Capsules

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The opening shot of Ciao more closely resembles the work of Austrian provocateur Michael Haneke (specificlly Caché) than it does the most recent gay Amerindie love story. In a lengthy static shot set behind two symmetrically framed houses, we see, in the distance, a man getting into an SUV and driving away. We’ll learn seconds later he’s en route to a fatal auto accident. It’s icy, sterile and formally distant.

Following this, every shot is locked down on a tripod and lasts far longer than in most movies; many scenes boast minimal dialogue. Director Yen Tan wants you to think of him as a filmmaker first and a gay filmmaker second.

Tan probably wants you to think of him as a screenwriter a distant third, but at least he’s chosen a story simple enough to warrant such minimalism. After the man dies, he leaves behind our two protagonists: Jeff (Adam Neal Smith), his best friend who pined for him unrequitedly, and Andrea (co-writer Alessandro Calva), a strapping Italian cyber lover about to fly out to meet him. After a reel of quiet, tear-free brooding, Jeff whimsically invites Andrea to come out to not-so-scenic Dallas anyway.

You know what comes next. (Spoiler, but c’mon.) The two will hook up and mourn. But Ciao is painfully conscious of the cliches of the genre, and is thus happy to let Jeff and Andrea take their sweet time getting to know each other in the most believable, least sentimental way possible. They chat too much, but both actors have a loose, easygoing rapport that gives the illusion of being genuine and unscripted.

Still, even avoiding cliches can be a cliche, and Ciao unfortunately feels more respectable for what it isn’t than what it is. For a good long while Tan is able to cast a spell. But spells can’t last and eventually Ciao’s style feels heavy, fussy and sometimes a little too similar to the unintentionally comic faux-austere style Woody Allen tried out with his Bergman rip-off Interiors.

Ultimately, Ciao proves unable locate the bittersweet finale that burrows into the mind and sticks with the audience, instead favoring something closer to the sentimentality it had so stridently, almost pompously, avoided.

“The written word is a powerful thing,” muses book nut Mo Folchart (Brendan Fraser) to his tweenaged daughter Meggie (Eliza Bennett). Yes, it’s particularly effective at providing the source for invention-handicapped would-be blockbusters, isn’t it? Culled from Cornelia Funke’s German kiddie fantasy novel, Inkheart is only the latest bibliophilic flick to stump for the power of reading all while taking away any need for an imagination. And wouldn’t you know it stars Brendan Fraser.

The current king of the Green-Screen Challenge plays a “silvertongue,” one born with the strange ability to bring characters and iconic elements from fiction into our world simply by reading them aloud. Naturally he’s reluctant to use it, as the last time he did he brought forth various ne’er-do-wells from the titular tome—a run-of-the-mill fantasy romp involving nymphs, heartless baddies and a fiendish ghoul called “the Shadow”—and inadvertently trapped his wife within its pages. A decade later Mo and Meggie’s paths again cross with Inkheart’s materialized characters, prompting a madcap battle for world domination and whatnot.

Give Inkheart some props: Instead of surrounding Fraser exclusively with CGI, it adds in an embarrassment of fine British hams. As a forlorn but self-interested pyromaniac, Paul Bettany strikes a note of stirring gravity, while Helen Mirren huffs and puffs as a stern and white-maned book collector (and gets to belt the words “You barbaric piece of pulp fiction!”).

Jim Broadbent doesn’t disappoint as Inkheart’s author, who’s delighted to be put on death row by the evil characters he’s created. And it’s hard to hate on any movie that features Andy Serkis as the central villain, although it’s difficult to like anything that gives him nothing to do but sneer.

Inkheart has so many interesting elements, so much promise, that it’s a shame how little it satisfies. The central gimmick of filling the earth with literature’s most famous goes almost criminally unfulfilled; what at first seems sub-Neil Gaiman eventually feels sub-Shrek. Most of Inkheart is plodding and inert, though it does turn fairly batshit during its messy climax, which includes flying monkeys, a Minotaur, arson, Helen Mirren astride a unicorn, Toto and a set that looks like it is, for whatever reason, trying to emulate the climax of Raiders of the Lost Ark.

