Mischief Managed: A Review and A Final Look Back

PART 1: The Pensieve, or Why These Stories Matter

13 years of flying motorcycles, Owl post, chatty hats, trolls in the dungeon, pissed-off chess pieces, spirited house-elves, flying hippogriffs, all-knowing chalices, foggy prophecies, and wand duels, all doing their business in the shadows of the twin monoliths of Love and Hate, hell, Life and Death, and for all of this sound and fury my chief thought in regards to both JK Rowling's staggering Harry Potter bildungsroman and the hugely satisfying final film adaptation has to do with silence.

If you've ever been to a midnight movie premiere, be it HP or Hairspray, you know what a noisy affair these things are; give hundreds of teenagers free caffeine and T-shirts and stick them in a crowded space for four or so hours, and you've got pandemonium on the plate. It's not just that we act like the rowdy adolescents we are; we act like the rowdy four-year-olds that tend to piss off adolescents. In the two hours between our admittance to the theatre and the start of the screening, childish games of MASH, rock paper scissors, and "Never Have I Ever" were going down in almost every row. Faux spells were being cast with faux wands, slow claps seizing up, pointless shhhhhh's scattered about. Even the Wave reared its ugly head for a bit.

Around 12:10, when we hadn't even gotten into the previews (late starts--another midnight premiere tradition), a hearty chorus of boos ensued. Then the previews. Overwhelming laughter and catcalls for Cowboys and Aliens which, believe it or not, is not billed as a comedy. Then came an actual comedy trailer, for some God-awful-3D-I-wish-I-were-Despicable Me-flick called Arthur Christmas. Let's just say we weren't feeling the seasonal cheer. With each preview the snarky conversations and blatant catcalls escalated, the commotion escalated, and by the final few it had ballooned into an all-consuming bedlam over which I couldn't hear myself think, much less whatever the voice-over guy was saying.

Then total blackness. After a moment, the ubiquitous WB logo came up. By the time it had vanished, you could hear a pin drop. There had been no agitated shushing, no emphatic jabbing, no "Oh my God, its starting!" Everything simply got dead quiet. For men in bootstraps fighting CGI slime and dancing animals and Santy Claus we showed nothing but disdain, but when it came time to reunite with Harry Potter and his friends, there was an unforced air of total, nearly reverential respect. Proof that, for all the digitized dumbing-down our ADD-addled generation has faced, not always but often, when you tell us a story that's actually worth hearing, we'll listen. Ultimately, that's perhaps the greatest give the Generous Jo gave our generation-- her trust.

I was going to attempt to strip this next paragraph of ostentatious soapbox-ing, but I'll tell you right now that that's about as likely as me getting Adele concert tickets or a girlfriend. Look, the fact is, art at its best isn't just a chance to live other lives, explore other universes. It's a powerful aid to human empathy. We deal with fictional love and fabricated death far more often then we do with honest love and actualized death. Compassion is a character trait, yes, but it also acts like a muscle that needs occasionally strengthening--thus, is it through witnessing the trials and triumphs of made-up characters who we come to care about that we expand our capacity to care about people in our own lives.

In the same vein, if our generation has been oft accused of chronic apathy, it's only because of the apathetic nature of our modern artists. It's not that Michael Bay, Stephanie Meyer and co. are entirely untalented; it's just that they underestimate our generation, deeming us narrow-minded and small-hearted, and thus only worthy of works that traffic in cheap wish-fulfillment instead of true feeling. When people declare their love for, say, Transformers 3 or LMFAO, it's with a slightly embarrassed, knowing air---they enjoy it, but they secretly believe they deserve better. So did JK Rowling. She gave us words to get swept up in, worlds to get lost in, and the greatest gift any artist can give us, characters to care deeply about. Sure, her descriptions are occasionally lacking, and her pacing is a little off every now and then, but and yet I'd pick her over the cold perfection of Conrad or Melville any day. In a world where terror and paranoia are now legitimately integrated into the common fabric of our everyday lives, we risk desensitizing ourselves so as not to feel the agony of it all. But JK Rowling, wise woman that she is, knew that the price of love is loss, the price of peace is pain, and the price of growth is sacrifice. And she knew that we needed to know it. And, by creating Hogwarts and filling it with all the right people, she gave us a bit of an education, too.

