Shelter (2015)

Jennifer Connelly plays a homeless New Yorker in "Shelter."

Coming as newspapers blare headlines about a New York City shelter system in such chaotic disarray that many of the city’s homeless would actually rather stay outside on the streets after dark rather than spending a hellish night inside—where belongings are often stolen and arguments among residents, many mentally ill, frequently lead to fights, stabbings and sometimes far worse—seems eerily timely for “Shelter,” the debut film by writer-director Paul Bettany.

The movie is mostly a sad, strange friendship between a homeless couple with similarly tragic histories—Tahir (Anthony Mackie), a melancholy immigrant from Nigeria whose wife and young son were casualties of war; and Hanna (Jennifer Connelly), a desperate, drug-addled woman whose world spiraled out of control when her husband, a soldier, was killed in battle.

At first, their connection is based less on attraction than a kind of mutual need. Their first significant encounter occurs one lonely night on the Brooklyn Bridge, when Tahir recognizes that Hannah is prepared to end it all with a final plunge into the murky East River. They begin an uneasy alliance after that, roaming the city in search of a handout or a place to stay.

When Hannah encounters an unlocked door on the roof of a building, the couple is afforded an extended, furtive stay in a posh apartment whose owners are away on vacation. Presented with the same opportunity, the typical intruder might grab as many valuables as possible and cash in at the nearest pawn shop. What this couple does instead—taking a hot shower, having a meal, sleeping in a clean bed—underlines the type of basic facilities and human dignity stripped from the everyday lives of the most poor.

While “Shelter” manages to be a stark and compelling chronicle of two people facing the cruel, daunting odds of life of the streets, it misses a chance to strike a more urgent note. Despite the title, very little of the action takes place in the cramped and violent shelters themselves; although Bettany does hint at the misplaced priorities of one facility during a scene in which Hannah, who has just missed curfew, is heartlessly turned away during dangerously cold weather.

Movies like this sometimes become a showcase for actors and Connelly (who is Bettany’s real life wife) shines, bravely throwing herself into a physically demanding and distinctly unglamorous role. Connelly seems genuinely fascinated with playing edgy, haunted characters—the hopelessly self-destructive addict of Darren Aronofsky’s brilliant “Requiem for a Dream”; the disillusioned foreclosure victim in “The House of Sand and Fog”—slowly slipping into nightmarish depths of pain and suffering.

The sad power in “Shelter” lies in the fact that there are many women—some elderly, frail and more vulnerable than Hannah—looking each day for a clue that society hasn’t forgotten them, hoping for a reason not to contemplate walking up to the edge of that bridge.

The Young Kieslowski (2015)

Ryan Malgarini and Haley Lu Richardson
in "The Young Kieslowski."

An earnest but flawed independent film written and directed by Kerem Sanga, “The Young Kieslowski” is a slice of life comedy-drama about a pair of nerdy college students who engage in a cautious one night stand that turns life-changing when the woman turns up pregnant.

The title character is Brian Kieslowski (Ryan Malgarini), a bookish physics major with a fear of death and a short, skinny frame that recalls any number of TV and movie geek archetypes from “Real Genius” to “The Big Bang Theory.” He’s unlucky in love until he meets the attractive, equally chaste and available Leslie Mallard (Haley Lu Richardson) at a party. They hit it off, if only a little too well.

The tone shifts from playful to serious as the characters begin to consider difficult choices. Confident she’ll opt for an abortion, Brian promises to support whatever decision Leslie makes; but when she surprises him by deciding to go through with the pregnancy, he begins to feel trapped. Not wanting to hurt her feelings, he equivocates and gets himself into more trouble.

The lack of honesty by the characters leads to a series of contrived misunderstandings and unwelcome plot twists—at one point, Brain cheats on Leslie by sleeping with a fellow co-ed on the wrestling team, a shockingly egregious moment that Sanga actually plays for comedy. Painful secrets lead to hurt feelings, a tearful breakup, a period of loneliness, and a third act reconciliation that is as implausible as it is predictable.

In the process, what starts out as a genuinely promising chronicle of a college couple facing decidedly adult challenges descends into a muddy quagmire of tedious and stale clichés. Sanga seems to want to combine the smart teenage romance of “Say Anything” with the thoughtful consideration of pregnancy in “Juno,” but his “The Young Kieslowski” is finally desperately inept at the screenplay level and never half as clever as it pretends to be.

Sin City (2005)

Big 'City' Blues: Bruce Willis and Jessica Alba star in
"Sin City" based on Frank Miller's graphic novels.

At one point in “Sin City”—director Robert Rodriguez's overlong, ostentatious but entertaining and highly stylized black and white comic book movie—one of the characters wanders into a church confession booth. “These hands of mine, they got blood all over ‘em,” he murmurs. “You're speaking figuratively,” the priest asks with a hint of trepidation. He's not.

Based on Frank Miller’s graphic novels of the same name, “Sin City” is an unapologetically bleak, bloody and violent anthology of pulpy tales featuring weary cops and jilted lovers, dangerous crooks and mean, sexy dames. They all prowl a dark, dreary urban landscape that looks like a chiaroscuro nightmare, complete with rainswept streets, hairpin curves and even a murky tar pit. It’s called Basin City, appropriately enough, because everything seems to be going down the drain.

