Albatross (2012)

Jessica Brown Findlay (left) and Felicity Jones in "Albatross"

From the United Kingdom, “Albatross”—an intelligent, touching, very funny debut feature from director Niall MacCormick and screenwriter Tamzin Rafn—is a coming of age comedy-drama about two teenage girls with vastly different backgrounds who meet and become friends during a summer at a seaside hotel off the coast of England. Even though the movie was actually filmed on the Isle of Man, with its rolling hills and gray skies, a few cloudy days along the Irish Sea don’t take anything away from this bright, endearing, precious little gem of a film.

The main characters are Emelia Conan Doyle (Jessica Brown Findlay), a clever, flirtatious, playfully sarcastic ingénue with aspirations to be a writer and a belief that she’s a descendant of the author Arthur Conan Doyle; and Beth Fischer (Felicity Jones), a naïve and gifted overachiever with designs on attending the prestigious Oxford University in the fall. Both are 17.

They meet when Emelia takes a job as a cleaning girl at the Fischer’s hotel, a sort of bed and breakfast run mostly by Beth’s stone-faced, officious mom (Julia Ormond), who’s constantly preoccupied either running the business or helping the youngest daughter, Posy, perfect ballet moves. The dad, Jonathan, a one-time successful novelist, spends most of his time holed upstairs hacking away at his laptop, or something else, while battling writer’s block.

The outgoing Emelia nudges the introverted Beth from her shell, carefully guiding her into an exciting world of casual drinks, one-night stands and bold fashion choices (a tank top emblazoned with the words “I Put Out” figures prominently in the film). Their friendship deepens when Emelia tags along on Beth’s college interview, and again after Emelia’s grandmother passes away.

Meanwhile, Jonathan, who had been tutoring Emelia with her writing in secret, becomes smitten with the teenager, leading to a sexual rendezvous in a dark closet. Once the betrayal gets out, it tears Beth and Emelia’s friendship apart and pushes the story into tricky territory that easily could have led to fits of clumsy melodrama. But Rafn’s sharp screenplay and MacCormick’s confident direction steers the movie safely from clichés.

Stylistically, the movie sort of combines the skillful observance of everyday life you see in the films of Mike Leigh with the precocious young characters and expert comic timing of John Hughes or Cameron Crowe. We believe in the characters because they are messy and fallible—but we also care about them because they are smart, honest and true.

The lead performances in “Albatross” are multilayered, expressive and wonderful. Felicity Jones is exquisite as the smart, sheltered college-bound beauty; and Jessica Brown Finley is a revelation in her feature film debut, a quick-witted, sexy young starlet in the mold of Emily Lloyd (“Wish You Were Here”) or Jennifer Lawrence.

The masterful, wordless last few shots—scrupulously framed and perfectly directed—are strokes of bittersweet brilliance. The movie is about the rare, profound friendships in life that hold meaning, even if they don’t always last.

The Interview (2014)

James Franco (left) and Seth Rogan star
in the now infamous "The Interview."

If you haven't been living in a cave the past two months, chances are you've heard all you need to know about "The Interview," the political satire about an assassination plot against North Korean leader, Kim Jong-un. When Columbia cancelled the movie's wide theatrical release out of safety concerns, the news ignited a media storm of social outrage that seemed to force the studio to reverse course, eventually allowing the film to play on a limited number of screens as well as online.

The film was co-directed by Seth Rogan and his buddy Evan Goldberg and features Rogan as a producer of one of those kitschy Hollywood tabloid shows. His star is a flamboyant, obnoxious blowhard named Dave Skylark (James Franco, overacting to the point of caricature), who has achieved celebrity status by getting guests to spill outrageous secrets, such as Rob Lowe being bald and other yawners.

Soon an attractive CIA agent (Lizzy Caplan) arrives to pitch a covert plan to send the two characters to the reclusive nation to poison the supreme leader. But the mission proves complicated for the buffoonish pair, who encounter myriad suspicious guards as well as a fawning, duplicitous Kim (Randall Park), friendly and accommodating as long as you avoid digging too deep into the whole evil dictator thing.