Potter is not just a cultural milestone, it's an exquisitely constructed bridge between highbrow and lowbrow. As with that other great Brit import, The Beatles, everyone from the most pretentious college professor to the crudest of first graders can get into this. It's moral in an age of amorality, daring in an age of cowardice. I speak in the present tense because this isn't over yet. If--and the tears come freely as I write this sentence-if anyone ever mentions that pop art is dead and the standards of my generation are trending ever downward, to them I say this; "Accio, Harry".

Part 2: It All Ends-The Review

Oncemore, silence is golden. In the final hour of Deathly Hallows, Part 2, when Harry finally learns the nature of his fate and confronts it, director David Yates lets the soundtrack bottom out and gives us only Harry's footsteps. It's a fitting symbol for the very nature of this glorious Harry Potter movie business; even in the shaky first films, these movies never forgot that this was really the story of a boy on a journey. Even the weaker installments, lop-sided and somewhat lacking as they were, could never be accused of a deficit of heart. Indeed, heart, in my opinion, is what saved the first installment of The Deathly Hallows from crashing and burning entirely. Packed with part-one filler and allowing outside opinions of the actors and characters to seep into the storytelling, it was saved only by a few tremendously realized setpieces and a truly committed cast. Part 2 ain't quite perfect, but it sure as hell don't need no rescuing either--its an electrifyingly accomplished finale that thrums with gratitude for the fans, love for the characters, and faith in JK Rowling's eternal wisdom.

You know where we left off--or I hope you do, for this film doesn't play catch-up, not for a second. Harry, Hermione, and Ron (if you need me to tell you who plays them, go to therapy) are hunting for Horcruxes, parts of Lord Voldemort (Ralph Fiennes) that enable him to live eternally as long as they exist. Of course the hunt will bring them to Hogwarts, and of course there will be a final battle of staggering proportions.

So battle royale it is, for most of the film as well. After one last wonderfully measured moment of suspense involving a shifty goblin---you can sense the series gravitating on the edge one final time before it finally takes the plunge into chaos--Deathly Hallows is exclusively payoff, the total opposite of its predecessor. Yates doesn't go for an epic, Return of the King-esque finale, but instead gives us a spirited sprint to the bloody finish, and if his approach proves occasionally frustrating for those of us wishing for a few moments to say our goodbyes (some of our favorite characters don't even get a quick close-up), then there is still a sense that every moment that is onscreen is hugely important--everything's at stake here, and there's a definite sense of tense, almost competitive energy, as if every member of the cast and crew is hell-bent on going out with a bang. That they do. All the Oscar talk centers on Alan Rickman's Snape, and for good reason--he's perhaps Rowling's most vivid creation, a tragic antihero for the post-9/11 world, and when he stands center stage for the "Prince's Tale" sequence, its perhaps the most affecting stand-alone moment in the entire series. But the performances stupefy across the board. Maggie Smith and Julie Walters remind us just why they're fan favorites. Helena Bonham Carter takes her bitchy Bellatrix to the next level. All three Malfoys are imbued with shadings of regret and existential anguish we've never caught before. Ralph Fiennes's ballsily theatrical Voldemort has always been the stuff of controversy, but I think his high-wire act finally pays off here. Hell, even Michael Gambon makes the best of his limited, post-death screen-time, finally becoming the ebullient-but-erudite Dumbeldore we'd always hoped he'd be. To say Dan, Rupert, and Emma get better with each film has become redundant, but this truly is the pinnacle of their careers thud far. Ron and Hermione figure less prominently in the plot here than usual, but they make the most of their moments--especially that moment, if you know what I mean. Daniel Radcliffe is simply a marvel; you watch him seize control of the screen here and feel as if you've watched your own kid mature into a great man before your eyes. Acting like this is simply how it's done.

