Being, seemingly, one of only two people across the globe who disliked Steig Larsson’s trilogy, I didn’t flock to see David Fincher’s screen adaptation. In part, there are certain plot points in the novel that just drive me a bit nuts, particularly the incredible progression of Blumquist’s discovery of a woman whose honeymoon fortuitously took place during the same week that Harriet was murdered (thus providing photographic evidence); the random appearance of Blumquist’s daughter, who conveniently wonders, “What’s with the Biblical names on your desk?”; and the unbelievably implausible and overly complex ruse executed by an improbable number of employees toward the end of the novel.

Fincher only omits the third of these events, which is still a bit annoying, particularly since screenwriter Steven Zaillian adroitly weaves the multiple narratives together that felt so bulky in the novel, but overall, his adaptation – and remake of the decent 2009 Swedish version – successfully imagines a blue-gray-slate-tinted world of deception and evil. The Sweden backdrop is cold, desolate, and casts a pall of isolation. As Blomkvist’s car moves up Henrik Vanger’s (Christopher Plummer) drive, the screen is flushed white and the house is camouflaged in the winter weather. Parallel rows of towering, black lampposts mark the path but conjure the image of a prison, one that is vacuous and apparent but adopted as part of everyday life.

This eeriness persists throughout the film and keeps the audience both riveted and tense. There are very few slow moments, and, despite some complaints that the film runs too long, I found it one of the faster moving two-hour-plus movies. This is due in part to the consistently pithy dialog and flashbacks woven seamlessly under Vanger’s narration. There is no need for lengthy ruminations. The novel spends a fair amount of time setting scenes with unnecessary description and circuitous dialog. The film remedies this by avoiding the overly-expository dialog and focusing on showing the audience the familial and personal separation between characters. We learn about them from their actions, not their monologues – except toward the end when the ultimate villain must confess his motivation – but this is necessary in that, well, he’s a villain, and he must monologue to buy the protagonist time. The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, above all, is still a detective film, so some tropes are hard to avoid.

Daniel Craig is a solid choice for Mikhail Blomkvist. He can be stoic and cold with an air of intelligence. In a sense, he’s kind of an anti-hero. He’s not totally likable, but he’s not supposed to be. He’s flawed, and he represents that conflict between “truth” and “news.” Simply, “news” sells; “truth” is what happens. This depiction of Blomkvist speaks to another of this film’s successes: it flushes out the often overly-convoluted murkiness of the novel and puts the focus on the disparity between police and journalists. In general, both are trusted at their word. At the same time, the journalist reports what he’s been told without the burden of “truth,” something that gets Blomkvist into trouble at the very beginning of the film. He’s charged with libel and both his reputation and that of his magazine, Millennium, plummet to cavernous lows.  

Most notably, Rooney Mara is perfectly cast as Lisbeth Salander. The look is accurate – as is Noomi Racpace’s in 2009 – but Rooney’s depiction is cold and removed. Her “throes of passion” are reduced to personal pleasure, and each line is delivered in an appropriate monotone that suggests a touch of Asperger’s. Her movements are similar. Her gestures are simple and unanimated as if she knows her body is simply utilitarian to get from A to B. Her strength is her apparently eidetic and photographic memory. Salander is a computer, a tool, a resource, and Rooney’s depiction conveys this. At the same time, there is a resilient strength in each movement and word that transforms Salander from a disturbed emo-woman to a cunning, meticulous badass. She’s the best modern incarnation of female superhero – without the superhero part. Like Blomkvist, it’s difficult to know whether we should root for her or against her. Some of her actions are out of revenge; others gratitude; some, whim. Regardless, Mara is a treat to watch. It’s unclear whether Fincher will direct the final two installments of Larsson’s trilogy, but the inclusion of Mara will provide each one with a cursory reason to watch.

Historically, Fincher has shied away from sequels; at the same time, it would be unfortunate if Fincher’s style and aesthetic were wasted by handing this trilogy over to another director. Certainly, others are capable, but history proves inconsistent when directors change mid-series. Sure, Alien had a good run to three – and, incidentally, Fincher directed the third – as did 28 Days Later in its transition from Boyle to Fresnadillo, but recent series like X-Men, the 1990’s Batman, anything Hannibal Lecter-based after Silence of the Lambs, and Mission Impossible until the most recent installment suggest that a new director is synonymous with a weaker script and flatter characters.

Ned lives contently with Willie Nelson (his dog) and girlfriend, Liz, somewhere in upstate New York. The vibe is reminiscent of hippiedom, or at least re-imagined hippiedom. Liz and Ned are idealists, which intones that they’re pacifists, and they often cite modes of non-violence when bickering. They work an organic farm, wear Crocks instead of Birkenstocks and seemingly groom themselves regularly. This all suggests that they have caught up with the times and are aware of the world despite their constant aura of aloofness.

At the same time, Ned, while peddling his edible wares at a farmers’ market, sells a bad of marijuana to a uniformed police officer, which gives cause for his eventual parole officer to suggest “he must be retarded.” Despite the previews, this scene is less comical than it is sad. Ned is not a reincarnation of Kunu, Paul Rudd’s other stoner character from Forgetting Sarah Marshall, so it’s not his THC-bogged synapses that impel this ill-advised sale. Rather, it’s Ned’s faith that people are more genuine that advantageous.

As Ned mans his booth, Officer Washburn (Bob Stephenson) approaches and, through mimed smoking, complete with forefinger and thumb pressed tightly together and repeatedly touching his tightly pursed lips, asks if Ned has anything – because he’s had a rough week. The officer’s schlocky, unnatural gesticulation gives Ned a heads up, so he declines, saying, “even if I knew where to find some, I wouldn’t tell you.” This is all done with an earnest smile and an awareness of social regulations.

