MONTHLY MOVIE ROUND-UP

AVATAR:
Look, I don't need to write a review of this for any practical reason. You've seen it. You either love it or hate it. Personally, I got blissfully, totally lost in the rich, so-real-you-can-smell-it world of Pandora, and in the story of its inhabitants. I don't really understand all the bitching about the dialogue; it's decent, gets it job done, and makes sure to let the images do most of the talking. I do, however, sympathize with those who claim this film tries to hard for profundity; sometimes it's trying so hard to force it's go-green message on you that you feel assaulted rather than inspired. But no matter; movies are primarily a visual medium, James Cameron has orchestrated something incredible here, brought to the screen a vision so full and transportive that it almost completely restores your faith in Big Movies. Add surprisingly nuanced performances (Oscar buzz for Zoe Saldana is well-deserved, but where's the love for Sigourney Weaver and Stephen Lang??) to the mix and you've got an epic that damn near lives up to the impossible, near-Biblical hype foisted on itfilms. Since my favorites of the past year, Where the Wild Things Are and An Education, haven't a shot at Best Picture gold, I'll be keeping my fingers crossed that the King of the World's latest tour de force takes home some serious statues. A.

CRAZY HEART:
"This ain't no place for the weary kind", Jeff Bridges sings in Crazy Heart, the refreshingly simple but thoroughly unexceptional adaptation of the book of the same name. In fact, the film is damn near overrun with the weary kind; Bad Blake (Bridges), a burnt out country singer playing bowley alleys and guzzling cheap beer; Wayne (Robert Duvall), the gruff bartender who understands him and tries to help him; Jean (Maggie Gylenhaal), the earthy, sad-eyed single mama who he woos with his craggy charm; these are people whose lives are slowly emptying of promise before their very eyes. So yes, it's a cliche story, one of burnt-out singer getting a second shot, rejuvenated by the love of a pretty woman. And neither the screenplay or direction (both by Scott Cooper) are anything fantastic; his words and images have a drab, oversimplified quality, a kind of TV-movie artlessness that robs the movie of some of its punch. Gylenhaal, a lovely presence, is miscast and saddled with hokey dialogue that makes her love for this 57-year-old burnout both implausible and a little icky. Duvall's presence draws unneeded attention to his own Tender Mercies, a better picture about the same subject. Still, though the film is paint-by-numbers, some of the colors are richer than usual, such as Jeff Bridges. This is Jeff Bridges film. It's not like The Wrestler, a great film with a great star turn. This is a decent film with a great star turn. Bridges has always been the best-kept secret in Hollywood, with his trademark portrayals of beer-bellied man man's whose relaxed cadences mask deep fears and nagging insecurities. Employing his unique brand of slurry, sad-eyed charm, he makes Bad a likable man even as he's numbing himself into oblivion. He gets some big Oscar scenes, but for an understanding of Bridges remarkable embodiment of this character, watch the little things; the way he drives, lays down, eats. George Clooney's torn-from-the-insides performance in Up In The Air probably required more work; Bridges is simply applying his well-honed performance style here, but the results are excellent. The other great element of this one is the songs. Let's face it, nothing's worse than seeing a movie about a "brilliant" singer, then hearing them warble their way through back-catalog treacle written solely to win Oscars. But the songs here, by T Bone Burnett, really are great, bluesy, down-n'-dirty ditties that channel C&W greats like Johnny Cash and Merle Haggard. Jeff Bridges and Colin Farrell (quite good as a budding music star who learned from and then left Bad) give these well-written tunes their considerable all, even sharing the screen for a harmony-heavy, goosebumps-inducing duet. Scenes like this make this film worth a look. Bridges aficionados and country music lovers, run, don't walk. Everyone else could do much worse when Netflix-hunting. B.

BOOK OF ELI
Hallelujah. Two weeks into the new decade and we already have a real winner, an almost-masterpiece, a senses-shredding, post-apocalyptic philosophical pesudo-Western that jilts you like a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart. What a welcome surprise! The plot? Denzel Washington is the titular character, a shades-wearin', sword-sportin' dude who's on the run from the madmen Carnegie (Gary Oldman) who's after Eli's prized possession-the final copy of the King James Bible. Sounds like a good clothesline to string action sequences on. There is some serious ass-kicking here, choreographed and photographed with great clarity and ingenuity. But there's something deeper at work here; Gary Whitta's smart screenplay explores the very nature of belief itself; do words alone carry power, or is it the beliefs behind them? Why do these same words move entire armies to self-righteous action and leave other at an impassive remove? Like The Matrix, a film with which this one shares many of its best traits. But this picture does those films one better by adding world-class actors to the mix. Washington's basically a national treasure by now, and this is one of his better roles; he brings a noble, quiet fury to the part that makes him imminently watchable. Michael Gambon, Frances de La Tour, even Tom Waits stop by for memorable cameos. Jennifer Beals and Mila Kunis, as Carnegie's wounded lover and her resilient daughter, add some real emotion to the proceedings. And, though we're only at the beginning of the decade, I doubt the next ten years will give us a better villain than Oldman's Carnegie. This is a ballsy, way-way-way over-the-top performance that damn near singes a hole in the celluloid. But this is ultimately the Hughes Brothers triumph. Back in their respective directors chairs after a decade, they create a vivid, desaturated desert of a nuclear winter, forging their own storytelling path while paying homage to everyone from Sergio Leone to chop-socky greats. By the time this film reaches it's whopper of a twist ending, you'll be ready to watch it all over again. When I bitch about mindless action films, I'm secretly pining for an intelligent, thoroughly original one like this. A.