The behind-the-scenes department wasn't slacking off, either--the effects uncover some of the hidden poetry in Rowling's prose, the sets become a character in and of themselves, and the score is the best since John Williams gave up his conductor's baton several years ago. In fact, none of the (minor) issues with the film have anything to do with poor execution, just some slightly off-center ideas. An attempt to establish a new set of villains, the Carrow Twins, pretty much bombs. Voldemort and Harry's final duel crackles with a truly epic sense of dread and awe, until it segues into a briskly edited fistfight as intense as it is arbitrary. And the epilogue, while still deeply stirring, doesn't convey the depths of meaning that it did in the book. I don't knock the picture for being imperfect though. Anything made by a human being will be flawed, for we all are.

Is it the best adaptation of the series? Probably--almost all of the fan-treasured moments are fantastically rendered and received deafening applause at my screening. Yet, purely cinematically speaking, I'd deem it second best, just a step below the sublime Half-Blood Prince. Second and third viewings may change my mind, but the fact remains that this an explosively emotional The End worthy of all the hype. It gives us a lasting gift--it lets us get lost in this imaginary world one last time. The beauty of this glorious Potter synergy between Rowling, Radcliffe, Heyman, Yates, and the readers, viewers, and die-hard fans is this; these people and their lives are so vividly imagined that we can carry them with us, like a reverse deluminator that projects little pieces of light and beauty in a world where all things bright and beautiful too often flame out. Dumbledore, as always, said it best; “Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?” A-

4 Parts, No Harmony

As I'm sure you've noticed, my posts tend to be pretty structured. Everything in a particular post relates back to a certain theme-"Orson Welles and the Cinema", "Music You Need to Know About", "If Only I Had Woody's Glasses and Barbra's Nose I'd Be Happy With Life", etc. etc. This post, not so much. We have my seasonal "favorite things" (it'll help you through your Oprahwithdrawals), a blatant (albeit well-deserved) endorsement of my voice teacher's new CD, a summer reading list, and a hastily composed paean to a member of my family who left us all too soon. Also I've updated the "Simply Streisand" page with some massive news. This is chaotic, meine freunde. But then again, these past few week, my LIFE has been chaos. If you read nothing else, read the last part.

PART 1: My Favorite Things. Or, your summer as dictated by ME:

New In the Lolcats Department:

If you're anything resembling a normal comedian, chances are you'll spend a good portion of your act riffing on the Holy Trinity of Comedic Topics--booze, sex, and religion. But Maria Bamford is not your normal comedienne. Her prize subjects include dog costuming, sea cows, credit scores, and Susan Sarandon. If this material doesn't sound inherently funny, well, it probably isn't. What makes it work is her delivery--her sprite-with-a-sting, Cheno-on-Xanex voice and the biting self-awareness ("And tonight, we have my quiet, odd joke-stories...don't you wish it was just Carlos Mencia?") elevates her weird hodgepodge of merrily macabre observations into a rarefied air of unmitigated hysteria. Listen to bits like "Fun Being Evil", "Alicia Keys", and "Baby Jesus" and tell me I'm wrong. Admittedly, sometimes Bamford's high-wire act goes a little off course (is a minute-long riff on the word "therapist" really necessary?), but when she's on track, what she does is pure genius. Comedy is generally regarded as the art of finding flippant absurdity in the mundane. Maria Bamford, with a tart faux-naivete that puts Chelsea Handler to shame, turns the entire mechanism on its head, making the most ridiculous activities sound as normal as walking down the street. Love her or hate her, but you can't say there's anything like her.