But then the officer keeps pushing his sad story, and Ned relents, handing over a bag, hid sort of discreetly by a large carrot. Ned still isn’t arrested. Not until the officer insists on handing over twenty dollars. Now, Ned is arrested, and while I think this is dangerously close to coercion, the overall theme of the movie is clear: take responsibility for your own actions.

Ned serves eight months in jail – his amiable nature gets him released early – and when he heads back to the farm, his girlfriends has adopted a new boyfriend, and refuses to hand over Willie Nelson. There’s a comical powerplay here that often results in terse exchanges: “wow,” “yeah,” “uncool,” and “wow,” but the focus here is to provide Ned with something to care about: his dog.

As this plot point courses throughout, Ned travels to New York City, staying with each of his three sisters. Invariably, his idealism wreaks havoc on their lives, illustrating once again the perils of being responsible. One sister (Emily Mortimer) is coping with a philandering husband (Steve Coogan), another (Elizabeth Banks) is a writer for Vanity Fair but is unable to get the headlining story she needs without subterfuge, and the final (Zooey Deschanel) is a bisexual who’s long-time girlfriend (Rashida Jones) is going to be a bit perturbed to find out she’s going to be a father.

Forgive the lack of names here, but they’re rather unnecessary. The performances are decent all around, but the characters themselves are flat stereotypes and placeholders, replacing sympathy with predictability and evolution with derivative little bows. They merely function to move the story along. Ned goes to jail; Ned wants his dog; Ned can’t get his dog; Ned keeps trying to get his dog. The rest is filler. Slightly entertaining filler, but filler nonetheless.

Ned, somehow, is blamed for his sister’s impending divorce and her husband’s adultery. He’s blamed for killing the other sister’s story and shattering her precarious relationship with the downstairs neighbor. He’s also blamed for spilling the beans about his forthcoming niece or nephew. Predictably, there’s a falling out, a mini outburst, and a saccharine reconciliation

About halfway through, the audience should get the impression that the film’s intent is to allude to the injustice of Ned spending eight months in jail over a petty crime that lacks malicious intent while those around him seem to wade in the moat dividing earnestness and legal immorality. Ned’s genuineness juxtaposed with the overall flat characters make this tale palatable, but there is often a need for a dash of realism.

Valentine’s Day has come and gone. Those waiting for that break-up prohibition to expire can now submit as many pink slips as you wish. And, if you’re looking to drown your sorrows or start life anew, your best best this week will be to check out Undefeated. If you’re just looking to get depressed, you might want to check out Michael. If you’re looking for someone with dimmer prospects than yourself, there’s always Nicolas Cage reprising his role as mediocre actor in Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance, a film so unwanted, critics weren’t even invited to a pre-screening. Have kids or looking for a nice trip through a fantastical world of tiny people living? Check out The Secret World of Arrietty. Viewing, commence!

Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance: This film already has a few things going against it. First, it’s a sequel to a 2007 movie that tanked. Granted, Spirit of Vengeance is supposed to be a darker and more accurate adaptation of the Ghost Rider comic book, but making it darker doesn’t necessarily make it better. Second, it stars Nicolas Cage, who will do pretty much anything to add to his collection of shrunken heads, dinosaur skulls and castles. Third, this flick opens today, and no one has been allowed to screen it yet, which puts it right on par with One for the Money. In film, the phrase “no news is good news” does not have the same positive connotation.

The Secret World of Arrietty: Charming, sentimental, and based on Mary Norton’s The Borrowers, The Secret World of Arrietty  weaves the mystical tale of a tiny, fourteen-year-old girl who lives in the recesses of someone else’s home. As the lives coexist under one roof, Shawn, a boy who comes to stay at the home encounters Arrietty, and a friendship blossoms. Surely, there’s an examination of differences and acceptance, but the smoothly saccharine narrative should make this much more than child fodder.

Undefeated: For everyone who was a fan of Friday Night Lights (the NBC program, not the movie) – and the one person who wasn’t — Undefeated is the documented reality the Dillon Tigers. Only this time, it’s set in Memphis and centered on the Manassas Tigers’ 2009 football season. For the decade prior, they were the perennial laughing stocks of their division, but after the arrival of former high school football coach, everything changed. Inspirational, encouraging, and deeply touching, Undefeated adds to the genre of sports-as-a-microcosm-of-life cinema.

Michael: I’m thrilled that the antithesis to the campy John Travolta / angel film of the same title has been released, and for that reason alone, I’d like to check this out. However, what’s the first adjective that comes to mind when you find out that Michael is an insurance salesman holding a ten-year-old boy hostage in a basement? I’m going with disturbing, haunting, and sadistic. Maybe it’ll have a happy ending. After all, it’s the first film from director Markus Schleinzer – a former casting director of Michael Haneke’s The White Ribbon. Oh.

If 2011 was the year of the sequel, 2012 is set to rival that moniker with additional superhero franchise installments. Most notably is the uber-anticipated Dark Knight Rises, followed at a distance by The Amazing Spiderman and The Avengers. I’m sure Hollywood is also destined to bombard us with a handful of underground super movies that follow us normal folk possessed by delusions of grandeur. Either way, viewers love superheroes.

Question 1: Are you a fan of the more mainstream superheroes or the underground players? 

Bill Coffin: Growing up amid the comic boom of the 1980s, seeing a film like Batman was a huge deal because the technical challenges to making a superhero movie that actually looked good remained substantial. In an era where you can capture even the most wild superhero action on screen, the visuals start to matter less, and once you’re over the novelty of seeing a guy like Hancock shoulder a freight train off the tracks, you do start to get more interested in why he would derail an entire train just to save some guy stuck on the tracks. So yeah, I’ve become more interested in the underground/non-heroes than the traditional heroes. I’ve had Captain America, Thor, Green Lantern and the last two X-Men movies in my possession for months and have yet to watch any of them.