Ultimately, little of what happens throughout the picture is very funny, unless your idea of comedy involves a steady stream of expletives, infantile anatomical references, bodily functions, crude jokes about women and sex, or uninspired slapstick violence. The movie’s sense of humor, like its main characters, seems designed to appeal to beer-quaffing frat party teens and dimwitted man-children.

When “The Interview” finally premiered on the big screen last month, many people came out to see it not so much to be entertained than to be a part of a noble but confused pro-America narrative about supporting free speech. That's probably just as well, since the experience of actually watching the movie is dreary, tedious and not much fun.

Melancholia (2011)

Kirsten Dunst in "Melancholia"

Here’s a different kind of apocalyptic disaster movie that doesn’t involve rocket trips into space, heroic astronauts, or the last minute saving of mankind. In “Melancholia”—a subtle, contemplative and visually striking existentialist drama written and directed by Lars von Trier—a rogue planet has infringed on our solar system and is hurtling towards Earth, spelling doom if it crashes. Scientists try to quell fears by insisting it will be a near-miss, but online articles with portentous headlines promise panic.

Meanwhile, life goes on for two sisters, mercurial Justine (Kirsten Dunst) and older, levelheaded but apprehensive Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg). As the film opens, Justine’s wedding is taking place at the sprawling, seaside castle owned by Claire’s ridiculously rich husband, John (Kiefer Sutherland). The mood grows somber, however, as the bride wrestles with a combination of deep depression and dread, slipping off to roam the grounds and look at the stars.

Justine’s odd malaise seems tied to the approaching cosmic upheaval, as if to suggest the disintegration of life and all possibility of happiness. Consequently, her marriage ends before it begins, eerie shadows around the mansion grow long, and sadness becomes omnipresent. While Justine remains at the house, the second part of “Melancholia” focuses on Claire and John, as they examine their own marriage while pondering the threatening alignment of the planets.

If this were a big budget commercial movie in the hands of a lesser filmmaker, “Melancholia” would likely devolve into a loud, hysterical special effects machine. Instead, von Trier’s film considers the end of days with a mix of sadness and resignation that’s as close to poetry and truth as you might find. And though it’s more about people than action, there’s a haunting beauty in the way the invading planet (eponymously called Melancholia) casts an icy blue hue juxtaposed in the night sky with the moon.

Overlong and sometimes meandering, the movie isn’t perfect but is challenging and the ideas and emotions behind it remain thoughtful and believable. “Melancholia” is an effective second chapter in von Trier’s unofficial Depression Trilogy, and its solemn atmosphere is justifiably filled with anxiety and unease. The bleak ending seems to suggest that the heavens are there largely to mock us.

After all, in a universe so vast, the sum of humankind’s hopes, triumphs, dreams and fears can’t really amount to much.

The Limits of Control (2009)

Isaach De Bankole in "The Limits of Control,"
written and directed by Jim Jarmusch.

Elements and details that movie fans can typically depend on to pop up regularly in a Jim Jarmusch film—deadpan comedy, expressive protagonists, colorful supporting characters, atmospheric visuals—are either muted or absent altogether in "The Limits of Control," an empty, surprisingly lifeless would-be crime drama that follows a taciturn, humorless assassin (Isaach De Bankole) and assorted, underworld cronies along a murky mission through Spain.

The nameless main character, with his shady past, odd idiosyncrasies and quiet demeanor (everyone asks if he speaks Spanish; he doesn’t), is a little reminiscent of Forest Whitaker in Jarmusch's "Ghost Dog" (which was inspired by Alain Delon in Jean-Pierre Melville's moody French film noir, "Le Samourai"). Both are better films, and De Bankhole’s wooden performance lacks Whitaker's expressiveness and emotional depth.

There are some mildly amusing recurring quirks—De Bankole insists on drinking double espressos from two separate cups and reads notes from his contacts off small pieces of paper before swallowing them—but after awhile even these repeat gags grow tiresome. De Bankhole was great as the quizzical cabbie driving a young, brave blind girl through Paris during the most powerful chapter in Jarmusch’s “Night on Earth” (1991). Here, he’s not given much to do and basically sleepwalks through the picture.