Broadway Babies, Mainstream vs. Indie: When it comes to the Best Musical Tony, I've rooted for the dark horses (Urinetown, The Light in the Piazza, Next to Normal) since I was gestating in the womb, but this year I can say without a single caveat that the Annual Big Hit, The Book of Mormon, has earned its hallelujahs. Molded by the creators of South Park and Broadway's ownAvenue Q, this fudged-up fairy tale for adults takes the most sober of plots--Mormon missionaries go to AIDS-ravaged Uganda to bring the impoverished to Jesus--and improbably mines from it both comedic gold and a measure of genuine emotion. The performing talent is rock-solid across the board, but Mormon's crown jewel is its score, which stakes out a fresh sound of its own while still finding time for riotous melodic roasts of everyone from Harold Hill to Elphaba. Yes, everyone's raising hell about the show's dirty mouth (be prepared to hear every dirty word you've even known used in connection with "God"), but they seem to be missing its pure heart. Indeed, for all its vulgarity, this show doesn't aim to debunk religion, but instead to remind us that, as with all other components of our lives, the shit only hits the fan when we take it too seriously. On the flipside, Women on the Verge of A Nervous Breakdown was this year's bona fide flop, and while it'll never appeal to non-Broadwayites the way Mormon does, true theater nerds will take plenty of guilty pleasure in this one's cast recording. To hear seasoned, serious performers like Brian Stokes Mitchell and Laura Benanti sport Spanish accents, chew scenery, and belt out Latino pop tunes is a once-in-a-lifetime sugary treat. Plus, Patti Lupone, perhaps the Last Great Rialto Diva, seriously socks over her eleven o'clock number. Ay-ay-ay!!!

Sing Out, Mr. Schwartz!: Inspirational music tends to be so generic and syrupy that it leaves me with a toothache. As such, I must say I'm extraordinarily proud of my voice teacher, Jared Schwartz. His debut album, Hope, doesn't pummel you with insistent choruses and obsessive messages, but instead gently offers you a hand out of whatever rut you may be in. Gentle anthems to mature, steadfast compassion ("100, 000 Nights", "Bobby Blue) mingle with soaring affirmations of commitment and togetherness ("No More Darkness", "Fall Into My Arms") to create a listening experience that moves you to believe in something, even if it's just yourself. Jared calls himself a "popera" artist, but he really doesn't need to bother with the label--the passion of these vocal performances transcend boundaries. Listen to his stripped-down cover of "Sparrow", and you'll see what I mean. Music like this, and we make "Party Rock Anthem" #1??

A Slot for Some Scots:

Whether you're trying to ease the pain of college-time so-longs (I refuse to call them goodbyes) or you just need something different to send skyrocketing out of your open windows as you speed down the freeway on a July afternoon, here's your musical drug of choice. Warning; it will induce wide, stupid grins and spontaneous sing-alongs. Remember The Proclaimers? That band that did the "500 Miles" song ("When I wake up, well I know I'm gonna be I'm gonna be the man who wakes up next to you...")? Well, turns out this Scottish pop-rock outfit has a veritable treasure chest of songs that are just as good as their one hit, if not better. I love all of their work that I've purchased, but their second album is still by far their best, crackling with the ineffable exuberance of young people making great music and having a grand time doing it. Slap-that-tambourine rave-ups like "Then I Met You" and "Come On Nature" call to mind the soaring choruses of, say, the Monkees at their best, but they don't forget to pay tribute to their own heritage on the instantly memorable "Sean" and the achingly beautiful "Teardrops". If you desire sweet, smart summer jam with a dash of nostalgia thrown in free of charge, then you and I are kindred spirits, and I think you'll like this one alot.

"Throne" for A Loop:

Yes, me. Yes, TV. I've Hulu'd the occasional "Glee" and watched "Modern Family" while pretending to work out, but I've never had that show, the one that pulled me in by the neck and wouldn't let go, until now. Adapted from George R.R. Martin's hit books (what is it with fantasy authors and initials?!), Game of Thrones tells the story of four families vying for political power in the blighted land of Westeros--the noble Starks, the boozy Baratheons, the incestuous, insufferable Lannisters, and the vengeful Taragaryens. We get to know every member of these bloodlines, living and dead, which makes keeping up a bit of a strain. But TRUST THIS JEW, it's beyond worth it. This is damn good drama, and the cast is once-in-a-lifetime; Sean Bean, Peter Dinklage, and Lena Headey deserve Emmys for their career work here. Thrones does something else incredible, too; it takes the fantasy genre and cunningly rewires its moral compass. Good men give up their honor and loyalty at the drop of a hat (and aren't always rewarded for it), and the baddies, far from cartoon villains, are driven by a series of increasingly complex modus operandi. This show goes further over the edge than any other, and I'm not just talking about the startlingly graphic sex and battle scenes--there are moments of nihilistic despair here that will freeze your blood. But that makes it all the more moving when righteousness claims its small victories. I don't know much about television, but I've got a feeling shows like this don't come along very often. On-Demand it, folks.