She Sang Like She Knew The Score: The Tragic Tale of Eva Cassidy

Barbra Joan Streisand is the greatest vocalist of all time. That's been previously established. In almost every. Single. Post. Let's turn our attention instead to the second-greatest vocalist and most UNIQUE voice of our time, who, inexcusably, none of you frakkin' know about. Her name is Eva Marie Cassidy, and she released a single solo recording in her lifetime before her time with us was cut short by a rare permutation of skin cancer. That album is "Live at Blues Alley". It's one of those deceptive gems that floors you all the more because of your humble first impressions. Look at the cover; it's your typical jazz singer portrait of our starlet leaning against a wall, looking dreamy and contemplative. Take a gander at the back-the track list consists of twelve covers, old, sturdy, done-to-death selections like "Stormy Monday" and "Bridge Over Troubled Water". Then pop the disc in and say adieu to every preconceived notion you had of this woman. The first song is "Cheek to Cheek". Even the scat intro blows your mind; it has a strange, gripping urgency to it, as if she's keeping rhythm to a timebomb instead of a metronome. Even the most casual jazz listener has heard this Gershwin standard many a time, but, like every song Cassidy applies her golden pipes to, you feel as if you're hearing it, really hearing it, for the first time. There's an uninhibited joy in the way she sings it-for once, we really do believe the singer is "in heaven", as the lyric goes. After finishing a barn-burning rendition of "Stormy Monday", just as we've pegged her as a top-notch blues singer, "Troubled Water" plays, and Cassidy pulls a new trick out of her bag-a sweet, glistening soprano that seems to wraps its arms around you and lend you some of it's lovely warmth. Oh, she's a classically trained jazz chanteuse. No, no, no. On "People Get Ready" and "Oh Had I A Golden Thread", she tosses out glass-shattering high notes with a fiery aplomb to make Aretha bow in submission; there's an expression about black singers "taking you to Church"...Eva, a 33-year-old white woman, flat-out drags you there. But wait, she's channeling a 70's singer-songwriter troubadour on "Tall Trees In Georgia".....okay. The first rule of Eva Club: Nobody puts Eva in a corner, or, for that matter, a genre. Cassidy's voice is like nothing you've ever heard; the purest you've ever heard, but yet filled with the bittersweet, strange ache of life. It's the voice of an angel, if that angel had their heart broken. Don't be surprise if you tear up frequently while listening to her work; her voice coaxes back memories, punctuates thoughts, sometimes bypasses your brain and steals directly into your soul. Her "Over the Rainbow" is the best version ever recorded of the most well-known full-length tune ever written. Judy and Barbra both did boffo versions, but there's something in her version that wipes you out. In Eva's hands, a simple children's song becomes an ode to survival, a cry of desperation, and an affirmation of a life after this one. I got a lump in my throat writing about it just now. A higher power has touched a very select group of people. This touch is visible in Barbra Streisand's stunning high notes; in Stephen Sondheim's ingenious lyrics, in Steven Spielberg's inspired filmmaking, in Cormac McCarthy's breathtaking novels; in Tennesse Williams wrenching plays; in Michael Jackson's effortless moves; in the work of Meryl Streep, Katharine Hepburn, Marlon Brando, Morgan Freeman, Heath Ledger. We walk in the presence of a very few such folks. Eva was one of them. In recent years, former accompanists and family members have unearthed countless posthumous recordings and shared them with the world. Like 'Blues Alley", these recordings feature definitive renditions of songs you only think you've heard before. One of these is a version of "Imagine", in which Eva envisions a man-made utopia. No such place would be complete with her voice-after all, it remains, now and forever, and instrument of God. Check her out. Start with "Fields of Gold", her trademark song. Don't miss out on her mystic, moving take on "Wayfaring Stranger". And damn you if you don't purchase "People Get Ready" and "You've Changed", my two favorites. Ah hell, just buy 'em all. And be amazing. And tell your friends.

"A thing of beauty is a joy forever."-John Keats

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ce-5OWBNGNw