Steve Barker: On screen I prefer the more underground characters. I have not enjoyed the majority of mainstream comic book movie adaptations and I was a big comic book reader as a kid. My favorite was Ghost Rider and the movie with Nic Cage was terrible. It was so bad I’m not even sure I could enjoy the comic books again if I tried. I was stunned when I saw a trailer for a sequel during the Super Bowl. One mainstream adaptation I loved that basically went unnoticed was Dolf Lundgren as the Punisher. That was one of the few times the violence in the comic was equal to the violence in the movie

Tim Adkins: I’ve been an Incredible Hulk fan since before I could speak English. Always dug the combination of righteous rage and brainy, tortured nomad. The two films that have been made thus far about the Hulk have been okay. But I think he’s an unusually challenging character to render for the big screen. Or the small screen. Which is to say that I lean toward the mainstream superheroes. Although I should state unequivocally that I believe the Scott Pilgrim flick to be the best accomplishment in translational storytelling of the last decade. What Edgar Wright and his team did in channeling the experience aesthetics of reading a comic book and using the Interwebs to tell a story via a motion picture was freakin’ brilliant.

Dustin Freeley: For the most part, I dig the more underground movies. I don’t dislike mainstream characters, but in recent years, most of these movies (Iron Man, Captain America, Thor) have spent time and money on an origin story then bridge to sequels of sequels of sequels and tandem-hero movies (i.e. The Avengers). Watching Tony Stark trapped in a cave and manufacture the original iron suit was cool; watching him John Nash Flushing Meadows Park to defeat a Russian Mickey Rourke was a snippet within a two-hour commercial meant to remind us that Thor and Captain America were heading to theaters. I’d take Kick Ass, Scott Pilgrim, or Darkman over any of these films.

Jared Wade: Mainstream for sure. Other than Unbreakable (if you want to call that “underground”), all my favorite superhero flicks have been the big ones: the X-Men franchise, Watchmen, the original Superman franchise, Batman Returns, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Iron Man I & II. The smaller takes on the genre have been cute and all but I want massive explosions and space-age special effects. That takes a major,
Hollywood-infused budget.

Question 2: The Dark Knight Rises is clearly the most anticipated hero film of 2012. Can it possibly live up to the hype?  

Bill Coffin: Don’t know, don’t care. Christopher Nolan has earned my trust as a filmmaker, so I’ll certainly see it. It’ll be one of the first comic movies I’ve ever seen that retells a story from the print issues that I never actually read, so at least I won’t have that annoying nerd impulse to constantly cross-check what I’m seeing against what I’m remembering. That almost ruined Watchmen for me.

Steve Barker: It will not have a better performance than Heath Ledger as The Joker. It will still make a zillion dollars.

Tim Adkins: The kind of hype building around Dark Knight Rises really makes this a question of scale. What filmmakers do you trust to play at that level? Who has a track record of delivering a movie that will satisfy a) devoted, hypercritical cinephiles / fanboys b) the companies that need the franchise to generate ginormous revenues and c) casual moviegoers who just want to be part of a significant event? There’s at least one guy who can succeed in that space: Chris Nolan. As a “commercial artist”–with a dutiful emphasis on both words in that phrase–he’s almost without peer. So, short answer, yes.

Dustin Freeley: I dig Nolan and want to trust he will end this series well, and maybe it’ll end with a busted – but not deceased — Batman, which might be the best way to go in that it falls in line with sub-textual reminder that Bruce Wayne is human. At the same time, the wealth of mainstream actors rounding out a bloated cast of characters worries me. I know people love The Dark Knight, but aside from Ledger, there were a fair number of narrative flaws, a wasted Two Face, and a flat, nasally Batman. In the Val Kilmer and George Clooney incarnations, the extraneous villains and tertiary heroes were tasked with carrying the load to make up for the Bat-story, so the only thing I fear is this denouement following the same route. Can Hathaway’s Catwoman do anything that Pfeifer’s didn’t? Will a reportedly inaudible Bane resonate as a worthy adversary? And, why throw in Matthew Modine as the little known, political villain, Nixon? Nostradamus I am not, but this movie will certainly be the biggest of the summer and theaters will be continuously stocked with Batfans, but the third leg of a trilogy is often cursed. Even those we canonize veer into silliness. Ewoks, I’m looking in your general direction.

Jared Wade: Probably not. I’m frankly not a huge fan of the new Batman franchise. Both of the first two movies were pretty good, but outside of the historic awesomeness of the Joker in the second one, I haven’t particularly enjoyed any of the plot lines or characters.

Question 3: Spiderman is getting a reboot only a few years after Tobey Maguire grew out of his tights. Is this “Amazing” reboot necessary?

Bill Coffin: If there is a larger strategic purpose for rebooting the franchise other than to get away from admitting that Spider-Man 3 was ever made (which a Spider-Man 4 sequel would have done by dint of its name alone), then I haven’t seen it yet. Maybe it’s about getting somebody besides Tobey MacGuire in the role without having the awkwardness of admitting that your lead player is now a different guy. The only franchise to survive that transition is Police Academy, and look at the damage that has done to us as a culture. I’m just pissed that I’m going to have to watch Peter Parker’s origin story again. How many times do we need to see Uncle Ben get capped, anyway?

Steve Barker: Not necessary at all. I thought Tobey Maguire made a fine Peter Parker and the franchise should have a little time to rest. There should be at least a ten year gap between reboots. Remember all those awful Batman movies after Michal Keaton left? Yeah, me neither.

Tim Adkins: The problem with the Tobey Maguire version of Spiderman was that it wanted to be acceptable to children while playing to adults. And it ultimately failed. The first movie was an event. (Remember that $116 million opening weekend gross that exploded the threshold for box office success?) And that was enough. The second and third movies were mostly tasteless syrup. In a relatively short amount of time since the first Maguire film was released, two things have happened: 1) animation studios have locked the formula for making a kids movie that adults will enjoy; 2) superhero movies have been allowed to delve into the mature themes that the best comic books and graphic novels have always exploited. We may not need the Spiderman reboot, but reframing that character in a post-Dark Knight world–where adults will show up in the millions to see a thoughtful epic–is not a superfluous exercise. Maybe it’ll be cool.