Part 2: But Mason, I Feel Like Being Literate and S@!#t!

Never fear. I've assembled a last minute summer reading list. If last summer was a hunt for the Great American Novel (conclusion; still looking), then this summer finds me continuing my search, as well as making a few excursions into the world of post-modernism and British comedy. I've already read a few. Ask for my thoughts, or wait for the inevitable reviews....

Reading Like A Writer, Francine Prose

The Doctor Is Sick, Anthony Burgess

Brief Interviews with Hideous Men, David Foster Wallace

All the King's Men, Robert Penn Warren

The Girl In Blue, P.G. Wodehouse

V, Thomas Pynchon

When All You've Ever Wanted Isn't Enough, Harold Kushner

Consider the Lobster, David Foster Wallace

Finally,

And yes, as I journey onward into the land of English Major, I feel the need to re-read the book that made me really want to read; Song of Solomon, Toni Morrison.

PART 3: Announcement Time

As much as I love being your neighborhood critic, trying to accurately judge creations as sprawling as The Tree of Life or as silly as Larry Crowne leaves me exhausted. Time to create something of my own. Expect reviews of all the major movies and some sterling indies, as always, but expect them to share this page with 100% fresh short stories and essays by yours truly. The Babs-Worship, I'm afraid, stays.

And finally....

PART 4: The Dog Days

Dwelling on loss is neither my intent nor what's ultimately best for me, but I'd feel amiss if I didn't take a moment whilst sending my thoughts out into the cybersphere to honor my beloved puppy dog, Maggie, who passed away a week or so ago after an excruciating battle with kidney disease. I refuse to say she lost her battle, because I never saw her stop fighting. She was unflaggingly energetic, consistently sweet-natured, and strikingly loyal--many a door or gate was left open in this house, and never once did she try to run for it. I must also say that as an only child, I needed either a pet or a straitjacket. Maggie was, in a way, integral to the work I did as a writer; she'd put her head on my lap for a bit of encouragement as I tried in vain to strengthen a weak turn of phrase, nudge me if I fell asleep in my spinny chair, and let me drone on and on about how I'll never be half as good as Thomas Pynchon. They say writing is the best way of speaking with being interrupted. Perhaps the most eloquent way, yes, but I think dogs deserve that title a little more. To call her my sibling would be hyperbole, but to call her just a dog would be almost an insult. I'll simply say that she was an integral piece of the puzzle that is me, and if losing her doesn't mean having to put all the parts of it back together, there is a distinct sense that a piece is missing.

Rest in peace, Maggie Moo.

Sci Fi Squared

Super 8

Flock to the Angelika all you like, folks (I know I do), but the simple truth is this; man cannot live on sterling indies alone. They may be soulful, organic, deeply satisfying dishes, but we all need to tuck into a sugary, summer-days-driftin'-away confection every now and then--albeit a well-made one. Super 8 is just that, an Event picture with a capital E that doubles as a piquant, sweetly nostalgic ode to the art of the analog home movie. It's appropriate that Steven Spielberg's producing; the movie pays homage to many of his hot-months milestones, including Close Encounters, ET, and The Goonies, and is worth mentioning in the same breath as those minor classics. Director JJ Abrams has proved a fiercely talented celluloid pop artist from the very beginning, but here he outdoes himself. This is one of the best films of the year.

Abrams gives us a refreshing respite from this summer's seemingly endless parade of superheroes, pirates, and talking animals, putting a group of startlingly real, incredibly likable tweens at the center of his story. Yes, adults hover around the periphery--deputies and sheriffs here, abusive parents there, etc. etc. But this movie really belongs to Joe (Joel Courtney) and Charles (Riley Griffiths) and their many friends, who are in the midst of filming an amateur zombie flick on the titular device when they witness a mysterious train accident. The crash is followed by a plethora of supernatural occurrences-hundreds of dogs go missing, car generators vanish, radio frequencies go haywire-and while the local law searches frantically for ever-elusive evidence, the kids also search for an explanation of what they saw, uncovering a military conspiracy, and, oh yeah, an alien on the loose. And they film the whole thing--production value is production value, after all.