But hey, few things will send your kid to the bookshelf like an incompetent filmic fantasy.

I know it’s hard to imagine, but these Underworld movies are getting progressively worse.

Who could’ve guessed that Len Wiseman’s tedious 2003 original would provide enough fodder for a franchise? As far as I can recall, that underlit dud was notable for exactly two things: 1) squandering the juicy premise of a war between vampires and werewolves by having them all shoot guns while jumping around in slow-motion like a bad Matrix parody and 2) Kate Beckinsale in skintight leather pants.

Beckinsale’s not even back for this bargain-basement third go-’round, as it’s a wildly misguided prequel that inexplicably decides to dramatize a tale that was already explained in the second feature. This is the most bothersome trend in our current geek culture, as what used to be simple backstory now takes up entire movies of its own. Blame George Lucas if you want (and I do, for most things) but now while we’re waiting for Guillermo Del Toro to helm The Hobbit and fill us in on everything that happened in Middle Earth before Lord of the Rings took place, we’re also staring down prequels and origin stories for X-Men and even Star Trek.

So here we’ve got an extended anecdote in which dastardly vampire emperor Bill Nighy—who appears to be privately amusing himself by attempting to drag every syllable out as long as humanly possible—discovers the forbidden love affair between his hot, pouty daughter (Rhona Mitra) and Michael Sheen’s swarthy werewolf Spartacus. There’s much clomping around by a lot of faceless extras in a single cheap-looking medieval castle set, with a deliberately murky lighting scheme disguising the sparseness of the production design. There are also plenty of numbingly repetitive sword battles, and some hilariously overwrought peek-a-boo sex while the chemistry-free Mitra and Sheen pantomime pained ecstasy at great heights.

Slaves are freed, a werewolf rebellion fostered, and the lighting remains so dim that sometimes Nighy’s silly fluorescent contact lenses are the only objects visible onscreen. Underworld: Rise of the Lycans has the stink of a straight-to-DVD cash-in, inadvertently underscoring its own epic pointlessness by closing with a dialogue excerpt from the previous picture during which the story we’ve just endured for an hour and a half is explained in 90 seconds.

And this time there aren’t even any leather pants.

Not Reviewed

New in Town
Consider this Bridget Jones’ Diary with the added bonus of Harry Connick Jr. and without all that pesky British charm. (Opens Fri., Jan. 30.)

The Uninvited
In this horror flick, two young girls freak out when their dad marries their dead mother’s nurse. Naturally, the ghost of the dead mother is a main character. (Opens Fri., Jan. 30.)

Ongoing

Che
Played with quiet cool by Benicio del Toro, Che Guevara is viewed at three vastly different points in his life. In Part One, titled “The Argentine,” we toggle between him on an uncomfortable whirlwind tour through New York (climaxing in a too-fiery speech in front of the U.N.) and the fabled Cuban Revolution. Filmed in heroic Cinemascope, the campaign’s a spectacular triumph, setting up things nicely for Part Two, “Guerilla,” which shows Guevara’s attempt to spread revolution in Bolivia from 1966 to 1967, which wasn’t so triumphant. A- (M.P.)

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button
There’s one bit of solace to take from David Fincher’s unexpected segue into Oscar-bait territory: His heart doesn’t appear to be in it. A project that’s bounced around Hollywood for more than a decade, Benjamin Button—based on an F. Scott Fitzgerald short about a man who ages in reverse—has wound up in the hands of an excessively talented filmmaker in desperate need of a movie that’ll actually make money. C- (M.P.)

Defiance
In 1941 four hard-drinking, rough-hewn criminal brothers headed deep into the Belarusian forest, building a kibbutz where they and fellow Jews could hide from Hitler’s goons and wait out the war. The Bielski brothers saved hundreds of lives, but these wondrous facts don’t provide enough nobility for boring director Edward Zwick. This is such a damned good story, he’s determined to oversell it. C- (S.B.)