Dustin Freeley: Necessary, like the Spiderman mythology needs to be avenged? No. Perhaps the only thing necessary is a better rendition of Venom. This is what really sank the third movie. The first film was visual masturbation; the second was carried by Alfred Molina; the third wasted the most popular character in Spiderman lore, and to imagine Topher Grace as the afflicted was the definition of poor casting. Likewise, Eric Foreman is no Eddie Brock. So, for this reason alone, I’ll bide my time through this origin story and assume that Parker needs to heed Uncle Ben’s oft-noted maxim, something about power, responsibility and rice.

Jared Wade: To me, Spiderman is the dumbest superhero. So no. No interest in seeing that little whiny, emo teenager reimagined yet again. Much more excited for the next Wolverine, even if it probably won’t be that good again.

…in the forest and there’s no one around to hear it, does it make a sound? This century-old philosophical thought experiment is often conducted to explore the connection between our realities and observations. However, If a Tree Falls, the newly Academy Award nominated documentary, contends, the answer to this question is: “No, which is why the aggravated beavers and radical environmentalists need to burn down buildings.”

If a Tree Falls gives an inside look at the members of the Earth Liberation Front (ELF), a radical pro-environment organization that has taken credit for “two dozen major acts of eco-terrorism,” specifically arson, throughout the country in the late 90’s and early aughts. Centering on Daniel McGowan, who was, self-admittedly, “involved in two separate arsons,” this documentary examines the deviation from environmentalist to radical sect and the events that led to “millions of dollars of property damage.”

To its credit, this documentary doesn’t absolve McGowan of his crimes, and he doesn’t deny them either. Rather, he might be the purest form of activist: one that stands with conviction but admits wrongdoing. In a way, he faces his shame as often he can, never wanting to forget what he did, and this makes him a sympathetic character. He seems resolved to serve eight years in prison.

His primary complaint is that he will forever be labeled a “terrorist,” a prescription that shades visas, passports, airline tickets, and future employment. Perhaps any future jobs would be impacted by his role as “lookout” in the Supreme Lumber fire, or an active “bomber” in the Jefferson Poplar arson, but his characterization as “terrorist” seems more akin to a play on an all-encompassing buzzword that conjures images of suicide bombers, dead bodies tossed about, and commercial airliners crashing into skyscrapers.

There, this documentary veers away from taking sides and pointing fingers and aims more at the semantics of phrases like “eco-terrorists.” In other words, should terrorism refer solely to environmentalists who destroy property, or could it also be comprised of tankers that spill millions of gallons in the Gulf of Mexico and the Arctic. Could the moniker also be applied to lumber companies that strip Oregonian mountains bare and leave them looking like freshly skinned carcasses?

There’s a fine line limned between the two, but the ultimate determinant seems to be commerce. Environmentalists, on a comparative scale, contribute little to a rotating economy. Therefore, the companies’ actions skirt any connection with “terrorism” because they simultaneously maintain employment rates and circulate money in the local economy.

Given our current national unemployment rate, this is difficult to admonish, but the question as to whether or not radical activism is the only way to create change remains.

This documentary is well-timed and will evoke more than a few references to Occupy Wall Street. While the targets are capitalist America, the agendas are a bit different. Regardless, the moments most similar are those that involve attacks on non-violent protestors. According to If a Tree Falls, the inception of the ELF stems from the frustration felt by civil protestors who were pepper-sprayed and tear gassed for merely assembling in protest, acts that are eerily reminiscent to those sprayed on the campus of UC Davis and throughout the rest of the country for refusing to leave “occupied” areas.

Again questioning the true definition of terrorism, which in this case is the “instilling of fear with a subject,” this documentary juxtaposes pain-inflicting actions of authority figures (National Guard, SWAT, Policemen) against the actions of those in the ELF (arson, destruction of property). When these images are scene side by side, it’s difficult to discern which aggressor is more hostile. While the ELF admits to committing crimes, their plots, by design, were enacted when people were scarce: no one was hurt during the fires and most all of them took place well beyond hours of operation. This certainly doesn’t justify their actions and erase their illegality, but it does make one pause and wonder whether or not the sledgehammering sound of a business collapsing, in the long run, doesn’t have more of an impact than a passive protestor left to rinse pepper spray from their body.

In the end, it seems that the addition of “terrorism” to crime is really a form of revisionist history, or, at least, a method in securing the future. Take for example the Boston Tea Party, an act of protest and destruction of property that is widely, and rightly, taught in schools (and alluded to in the film). The Tea Party was an destructive act against an unjust monopoly, and became a key moment in the growth of our own American Revolution. Was this not a method through with we “instilled fear” in the colonizers? Would this not be considered “terrorism” today if the context were different, and instead of “tea,” we refused to pay federal taxes because of the way they are mismanaged and utilized without our consent? Granted, throwing tons of paper W-2’s in the ocean would make little difference – and in fact might make us eco-terrorists — but what if we stormed the various IRS establishments, removed their computers and began disposing of them? In today’s parlance, this might very well be “terrorism,” if not a form of “treason.”

If nothing else, If a Tree Falls revisits Lacan’s notion that the “world of words is the world of things” and looks at how words construct what we deem good and bad. If you’re with us, you’re an ally; if you’re against us, you’re a terrorist.