Putting a bunch of 13-year-olds at the helm of a blockbuster is tres risky, but, in this case, it's a decision that pays dividends. Courtney is the best male child actor I've seen in some time-he delivers his lines with great truth and clarity, and his expressions are laced with an angelic innocence that can't be bought. On the flip side, Elle Fanning shows beyond-her-years grit as the self-sufficient "actress" he falls in love with. As a director, Abrams smartly steps back and just lets these kids be kids. Their interactions unfold with such unforced, good-humoured grace that I have to wonder of some of the scenes were improvised. These children are portrayed warts-and-all; they lie and curse and steal and even commandeer a car. Yet they are also quick-witted, wide-eyed, and loyal to a fault. But notice how the director's love for them shines through in every frame. The explosions pop and the gunshots fly--to say Abrams is good with action scenes is like noting that Picasso was fairly skilled with a paintbrush-but this movie is about them. You root for them from scene one--and, by extension, for the movie.

When people complain that mainstream releases have "lost something" these past few decades, they're probably referring to that sense of wonder, that feeling that you've been lifted out of your solitary confinement of space and time and body and into a new world so beautiful you come back down grinning ecstatically and wiping the stardust from your sleeve. To watch Super 8 is to remember how you felt when Rick stood on the runway with Ilsa, when Obi Wan shouted "Use the force, Luke!", when ET defied gravity and Elliot defied his wildest dreams. And to watch Super 8 is to feel it all again. Here's a film about a group of children united by a love of good ol'-fashion movie magic that instills in us their precious sense of youthful, cinema-crazed wonder. It's good enough to give you your faith back in movies, or make you a believer if you aren't already. It's a film that's already come to mean a lot to me, and if non-cinephiles won't be quite as moved by it as I was, I can promise this; they'll still enjoy the hell out of it. If you give even 1/10th of a damn about my critical opinion, you'll run, not walk, to Super 8. A

PS. Stick around for the credits. You won't be sorry.

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The Tree of Life

People have this movie critic thing all wrong. The chief question a critic should concern him or herself with answering is not "should I see this movie?", but "what am I seeing?" What is the filmmaker attempting to do here? How do they do it? Is there technical mastery to be appreciated? Intellectual fecundity to be savored? What lurks just behind the visages of the actors and the veneer of the scenery that could lead audience to a better appreciation of this picture? Conversely, what's hiding in plain sight that abuses cinema, that extracts false emotions, endeavours to create cheap sensations, serves to diminish our human experience instead of enhance it?

So many motion pictures of recent years are so aesthetically uninspired and ideologically vacuous that they collapse under such intense questioning. On the flip side, Tree of Life is so dense-complex and simple, epic and intimate, horrifying and moving, insipid and inspiring, magical and maddening-that it renders even the most profound inquiries trite and ridiculous. I do not know how Terence Malick accomplished what he has accomplished here. I'm not entirely sure what he has accomplished. I cannot even answer basic questions regarding the picture's plot, characters, and storytelling structure. It resists categorization and criticism; Roger Ebert was correct in deeming it a "cinematic prayer", and you just can't give a prayer a letter grade.

I will say this; there are moments in this movie that rank among the most astonishing ever captured by a camera. As it attempts to link a fractured Texas family (Brad Pitt is the brooding patriarch, Jessica Chastain the loving wife) to nothing less than the creation of our planet, Malick, a deliberate, intensely visual hermit-god of a filmmaker, creates a few precious moments that serve to widen our very view of the world and our place in it. There are times, particular in the opening half hour, where it feels as if he's discovered something new and wonderful about our relationship to time and space, something you can't say about most new releases in the age of Something Borrowed. There are also long stretches of maddening passivity, of mazes of metaphors trapped inside other metaphors, of ponderous, exasperating exegesis and examination of What It All Means. There is an utterly indescribable ending that takes us directly into Malick's haunted brain and then leaves us there, directionless and exhausted and frustrated.