Doubt
Doubt is a “parable” of a monstrous nun (Meryl Streep) at a Bronx Catholic school in 1964 who’s trying to destroy a progressive-minded priest (Philip Seymour Hoffman) with accusations of “unhealthy” dealings with the school’s lone black student. There are only four characters, but the action consists primarily of debates between the nun and priest, as well as dialogue with a younger nun who’s caught in the middle. B (M.P.)

Frost/Nixon
Based on Peter Morgan’s smash 2006 stage play, the film attempts to chronicle the travails of shlock TV host David Frost (expertly played by Michael Sheen) as he overpays and underprepares for an epic stretch of interviews with “Tricky Dick” Nixon (played by the always magnificent Frank Langella, who’s a bit too grave and Shakespearean to truly convey the disgraced leader’s wormy, shifty mannerisms, no matter how impressive his jowls). C (S.B.)

Gran Torino
Clint Eastwood plays Walt Kowalski, a grizzled old Korean War vet who, after the death of his wife, tends to while away the days sitting on his front porch guzzling cans of PBR, offering salty observations on the decline of his white-flight Detroit neighborhood. Barking ridiculous, dated slurs for every minority in his sight, he’s like Dirty Harry in the sunset years. A variety of contrivances find Walt begrudgingly befriending a family of Hmong immigrants next door. Young Thao (Bee Vang) is an awkward, bookish kid—prime recruitment material for the local gangs. These thugs make the huge mistake of scuffling on Walt’s pristine front yard and kicking over the wrong geezer’s garden gnome. B+ (S.B.)

Hotel for Dogs
Orphan kids have to find a new home for their puppy when their new guardians won’t allow pets so they open a hotel for city strays. (Not reviewed.)

Marley & Me
Inquirer columnist John Grogan wrote a memoir about his (admittedly adorable) puppy. Owen Wilson and Jennifer Aniston star in the (admittedly less adorable) film version. (Not reviewed.)

Milk
As San Francisco’s cherished local legend—the first openly gay man ever elected to a public office in America—Sean Penn’s Harvey Milk is a buoyant, expansive figure. As droll as he is shrewd, the character is delightful to watch. The real Harvey Milk’s lanky stance, queeny mannerisms and honking Noo Yawk accent aren’t just fodder for a typical Oscar-friendly dead celebrity impression—they’re pushing this actor out of his gloomy old comfort zones. There’s such a feeling of playfulness and joy in this performance, I dare say Sean Penn hasn’t been this much fun to watch since Fast Times at Ridgemont High or at the very least Carlito’s Way. A- (S.B.)

My Bloody Valentine 3-D
Ten years after a tragic mining accident turned its lone survivor into a pickaxe-wielding boogeyman, the mysterious gas mask-wearing marauder returns to wreak havoc on a town full of attractive, dim-witted folks, most of whom are kind enough to remove their clothes at regular intervals. C- (S.B.)

Notorious
The inevitable Biggie Smalls hagiography fails as soon as the first post-credits words hit the screen: “March 9, 1997.” It’s not just that it’s textbook to start a biopic at the end. It’s an omen that there’s no chance the film will remotely approximate its subject’s singular mix of storytelling, humor, confidence, vulnerability and eerily prophetic morbidness. C+ (M.P.)

Outlander
A mysterious man-alien’s spaceship crashes in ancient Norway, which is being terrorized by a rampaging hungry monster. Captured by a warrior village lorded over by John Hurt—who, like everyone else, doesn’t seem particularly alarmed by the guy’s T-shirt and crew cut—Jim Caviezel earns the Vikings’ trust through his ass-kicking, bear-killing abilities. They team up to take down the monster, which disappears for conveniently long stretches of time then returns when things finally turn seriously, painfully dull. C- (M.P.)

Paul Blart: Mall Cop
The guy from The King of Queens stopped making a television show so he could portray a Rent-a-Cop on the big screen. Huh. (Not reviewed.)