Andrew Detmer (Dane Dehaan) is a high school-assassin waiting to happen. Despite his often stoic demeanor, an anger ebbs and flows underneath, occasionally manifesting itself in a frustrated outburst. If it’s possible, his aggression is justified: his alcoholic father (Michael Kelly) is verbally and physically abusive, occasionally jabbing Andrew’s temple with a quick right hand, knocking him out of the chair to the floor. In tandem, his mother is dying and each breath is painful struggle. There are no doctor-office flashbacks or concrete diagnosis revealed, but she writhes in pain and emits suffocated cries. These conditions make Andrew an introvert, afraid of confrontation or becoming the center of attention for fear that the fall from grace is worse than the struggle to ascend.

Andrew’s living condition also impels his purchase of a video camera so that he can “record everything.” This is way for him to separate himself from the rest of the world by being a voyeur of people’s actions as opposed to partaking in them; plus, it creates the hand-held, found-footage conceit that we’ve all grown accustomed to.

To Chronicle’s credit, this gimmick works, for the most part. When Andrew has the camera, we feel how shy he is, not solely because he is unseen but because his voice trembles and fades as if he’s moving as far away from his subject as possible. When the camera is passed to his cousin Matt (Alex Russell) or friend, Steve (Michael B. Jordan), they become the default cinematographers and things work pretty smoothly.

At the same time, there are flaws.

The most noticeable are the unnecessary jumps in footage. At times, a dialog ensues, but the frame jumps as if to change angles or if Andrew pauses the camera; however, this is illogical in that there are no beats lost in the conversation. The story is adequate enough to keep the audience interested in the characters, but these moments, of which there are many, feel like an attempt to remind the audience that Chronicle is posing as a documentary, but this is incongruent because the “editing” feels unnatural.

The other issue is when Casey, Matt’s love interest, is introduced. She too carries around a camera to document things to place on her blog. This is a convenient way to film each of them with alternating shots, but the continuity is wonky. When Casey holds her camera, it’s often pointed below his neck, but when Matt’s face is shown on screen, he is perfectly framed. Sure, I’m anal retentive, but this discontinuity occurs a bit too often. Similarly, Casey’s camera is often taken for granted. Andrew is a shut in, so his camera represents a security blanket; even when he becomes a bit unhinged on account of realizing he is the “apex predator” – the most dangerous creature – the camera still makes sense because it becomes his opportunity to document his powers and his abilities. At the same time, when Matt jettisons from Casey’s house to find Andrew, her joining him with a camera just seems silly: as if the conversation were, “Andrew’s going crazy. Quick. Get your camera!” I understand the film sets a precedent for being relayed solely through the amateur eye, but this gets a bit messy during the third act.

Similarly, it’s a mystery how we know that these three boys acquired superpowers, which is the main premise of the movie: one night at a rave, Steve and Matt stumble upon a mysterious tunnel in an adjacent valley. Needing a light and a camera, they beckon for Andrew, who obliges and follows them under ground. Inside, something large and crystal glows and seems to internally surge with life. All three boys reach out their hands to touch it and the camera goes on the fritz and blinks black. Sometime later, they are performing the “ball test,” in which each youth is pegged with a baseball in an attempt to sustain the injury and see if he can stop the ball’s trajectory. In the background, there is chatter about a new camera and losing the old one underground.

So, Chronicle is a documentary-style narrative in which the footage is never found or processed.  I suppose the intent here is to emphasize the notion that we’re all voyeurs and experience many things through uploaded video, etc., but the narrative often gets wrapped up in its own gimmick, and, at times, there is no logical camera present – this is a particular issue during the rather impressive and visually entertaining showdown at the end of the film. Here, the film utilizes chopper cameras and security cameras within buildings, but then there are moments when we’re expected to believe that someone’s iPhone is capturing a crystal clear close up of two people flying and fighting a hundred yards away. This is a stretch, as are the two hand-held cameras randomly floating six-hundred feet in the air around our two combatants. Their origin is unknown as is their purpose in the rumble.

Aside from some of the visual sticking points, Chronicle is rather entertaining. The action scenes are impressive as is the overall story. It could have very well become a superhero origin story ready to set up a gaggle of sequels, but this feels far from the intent. The power-granting crystal is covered by a cave in, and there’s no exposited way for the boys to pass their power along, so another installment would be a stretch. Really, it’s a story of adolescent loneliness, struggle, and friendship. The performances are genuine and the narrative knowingly creates flawed characters. Andrew is socially awkward but is, for the first part of the film, well intentioned; Steve is a good guy who lets his ego control one too many of his actions, and Matt has a heart, but is an arrogant hypocrite. The plus is that he knows he’s full of shit, so the audience can’t hate him too much; he’s growing up, and eventually, he’ll realize that quoting Jung, Schopenhauer, and alluding to Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave” are merely sound bites masquerading as knowledge.

Tales of police corruption in cinema are a dime a dozen. Some are akin to Serpico. Others are like Brooklyn’s Finest. Then there’s The Guard, which resembles neither, but has been drastically overlooked in 2011. Don Cheadle and Brendan Gleeson star in this Irish comedy that follows unorthodox policeman Gerry Boyle (Gleeson) as he investigates a few random murders and their possible connection to a five-hundred million – or more notably “half a billion” – dollar drug smuggling operation.

His foil throughout is FBI special agent Wendell Everett (Cheadle), a rather jaded, uptight, by-the-book man who expects to be ostracized because of his race – and her certainly is. Ostensibly, this movie looks to be a European incarnation of 48 Hours, but this presumption fades as the film begins to focus more on the endemic corruption within the Irish police force. To be fair, there are gradations of corruption, ranging from Boyle’s solicitation of prostitutes to his lifting a hit of ecstasy from the jacket pocket of a lad recently killed in a drunk-driving accident, or even his groping of a recently murdered man’s crotch to elicit a laugh from Aidan McBride, his newly acquired, soon to be murdered partner. (In Boyle’s defense, the man was a drug smuggling murderer.)