It’s a place where villains are hideously immoral but the shady heroes aren't much better. And much like film noir—to which “Sin City,” movie or comic, owes substantial debt—the pop of gunfire rings out like dissonant music, eerie shadows seem to come alive, women are almost always bad news, and menacing evil lurks around every corner.

In the first story, we meet a jaded cop (Bruce Willis) with a heart condition trying to stay alive long enough to reach retirement. He tries to protect an 11-year-old girl from the mob but ends up in prison. When he emerges from the slammer eight years later, the same girl—now a curvy stripper played by Jessica Alba—nearly seduces him.

The next tale, the most entertaining in the film, is what might have happened if Moose Malloy and not Dick Powell had been the Raymond Chandler of Edward Dmytryk's classic 1944 noir, “Murder, My Sweet.” Looking like a distorted creature from one of Chester Gould’s comic strips, a morose, monstrously ugly hulk (Mickey Rourke) stalks the night in search of the party responsible for killing his girl, a hooker with a heart of gold named (what else?) Goldie.

Later, a good guy (Clive Owen) and a misogynist creep (Benicio Del Toro) stumble into another part of town where an army of street tough female prostitutes outfitted in slinky dominatrix gear viciously stand their ground during a deadly turf war. One of them, a beautiful Asian (Devon Aoki) with sword skills that would make Toshiro Mifune blush, slices her victims as if they were cold cuts in a deli.

There’s more but you get the idea. Lurching past two hours, the movie runs into excess—the story ponderously doubles back to tie up loose ends, killings are stretched out to the point of cliché, and stilted voiceovers ramble on forever (“Miho, you’re an angel…you’re saint…you’re Mother Teresa…you’re Elvis…”).

But at its best, “Sin City” is a dazzling visual medley of silvery black and white imagery flecked with just enough splashes of color—lurid red (for pints of blood), bilious yellow (for one especially execrable villain), and cool blue (for Alexis Bledel’s eyes)—to faithfully evoke the comic book world it borrows while adding cinematic style.

Sure, it’s pretentious and self-indulgent, but when the filmmakers are clearly having this much fun, you can't blame them for showboating.

The Hunger Games: Mockingjay Part 1 (2014)

Jennifer Lawrence in "Mockingjay Part 1," the rousing
third entry in the Hunger Games series.

When we last left the tragic, dystopian city of Panem in “The Hunger Games: Catching Fire,” reluctant heroine Katniss Everdeen (Jennifer Lawrence) had put an abrupt end to the eponymous battle—a savage, televised fight to the death between unlucky teenagers—with her latest act of altruistic defiance. Now the popular franchise, based on books by Suzanne Collins, is back to launch its cinematic third act.

Clumsily-named but tightly wound and highly entertaining, “The Hunger Games: Mockingjay Part 1,” the first of the two-part conclusion to the series, is a well-engineered, often rousing action picture. Director Francis Lawrence, who also helmed “Catching Fire,” has brought some much needed credibility and cohesion by trimming away some of the excess kitsch and petty campiness of the previous films.

It's also the first time in the series that there aren't any actual hunger games—no stalking through an angry forest ducking flying arrows and poisonous fog, or odd play-by-play by weirdly-costumed TV hosts. The bloody pugilism of the first two films has given way to a kind of strange, vicious chess match between the main characters. There’s still plenty of visceral excitement, fights and explosions, but the strategy and backroom maneuvering have the feel of war games—as disturbing and violent emotionally as physically.

Here, Katniss aligns with a new set of allies—including the great Julianne Moore as Alma Coin, the austere, sympathetic leader of the rogue District 13—poised for a full scale revolt against the brutal, totalitarian rule of the Capitol and it's evil, autocratic leader, President Snow (played once again with icy menace by Donald Sutherland). Back as Plutarch Heavensbee, Coin’s top advisor, is the late Philip Seymour Hoffman, lending further A-list gravity to the proceedings.

Philip Seymour and Julianne Moore in
"The Hunger Games: Mockingjay Part 1."

Meanwhile, the fair-skinned face of the revolution has a few other things on her mind. In “Mockingjay,” Katniss’ District 12 battery mate and possible romantic interest, selfless Peeta Mellark (Josh Hutcherson), is being held hostage in the Capitol, slowly being tortured and turned into a duplicitous minion by goons under Snow’s rule; his secret near the end is a plot twist best left unrevealed. Then there’s Gale (Liam Hemsworth), the hunky close friend who has feelings for Katniss, hoping his chivalry and battle-tested courage nudges him closer to the apex of the love triangle. And Katniss must continue to look after her family, including little sister Prim (Willow Shields), who has a knack for getting into trouble.

There are enough pieces to this post-apocalyptic puzzle that it would get dizzying trying to explain them all, but it’s safe to say that the glue holding everything together is Jennifer Lawrence. Watching a scene in which she slowly surveys the blasted ruins of District 12—her eyes filling with tears and face growing tremulous with pain and rage—is seeing a commanding talent at the top of her form. Genre films aren’t typically known for nuance, yet nobody conveys profound anguish and steely resolve with quite so much subtlety and ease.

She’s really too good for these movies, and that’s largely why they keep working.