"Suffer into wisdom", Aeschylus said, and Terry Malick seems to agree. How can I recommend a film that's often so obtuse and spacey that the act of watching it becomes almost physically painful? Yet how can I urge you to stay away from a picture that, when it works, works so well as to give us a little glimpse into the hidden clockwork of the universe itself? I bet you know by now if Tree of Life is for you. If not, watch some of Malick's earlier work, particularly the masterful Thin Red Line, and see if you're ready for his latest, twice as sprawling and ambitious. Ask yourself how important things like narrative and action are to your moviegoing experience. Steel yourself for a deeply emotional experience, whether that emotion be agitation or awe. And, if you do see the thing, don't watch it, don't try to figure it out as it happens--just let it wash over you. No grade

I Travel Through Time: 'First Class', 'Midnight in Paris'

Midnight In Paris

Every critic has their soft spot. Mine has a name; Woody Allen. My almost religious identification with the man's cinematic output razes even the most remote possibility of objectivity. I saw right through Celebrity and Curse of the Jade Scorpion and Scoop, but because of my celluloid alter ego, I found them hugely enjoyable and reviewed them accordingly, despite their obvious faults and the negative critical consensus. So, when I say there's a great new Woody Alllen picture out, I probably sound like the boy who cried wolf, but hey, listen; this one really is great. Allen's been tinkering with pleasant but peripheral little five-finger exercises for the better part of a decade now. Here's an all-out concerto. Midnight In Paris is his most optimistic work, a movie of boundless wit and unforced effulgence that ranks among his all time best. The Woodman Returneth.

The enchanting premise plays like a fairy tale for cultured adults--Gil (Owen Wilson), a hangdog Hollywood hack looking to venture into serious prose, heads to Paris with his hapless fiance, Inez (Rachel McAdams). Tired of passing his nights on the Seine with her pushy parents (Kurt Fuller, Mimi Kennedy) and their grandiloquent wannabe tour guide (Michael Sheen), he wanders the city streets looking for a drink, only to be picked up by a mysterious cabbie who whisks him away to the Gay Paree of the 20's, where Gertrude Stein held court, Hemingway prepared A Moveable Feast, and Picasso played painter and potentate all at once. He meets each and every one of them, along with Adriana (Marion Cotillard), a luminescent muse whom he falls for hard and fast.
While Allen does take the time to play a few cosmic pranks on his artistic ancestors (in his universe, Gil gets Luis Bunuel's career off the ground, and thwarts one of Zelda Fitzgerald's countless suicide attempts), Midnight is really about Gil's journey, and its a pleasure meandering through the Roaring Twenties alongside him--he's one of Allen's deepest, most honest screen creations. He's the token "Woody Allen Character", yes, but he's so much more than that. He represents the hopeless romantic in all of us, and embodies the doubts and delights of just about every modern writer. Allen feels Gil in his bones, and thus gives him really crackling dialogue, smooth as champagne but also twice as biting. Wilson, quietly uncorking heretofore hidden reserves of emotional depth and clarity, relishes every word. He centers the picture, making the experience meaningful and enjoyable even for those who can't tell The Sun Also Rises from New Moon.

I won't deny, though, that it takes on a few extra dimensions for more literate members of the audience. Sly jabs at Cole Porter and Salvador Dali get the gut-busting laughs they deserve, but something else sticks with you; Allen's genuine love of the era he's portraying. He may point out their foibles for a well-earned chuckle here and there, but his deep, deep admiration for them shines through in every frame.

A few rebuttals to the criticisms already being leveled against the picture. No, Inez is not underwritten. It's an unforgiving portrayal, yes, but Gil's flight of fancy wouldn't be so enchanting if there wasn't something extreme for him to flee from. Yes, the final modern-day scenes are highly unrealistic and sudden. This is comedy. The characters get what they deserve, good or bad. And hell no, the real-life figures aren't portrayed with even the slightest sandgrain of accuracy. That would have been all wrong for this movie. They are shamelessly romanticized, exactly as we'd like to remember them. That's what makes this dream world both affecting and addictive.