Boyle is unconventional, crude (“why don’t you fuck off to America with your appropriate, fuckin’ Obama”)  and kind of an ass, but his character flaws don’t necessarily seem to interfere with his police work. He’s not a super cop, but finds what he’s looking for, even if in a rather strange, eccentric way, something that prompts Everett to condescendingly wonder if Boyle is “really mothefuckin’ dumb or really motherfuckin’ smart.”

The forced pairing of Everett and Boyle opens the door to a slew of racial epithets and stereotypes: “I didn’t think blacks could ski – or is that swim?” asks Boyle when Everett explains that he had a rather “privileged” upbringing. But raunch is not the ethos here; rather, the thematic focus is on differences. Sure, race is an easy target, but The Guard goes a bit deeper and explores the issues that Ireland and the United States respectively consider important, most notably our “war on drugs.”

There are hundreds of pages that could be written on this war’s futility. To its credit, The Guard shies away from openly decrying our policies and, instead, juxtaposes Everett’s fervor to catch these smugglers with brief shots of a child laughing at Boyle’s comments about the IRA “killing little Protestant children.” Here, the audience should gasp an uncomfortable chuckle, not because the young boy laughs at something vulgar, but because he is conscientiously agreeing as he laughs at something vulgar. His world is ripe with conflict, and he knows all too well the threats of the IRA and the conflicts between Catholics and Protestants in Ireland. This is something we can read about, but there’s no true comparison within our borders. Certainly, this film is not a “be thankful for what you’ve got allegory,” but it offers a bit of an explanation as to why Boyle is still employed and why he’s not as gung-ho on finding these smugglers because of their connection to cocaine as he is about punishing them for murdering his partner.

At the same time, The Guard’s mission is not to mock America—at least, not all the time. Everett might be uptight, but he’s not a stooge or a fool. Rather, his uptight persona and straight-laced demeanor, which seem to stem from his exposure to prejudice and bigotry while growing up, suggest a continuing struggle against racism in the States as well as mirror the conflict between religious groups in Boyle’s Ireland. McDonagh doesn’t expose this with a pedestrian, heartfelt conversation. Rather, we see the disparity between progresses made in both countries. Racism is certainly alive and well in America, but, in general – or, at least, for Everett — the fight has transitioned from violence to a competition for success. He’s an upper echelon FBI agent with a few famous collars, and while this doesn’t eliminate racism, it allows him to transcend the stereotype. In Ireland, it seems, there is no defecting from a battle that has been raging for quite a few decades, and the laughing child suggests that it won’t die out entirely any time soon. While this isn’t a terrible harbinger for the fate of Ireland, it is The Guard’s way of suggesting that our “war on drugs” may not be at the top of the global “to-do list.”

All in all, the story is intelligent, clever, and successfully avoids being heavy-handed and metaphor riddled. Gleeson is mordantly hilarious without veering to slapstick silliness, and, characteristically (with the exception of the aforementioned Brooklyn’s Finest), Cheadle is impressive. He chooses his roles wisely, and, no matter what they are, he delivers.

Last week’s Big Miracle flopped like a humpback in pudding, but this week, we’re all gearing up for Valentine’s Day. For those of you looking for dinner and a movie, you’ve got your pick between Rachel McAdams, Reese Witherspoon, or animation. (I’m banking on the animation.) Looking for a bit of action, but you’re single, Safe House might be the way to go. Have kids and no babysitter, Dwayne Johnson will kill a couple of hours for you. Want to waste your money? George Lucas is ready to take it.

Journey 2: The Mysterious Island: It’s nice to see that Michael Caine will continue to do most anything for a paycheck. I don’t mean to rip into him too heavily here, but what other multiple-Oscar winning actor can you name that has also been in such classic gems like Jaws 4: The Revenge, Goldmember, and Mr. Destiny. In a way, it’s refreshing that he’s not afraid to slum, but joining the sequel to a remake of a Pat Boone vehicle seems a bit unnecessary. I suppose the good thing is that he’ll be playing second fiddle here to Dwayne Johnson, the action hero-turned-children’s-movie star. Therefore, I suppose this question could also be posed: how many WWE wrestlers have also played the mythical tooth fairy for a paycheck? I foresee a tag-team matchup in a future Wrestle Mania. Segue: IMDB is now listing all WWE pay-per-views as TV movies. Wow. That whole, selling the reality thing has just gone completely out the window for the next generation.

Safe House: Fresh off his superhero-debacle, Green Lantern, Ryan Reynolds is Matt Weston, a young CIA agent working in a safe house. Here, he’s charged with watching the newest admission: Tobin Frost (Denzel Washington), a dangerous man on the lam with a lengthy history. Of course, the safe house is attacked, and Matt must flee with his charge, who will probably ultimately turn on him in a “My survival is imperative”-type soliloquy. I’m also going to guess that Tobin was only brought to the safe house to ensure his ultimate assassination, which would be playing on the “government corruption” angle, etc., etc. At the same time, Washington plays a decent badass, and this could be a fun run to the finish.

Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace  3D: It was disappointing the first time it was released, longer and annoying for its ten-year anniversary release that offered improved visuals and additional footage, and now it’s clear that Lucas isn’t even trying to mask his gimmicks with ingenuity. If you spend your money on this, you’re a sucker and you’ve wasted your money. There’s a reason why Lucas released IV, V, and VI before I, II, and III; the first three in the chronology aren’t that good, the characters are flat, and if we had no knowledge of what awaits Luke in Episode V, these characters would reveal themselves to be nothing more than what they are: time-burning expositors.

The Vow: I made a vow once, but I don’t remember how it worked out. That’s kind of what happens here. Paige (Rachel McAdams) and Leo (Channing Tatum) are lovers whose lives are put in jeopardy by a car crash. Their undying love promises to conquer all, but Paige’s lost memory threatens their happiness and any dry eyes in the audience. This looks a bit too much like The Notebook for me, so I’m going to pass, but it could make for a fine pre-Valentine’s Day movie for anyone too hesitant to rent The General’s Daughter or The Ruins for a nice quiet night at home. There are really only two ways for The Vow to end: in elated happiness or frustrating depression. There’s not enough gray area or irony for me. What are the odds of Paige recovering at the very moment that Leo is struck by the bucket of a bulldozer? Nah. That only happens in Nicolas Cage movies.