The supporting cast (including brief turns from John Hurt and Bill Murray) offers little relief. The only time Jarmusch seems on to something thematically is when Tilda Swinton shows up as a mysterious blonde and starts talking about old movies (“Suspicion,” “Lady from Shanghai”) and how little things from the past (like smoking a cigarette) looked better back in those days.

Indeed, while “The Limits of Control” ostensibly takes place in the present, by dismissing ubiquitous gadgets like cell phones and TVs, the movie seems desperate to belong to another time. Unfortunately for Jarmusch the cinephile, name dropping other movies by the likes of Welles and Hitchcock doesn’t help much—unless, of course, you’re looking for something better to watch.

Antichrist (2009)

Lars von Trier's "Antichrist"

The talented Danish writer-director Lars von Trier has been linked with controversy for so long that the two items would be considered a common law marriage by now. That much doesn’t change with “Antichrist,” his avant-garde psychological drama from 2009 that’s said to be the beginning of his so-called Depression Trilogy. The other two are “Melancholia” and the two-part “Nymphomaniac,” which I haven’t yet screened.

“Antichrist” is, for many reasons, perhaps von Trier’s most unapologetic and brazen effort, confining itself chiefly to the lives of two characters—a man (Willem Dafoe) and woman (Charlotte Gainsbourg, in a remarkable performance)—both unnamed, for the large part of its 108-minute running time. The couple is married; the man, a therapist and the woman, a writer. As the film opens, they are having sex, filmed by von Trier in slow-motion to the strains of classical music. Meanwhile, their young boy (the only other character) escapes from his crib and somehow climbs up to an open, second-story window and falls to his death during an otherwise gentle, peaceful snowstorm.

Indeed, von Trier uses this sad, very human tragedy as a springboard for what eventually becomes a dark, frenzied and hyperbolic referendum on good, evil and nature itself. At first, the couple deals with the pain through rational conversations, but when the woman continues to suffer, the man decides that she should confront some of her deepest fears. From there, the action shifts to a remote, dilapidated cabin standing off in some particularly dense and gloomy woods.

Shot in West Germany, “Antichrist” is said to have been inspired by von Trier’s sudden fascination with horror films and the creepy visuals—a combination of “The Evil Dead,” “Blue Velvet” and “The Ring”—along with ominous music (skillfully done by Kristian Eidnes Andersen) are effectively chilling. The film works well, for a time, as a kind of artsy, psychological horror film, in which terrors that haunt the characters function as metaphors for emotions like lingering guilt, nagging regret, boiling anger, and skewed faith.

The tragedy at the beginning leaves the characters in a state of almost inescapable grief, numb and virtually incapable of feeling anything. The horror is that as a result, the most ordinary human reactions to sexual pleasure or physical pain are blurred and become virtually indistinguishable. Unfortunately, the movie runs off the rails in the last third, as von Trier piles on unnecessary scenes of sexual aggression, self-mutilation and graphic violence.

Lars von Trier is a gifted director who has made some masterpieces (“Breaking the Waves,” “Dancer in the Dark”) both visually striking and emotionally satisfying. No doubt there will be more. Even though ultimately spoiled by uneven execution, “Antichrist” has moments of brilliance and is never less than riveting. Maybe it’s best summed up with a controversial statement worthy of its author—“Antichrist” is a flawed, infuriating mess from a commanding filmmaker.

Stuck in Love (2012)

Greg Kinnear and Jennifer Connolly
in "Stuck in Love."

In “Stuck in Love,” Greg Kinnear plays Bill Borgens, a lovesick novelist still miserable over the two years old breakup of his marriage and pining for his ex, Erica (Jennifer Connolly), who left him for one of those vapid, narcissistic personal trainer-types. Deep in writer’s block, Bill pauses occasionally from his depression to either spy on his ex or dole out advice to his college-age kids, daughter Sam (Lilly Collins) and son Rusty (Nat Wolff). When those options aren’t available, he has sex with a promiscuous, married neighbor (Kristen Bell), who conveniently passes by his beachside property while jogging.