The Reader
Kate Winslet essays Hannah Schmidt, a mysteriously private and weary mid-30s tram conductor in post-WWII Germany who seduces 15-year-old Michael Berg (David Kross). They have a special relationship: He reads her the greatest hits of classic literature and then she works his bones. After a couple sweaty months Schmidt abruptly disappears. It’s eight years before Berg sees her again, this time when he’s a law student sitting in on her war crimes trial. C+ (M.P.)

Revolutionary Road
Based on Richard Yates’ 1961 novel, this phenomenally dull new film from director Sam Mendes has absolutely nothing new to say, yet says it loud and insistently anyway. In a fiendish bit of stunt casting, Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet reunite for the first time since a certain fateful boat trip 11 years ago, starring here as Frank and April Wheeler, a tedious married couple prone to squabbling at great length about the tragic soul-crushing emptiness of their giant house, fancy car and beautiful children. The Wheelers feel so suffocated by their affluence and good fortune, it’s all they really talk about. D- (S.B.)

Slumdog Millionaire
Teenage nobody Jamal Malik (Dev Patel) is a mere few questions away from beating the Indian version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. But Malik’s been accused of cheating, and as the shadowy, belligerent authorities go through his taped performance, answer by answer, we’re treated to his ramshackle, Dickensian childhood as an orphaned slum kid from Mumbai, riding the rails and eking out various desperate existences alongside his more crafty and ethics-handicapped brother. C+ (M.P.)

Valkyrie
Tom Cruise is far more famous these days for bizarre behavior than blockbuster openings, so in desperate need of career rehab, here he stars as Col. Claus Von Stauffenberg, Nazi with a conscience and architect of the suitcase bombing that nearly killed Hitler in the waning days of WWII. It’s a classy, handsomely mounted production, directed with brisk efficiency by Bryan Singer. And as a co-worker surmised, “It’ll probably be wicked suspenseful for anybody who didn’t pay attention in history class.” C+ (S.B.)

Waltz With Bashir
Director Ari Folman stars, detailing his personal attempt to come to terms with atrocities he witnessed during Israel’s 1982 war in Lebanon. The journey begins over drinks with his old friend Boaz, when the latter admits to being haunted by dreams of all the dogs he shot in combat—evocatively rendered hell hounds of the past coming to collect on the present. Folman, oddly enough, claims to have no memories at all of his wartime experiences, save for a single recurring image of emerging stark naked from the water near the Sabra and Shitila refugee camps where countless Palestinians were massacred. C+ (S.B.)

Wendy and Lucy
Brandishing scruffy black hair, a tattered wardrobe and roughly zero actorly ego, Michelle Williams plays Wendy, a young woman hoping to start a new life with about $500 to her name. As if in a sequel to The Grapes of Wrath, she’s driving to Alaska after hearing about promising jobs. But after spending a night sleeping in her beat-up car in a Nowhere, Ore., parking lot, Wendy discovers the motor has died. And so begins a monsoon of bad luck, which hits a fever pitch with the disappearance of Lucy, Wendy’s dog and only companion. B+ (M.P.)

The Wrestler
Faced with a health crisis, wrestler Randy the Ram’s (Mickey Rourke) forced to consider retirement, and that’s when the movie begins questioning how we define ourselves. If a man is what he does for a living, who does he become when he can’t do that anymore? The Ram tentatively tries to muster an existence beyond the mat, attempting to reconnect with his estranged daughter (Evan Rachel Wood.) Only Cassidy seems to understand. Brilliantly played by Marisa Tomei, Randy’s favorite stripper is secretly a single mom, and the two foster a friendship outside the sleazy club’s VIP room. Just like the Ram, Cassidy’s getting too old to make a living off her body anymore, and Aronofsky quietly underlines their similarities with matching camera movements whenever these two are “at work.” A- (S.B.)

Yes Man
Jim Carrey agrees with everything in a movie that feels a little too reminiscent of Liar Liar. (Not reviewed.)