Chico & Rita: My bet for the romantic weekend. Fully animated, Chico & Rita tells the tale of two Cuban lovers, Chico and Rita, in 1948 Havana. Music brings them together and its various undulations narrate their romance and subsequent turmoil: Rita is the beautiful singer whose talents transport her from a nation ripe with revolution to New York City, the ultimate symbol of change and mobility. A piano player, Chico stays in Cuba, but the two are ultimately reunited before being torn apart again by political agenda. A 2010 Academy Award nominee for Best Animated Feature, Chico & Rita’s emergence on the big screen should be relished and enjoyed.

This Means War: This new Reese Witherspoon vehicle opens a few days after the weekend, but just in time for that last minute Valentine’s Day movie. Two men. One woman. Two spies. One dame. The former duke it out for the lust of the latter, and for some reason, and maybe I’m basing this off of McG’s history with the Chuck series, I’m betting this ends with a sickly silly twist like Witherspoon as a spy looking to take down FDR (Chris Pine) and Tuck’s (Tom Hardy) organization. At the same time, she could decide that the homoerotic displays of jealousy between the two men are enough to drive her away, leaving them to their repressed desires, but that wouldn’t be much of a Valentine’s Day movie … so maybe it ends with a ménage a trois.

A Separation begins and ends in a similar way: a seemingly insurmountable, superficially minute amount of space in the labyrinthine corridors of the Iranian judicial system. To begin Simin and Nader plead their case to an off-screen interrogator (Babak Karimi) who sits precisely at the camera’s lens. He is seen throughout the rest of the movie – again until the final penultimate scene – but in this moment, he is embodied by the audience, and we are tasked with sorting out this murky situation:

Believing that her daughter Termeh (Sarina Farhadi) will eventually be intellectually constrained by life in Iran, Simin (Leila Hatami) wants to move her family to another country. However, Nader (Peyman Naadi), her husband, refuses to leave behind his father, a deteriorating Alzheimer’s patient whose lucidity incrementally declines from poor to nearly absent throughout the movie. Despite his refusal to move, Nader grants Simin a divorce, and, as they wait for Termeh to decide which parent she would rather live with, as per Iranian law, Simin stays with her mother, thus, leaving no one to care for the grandfather when Nader is at work and Termeh is at school.

It’s difficult to take one side in this proceeding, but something interesting is Simin’s use of Termeh as her means of escaping Iran. This isn’t depicted with malice or in a manipulative sense, but one gets the impression that Simin wishes flee much more than Termeh. Her hair is dyed a brilliant shade of red and she wears her hijab casually as if it’s an accessory rather than a cultural symbol of modesty and morality or a mandate. This does not make her a blaspheme or a rabble rouser – she shows the same secular values as anyone else throughout the film – but it does suggest that her motive is two-fold. However, it’s difficult to chastise her for this; as a young woman growing up in Iran, she knows her limitations, and she knows Termeh’s most likely fate: she may not be relegated to the role of housewife – other women in this film work as teachers, caregivers, etc. – but her intellectual potential could very well be stymied.

At the same time, it is similarly impossible to pillory Nader for his choice to stay with his ailing father. Death is imminent, and, in a compassionate way, we hope it comes sooner rather than later: his father is a septuagenarian toddler, decreasingly toilet trained, unable to wash himself or clearly communicate, his curiosity – or more aptly, confusion – takes him from the house or into danger. We feel for Nader, but, like the rest of the characters, realize the futility of his actions.

Because of this rift, someone needs to replace Simin’s presence in the home while Nader is at work. This someone comes in the form of Razieh (Sareh Bayat), a young woman whose “hot-tempered” husband has been laid off and, as of late, in trouble with various creditors. Here, the repercussions of the separation have their first apparent toll in that Razieh is really in no condition to take care of an ailing man with dementia. She’s pregnant and commuting three hours a day with child in tow, but she has no other opportunity because her Hodjat, her husband, seems increasingly unemployable. During one arbitrary afternoon, Termeh and Nader come home early to find the door locked and the apartment empty – aside from his father whose arm has been tied to the head board of his bed. The arm has been held in place, but the father has tumbled to the floor and appears close to death, his oxygen mask askewly resting on his cheek. Nader manages to revive him, and while doing so, Razieh enters and a foreseeable argument ensues with Nader accusing her of stealing the money he had in his dresser. Vehemently, she denies the charges, but the argument crescendos with Nader pushing her protesting body from the door frame by her shoulder. Razieh’s thudding body is heard on the stairs, and suddenly, the Iranian judicial system and its interrogator are tasked with whether or not to charge Nader with murdering and unborn child.

This transition is also where “a separation” becomes a multitude of separations inasmuch as the movie is less about marital distress and more of a discourse on status. Whereas Nader is a banker, Hodjat, his accuser, is a laid off cobbler, a useful but antiquated craft in the service industry. Hodjat and Razieh live in the equivalent to a tenement building, apartments crammed and stacked on top of one another, clothes lines hung between the balconies, a dozen motor scooters gathered together in a makeshift parking lot – Nader drives a sedan; he and his daughter live in a spacious apartment complex with French doors.

Through this lens, Hodjat’s hot temper is understandable – justice serves those who are deemed important and who can afford it. This latest tragedy to befall their family merely inches him close to the end of his tether.