And in the end, addiction is what Allen is exploring--nostalgia as a drug, as a form of dependency. In the movie's final half-hour, where Gil begins to travel further and further back through time, he comes to realize that the best of times is never now. Escape ceases to be escape when it becomes permanent. This is a message pertinent not just to Gil and people like him, but relevant to the movies themselves. The cinema is a world of wish fulfillment, of dreams coming true. But these dreams should supplement our lives, not define them. While we're on the subject, I must admit that Midnight In Paris was a dream come true for me--a work of truth and beauty and great compassion from my most beloved artist. A.

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X-Men: First Class

That scene is in X-Men: First Class. You know, the kind that needs to be retired from all franchise films for at least a decade. What scene, you ask? Well, let's say there was a really successful superhero picture called Man Who Runs and Jumps Through Hoops N' Stuff. Well, after a couple sequels of steadily decreasing quality, MWRAJTHNS (that would be its acronym) would get a prequel, about how said Man Who Runs and Jumps Through Hoops N' Stuff was once just little Billy from the block. In the final half-hour of said prequel, a supporting character would witness little Billy's ethereal powers and say something to the tune of "You know....they should call you.....(insert pause the size of a Subway footlong)....MAN WHO RUNS AND JUMPS THROUGH HOOPS N' STUFF (heavy percussive music goes here.)" I can count on one hand the number of prequels in which this gambit has worked. Casino Royale. There. I've counted.

Ok. I'm putting away the snarkiness. This film deserves my scrutiny, yes, but not my venom. It doesn't insult my intelligence. It doesn't truly waste my time. It isn't lugubrious or self-important. It sincerely tries to entertain. At times it does. If this sounds like faint praise, it is; here's a movie that never crashes and burns, but doesn't quite get off the ground, either. It just sort of hovers there, like Banshee in his first attempt at flight.

Banshee, you ask? He's one of the young superhumans who joins a hastily assembled, CIA-backed team of mutants led by a young Charles Xavier (James McAvoy) and his best friend/future arch-nemesis, Erik Lensherr (Michael Fassbender). Their stated mission: avert the Cuban Missile Crisis. But carefully concealed modus operandiabound; Xavier's undertakes the mission as a gesture of goodwill from mutants to their homo sapien counterparts, and Erik is out for blood; Sebastian Shaw (Kevin Bacon), former Nazi and murderer of Erik's beloved mother, is the brains behind the current crisis.

A globe-trotting superhero revenge pic is an inspired concept, and flashing back to examine the trials and triumphs of the first generation of mutants isn't a bad idea either--at this stage in its life, the franchise could use a rejuvenated sense of discovery. What's disappointing is how little director Matthew Vaughn does with the idea. I really would've loved it if the picture had a From Russia With Love vibe, with the mutants using their respective powers to engage in some down-to-the-wire-international espionage. Instead, we are treated to a truly bizarre vision of superheroes in the swingin' fifties and sixties-X-Men meets Don Draper. This is certainly the only comic-book adaptation ever to feature a pit-stop in Wayne Newton-era Vegas and the line "That's a really groovy mutation." The second half of the picture mercifully cuts down on the cheap nostalgia, but it also damn near does away with the entire period-superhero-picture concept. The X-Men spend a total of maybe five minutes averting an international crisis; they waste the rest of the last half-hour shooting big balls of energy at each other and flying in circles, actions that would have the same effect in any other decade. "X-Men goes 007" is a fantastic starting point, but the final result is shockingly subpar.

With one exception; Fassbender's Erik/Magneto. Fassbender portrays his avenging anti-hero as a figure of Shakespearean sound and fury, and rightly so; Magneto is one of the most complex figures in comic book literature, a man whose evil streak is borne not of a disposition to cruelty but of an unstinting belief in the overall weakness of good. His quest for vengeance provides most of the movie's honest thrills, and I kept wishing that First Class was his story and his alone.

'There's hope for the sequel' is perhaps the best complement I can pay this shaky first installment. It assembles a uniformly excellent cast in the service of a risky conceit---one so risky it seems even the filmmakers were afraid of it. If they would just trust their vision a little, this birth-of-the-hero-at-the-turn-of-the-century idea would soar. It's my sincere hope that this First Class comes back for a reunion and shows us what they've learned since their first go-round. C+.