Following in the footsteps of dad, both kids have become aspiring writers, but the dissolution of family has spawned collateral damage, particularly in the case of Sam, who has witnessed her dad’s suffering too long and now feels cold and hateful towards her mother. Nevertheless, the friction hasn’t hindered her writing; Sam shares news of the publishing of her first book soon after the movie opens.

Rusty, on the other hand, is having a little trouble getting started with his manuscript until his dad convinces him something along the lines of writing being the sum of one’s experiences. Subsequently, the previously uncorrupted Rusty starts attending more campus parties and falls hard for a pretty classmate (Liana Liberato) with a bright smile but dark habit of ducking into strange bathrooms to snort cocaine. Meanwhile, Bill keeps hoping for signs that Erica still has feelings for him, and—surprise!—it turns out there’s a big secret being kept from Sam that might just settle this silly mother-daughter rift.

“Stuck in Love” is the watchable but middling and hopelessly predictable debut from writer-director Josh Boone, whose second film (unseen by me) is “The Fault in Our Stars” (2014) about a cancer-stricken teen. Both movies have ample opportunities for melodrama and “Stuck in Love” takes advantage, assigning all of the characters at least one life crisis to be neatly resolved by the end. The movie is like the pilot for one of those mawkish series you see on family T.V. stations. Even the pretentious dialogue by the would-be writers feels condescending and stilted, as if plucked from an episode of “Gilmore Girls.”

Of course, the divorced couple reuniting in “Stuck in Love” is one of the happy resolutions, wrapped so tidy that you wonder why they ever really split up in the first place. Do the trappings of the plot count?

Somewhere (2010)

Stephen Dorff and Elle Fanning in "Somewhere"

“Somewhere” begins with an extended take showing one of those speedy, flamboyant sports cars whizzing back and forth across a dusty, empty open road, interminably revving up its expensive, high-powered engine for no particular reason. That the image seems to suggest moving in circles is quite fitting—the driver in this case, a jaded but reasonably successful actor named Johnny Marco (Stephen Dorff) has been going nowhere fast these days.

The movie, written and directed by Sofia Coppola, is a kind of meditative character study about the tedious flipside of celebrity. Johnny lives comfortably and has plenty of money for nice toys, but the glamour of show business doesn’t excite him anymore and its artifice has left him disillusioned. At parties, he drifts off alone to smoke; while during the day, he’s settled into a routine of plopping on the couch, checking text messages and waiting for the phone to ring—not even regular visits from a pair of sexy young pole dancers is enough to shake him from his malaise.

Help arrives in the form of Johnny’s daughter, Cleo (Elle Fanning, adorable and very sharp), an ebullient 11-year-old with a bright, infectious smile. A lively, loving ball of natural energy and curiosity, she ends up being the perfect antidote to Johnny’s ennui, neatly zapping the actor out of his torpor with a fresh combination of innocence, enthusiasm and genuine affection.

Cleo is on hand for a short visit before going away to camp, a loan from mom whom we only hear over the phone and never meet. With the parent’s cryptic and tenuous association, Coppola hints at another gloomier, decidedly unglamorous facet of Hollywood—that of the long-distance, fractured, sometimes hostile relationship. Of course, in this otherwise messy situation, Cleo—almost with a halo floating over her angelic, blonde hair—emerges as a life-affirming, life-altering gem.

As father and daughter reconnect, “Somewhere” becomes an earnest, understated tale of pieces of a family coming together. If the film has a handicap, it’s that Coppola has explored much of this territory before in the brilliant “Lost in Translation,” with Bill Murray shining as an older, lonelier version of the aloof, disillusioned actor who rediscovers some joy after an unexpected friendship blossoms with Scarlett Johansson. That movie was both a celebration of human conversation and companionship and a visually masterful love letter to Tokyo, Japan.

By comparison, “Somewhere” isn’t nearly as dreamy. Coppola’s camera doesn’t set out to make sweeping visual statements, but perfectly captures ordinary moments. There’s something special about the way the director photographs the repetitious din of Los Angeles traffic in the afternoon. Like the desert road from the beginning, it’s just a daily slog up and down the same old boulevards, a little bit of something and nothing at the same time.