With this look at class, A Separation also explores the conflict between faith and necessity. Razieh is extremely devout, so much so that she calls an imam to inquire whether she can change Nader’s father’s pants after he’s defecated on himself because he is unable to do so. Ultimately, she’s given permission but only because it is a dire situation causing the father discomfort. This conflict emerges throughout when swearing a “truth” on the Quran is invoked a number of times.

The various themes presented here flow smoothly from one to the next, occasionally folding onto one another, but to its credit, A Separation never becomes convoluted and overly complex; it’s an intelligently written film, but the dialog is simple. What’s even more enthralling about this film is that it dispels a number of stereotypes we might hold about Iran. For many of us, the most exposure we have to Iran are the recurrent diatribes between our respective governments, the threat of nuclear armament, or the sound  byted proclamations that the Holocaust never happened or that homosexuals don’t exist in Iran. These projections often imagine a misogynist country ripe with beatings and woman concealed from head to foot. Here, A Separation, an Iranian film made for Iranians avoids these stereotypes, and we’re given people – more appropriately, humans with emotions, conflicts, issues, and concerns. Certainly, there is an overarching faith impelling many of their actions – and one that is mostly unfamiliar to us – but one that is presented as a part of life, not a prison sentence.

In the end, the film is fantastically written and powerfully acted, but what piqued my interest the most were the audience reactions to certain moments within the film, particularly when Razieh calls her imam, or God’s name is invoked as a source of potential damnation. Snickers rippled around me, and I realized that – even in a cultural stew like New York City – a large portion of this movie (whether it’s intentional or unintentional) illustrates the gulf we see between ourselves and our Iranian counterparts – for better or worse. Neither culture is castigated, but neither is beatified.

Similar to last year’s Restrepo, this year’s Academy Award nominee for Best Documentary, Hell and Back Again, looks at the trials and tribulation within the U.S. conflict in Afghanistan, centering, for the most part, on the rhetoric of our politicking. Various commanders sit down with Afghan elders and explain that “we’ll pay for [the damage we’ve created],” while soldiers lament to their comrades, “I could never live like that” in “mud homes with straw roofs with nothing to do but farm.” The biggest issue raised here is the misunderstanding of cultures, or rather, our ignorant ideals about what people should be embracing. These moments are mordantly snicker-worthy and, once again, beg the question: why are we there? And, do the Afghans want us there?

The answers here, and with many war-based films, are “we’re not sure,” and “no.”

In contrast to Restrepo, there is a secondary element at work: the effects of war on the returning, injured veteran. The majority of the film centers on Sergeant Nathan Harris, a Marine charged with leading Echo Company’s 2^nd Platoon “the farthest South” into the most treacherous depths of Afghanistan during the Surge of 2009. Already prefaced as the company that is “going to change history,” the Marines are hungry and embrace their expertise “in the application of violence,” something that requires a commanding officer’s repeated assertion that “your conscience should be clear.”

In these scenes, Hell and Back Again seems like a non-fiction version of Full Metal Jacket in which R. Lee Ermey’s assertion that “if you ladies leave my island, if you survive recruit training, you will be a weapon. You will be a minister of death praying for war,” likens their ultimate actions, inflicted violence, and death as a divine mandate.

Similarly in both, there are also moments where the decisions are binary. There is an illusion of choice created, but the Marines really only have one option. In Full Metal Jacket, if they choose not to fight, they upset the “Virgin Mary” and God, who “has a hard-on for Marines because we kill everything we see.” In Hell and Back Again, this rhetoric is effused via the threat of shame: “They’re going to ask what you did in the Summer of Decision.” While “they” are friends and family at home, “they” are also other soldiers. A response of “nothing” or “hid my head” would defy both the role “of experts in the application of violence,” but also the title of “hero” or “Marine.” Similarly, titling the Surge with a moniker that bespeaks a great movement makes it virtually impossible for a soldier to reject the cause. In other words, “The Summer of Decision” asks “Did you decide to fight with us, or against us?”

The largest toll is taken on those returning home. While necessary in combat, this endemic trait of violence causes the severely injured Harris to be “constantly stressed out” in his everyday life in the States. A trip to Wal Mart is wrought with difficulties making decisions and maneuvering around the store in his motorized chair. A subsequently difficult journey through a fast-food drive thru prompts him to lament, “I would almost rather be in Afghanistan.”

The agony through which Harris crawls is not solely brought on by his weeks in training. It seems that his relegation to “dependent” has a greater impact on his psyche. In Afghanistan, he led men into battle. He made decisions. He gave orders, and he was successful. Upon returning home, his tools are replaced by a bag replete with prescription pills, physical therapy, and an evolution of mobility-aiding instruments: a motorized scooter, two crutches, a single crutch, and a cane. Even though the movie depicts impressive physical improvement in a man whose hip and femur were shattered, he realizes that he’ll never be a leader again – at least, not in the capacity he’s used to.

What’s more, when Harris returns home or attends a Marine gathering, the focus of the conversation is about his injury and how it happened. Visibly, Harris has become a target of sympathy and inquiry, but not about his actions in the war; rather, most questions are about his injury. Such a sudden erasure of authority and the subsequent relegation to “injured vet” encourages a reconnection with “violence,” a word that has become synonymous with “purpose.” As Harris lays in bed next to his wife, Ashley, he explains how much he “just loves his pistol,” and his desire “to hold it and caress it,” a rather simple chore in that he keeps the pistol butt flush with the edge of his mattress. Shortly after, he notes that he doesn’t want to “point it at anyone,” but this sentiment becomes more difficult to believe as the movie spirals into the third act: Harris’s eyes grow increasingly blank and vacuous like those of a shark searching for a meal; the number of pills taken increases, but his pain never seems to subside; his head often finds its way into the palm of his hand in an attempt to block out the world and survive the various Wal Mart of Sonic road trips.

The most powerful element of Hell and Back Again is not the violence or U.S. policy: it’s the examination of what happens when someone is relegated to living a life without the same sense of purpose and meaning that they had just a few months prior.