose character is practically superfluous.

What could have been an important film for audiences, cast and crew alike was instead dumbed down to be both dull and boring. If the film was served as a history lesson of sorts, it could have been made tolerable, but instead was more of a filmic 1930s issue of “Us” magazine. The stars deserved better with the effort they put into it, but the material doesn’t justify the hard work.

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.