SHAME (2011)

Michael Fassbender gives a fearless, riveting performance as Brandon, a sex addict in New York City.  We first meet Brandon between various anonymous sexual encounters as he wanders naked through his fastidious apartment pursued by a recurring female voice on his answering machine.  We initially believe the voice to be a spurned paramour but learn it belongs to his sister Sissy (a marvelous Carey Mulligan), who turns up in his shower uninvited.  Despite clear discomfort at the proposition, Brandon agrees to let her stay on the couch until she finds her own place.  And his workplace provides little solace as Brandon learns his laptop has been taken away to remove a virus.  When he asks out co-worker Marianne (Nicole Beharie) and finds he respects her, he is unable to perform sexually because he has never associated sex with respect.  While Brandon uses sex to avoid real intimacy, Sissy mistakes sex for real intimacy and drives away her suitors as effectively as her brother’s detachment.  Brandon’s philandering married boss David (James Badge Dale) seduces Sissy and returns her to the apartment for consummation.  Soon Brandon’s boundaries begin to collapse, leading him on a night of self-destructive debauchery that earns the film its NC-17 rating.  Director Steve McQueen and co-writer Abi Morgan do not make judgments, they merely observe.  The only character to make a moral judgment in fact is sleazy boss David when he comments that Brandon’s virus-infested laptop is “filthy.”  Nor do the filmmakers delve into the siblings’ history, though it’s clear their childhood was an emotional train wreck to judge by the toxic codependence.  The writers’ only stumble is in overplaying Brandon’s night of degradation by including an out-of-character homosexual encounter.  Otherwise McQueen’s touch is artful and restrained, and he elicits top-drawer, award-worthy performances from both Fassbender and Mulligan.  One can only hope the more prestigious award organizations see past the strong subject matter to honor two brave, unflinching portrayals.

THE BIG YEAR (2011)

In the past director David Frankel has proved himself an adept cinematic journeyman who crafts solid entertainments with heart.  In THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA he had the riveting Meryl Streep to energize the proceedings, and with MARLEY & ME he had, well, an adorable dog.  So the pleasures should be threefold with Steve Martin, Jack Black and Owen Wilson headlining THE BIG YEAR.  Sadly, that is far from the case.  The film follows a trio of avid bird watchers (or birders, as they prefer to be called) during the course of a Big Year, a calendar year in which birders catalogue on the honor system every species of bird they spot or hear.  Martin plays Stu, a business owner escaping the rigors of his demanding job.  Office drone Brad (Black) seeks meaning in breaking the Big Year record.  His unfocused career reaps financial support from his mother (the delightful Dianne Wiest) and skepticism from his father (the gruff Brian Dennehy).  Meanwhile Bostick (Wilson), a competitive birder who holds the elusive record, works as a contractor when he isn’t abandoning his wife Jessica (an appealing Rosamund Pike) for his ornithological obsession.  Black is completely miscast, and Brad’s perfunctory romance with fellow birder Ellie (Rashida Jones) is as convenient and as it is unlikely.  But for his few scenes with the underused JoBeth Williams, a better-cast Martin comes off as preoccupied rather than present.  The amiable Wilson fares best, but even he seems constrained.  Frankel’s pacing is brisk but devoid of energy, like the condensed version of a film that lacks detail and color.  However, if all things avian fascinate you, Howard Franklin’s genial, risk-averse script (inspired by Mark Obmascik’s non-fiction book) may provide 90 minutes of diversion.  The rest of us, however, will watch the unfolding film dissipate like morning mist until there’s no memory of what was just seen.  We feel neither offense nor engagement, merely a sense of befuddlement and lethargy.

MONEYBALL (2011)

Bennett Miller’s first feature since the superlative CAPOTE looks and feels like a great game of baseball:  elegant, leisurely paced, with flashes of excitement and splashes of nostalgia.  How apt that the film’s subject is America’s favorite pastime, specifically General Manager Billy Beane (Brad Pitt) and his Oakland Athletics’ rebuilding season of 2002 after their top players depart for richer free agent pastures.  As team scouts bandy about names for replacements, Beane questions their approach, arguing that the A’s meager budget can’t compete with that of large-market teams like the Yankees.  He discovers his muse in competing consultant Peter Brand (Jonah Hill), an economics major who champions a statistical formula to help determine a player’s value.  Beane promptly hires him.  They implement this new system for recruiting, derisively dubbed “moneyball”, and meet stiff resistance from their scouts and Manager Art Howe (Philip Seymour Hoffman).  Steve Zaillian and Aaron Sorkin based their richly observed screenplay on the book by Michael Lewis (who also wrote the book upon which THE BLIND SIDE was based) and a story by Stan Chervin.  The dialogue snaps, and the actors savor each word.  Pitt has rarely appeared so comfortable in a character’s skin, with an easy grace reminiscent of vintage Redford or Newman.  After establishing himself as the amusing oddball kid in crass comedies, Hill matures his stock character before our very eyes, revealing warmth and humanity behind the numbers cruncher.  Hoffman provides solid support, as does Robin Wright as Beane’s estranged wife, while Kerris Dorsey has an unaffected charm as Beane's 12-year-old daughter.  With only three films to his credit (the documentary THE CRUISE being the other) director Miller has reached the first ranks of filmmakers.  He understands the romance of baseball and of film and fuses them gorgeously here (with the help of unfussy cinematography by Wally Pfister).  The end result is the baseball movie equivalent of nirvana, and I, for one, never wanted to leave.

CONTAGION (2011)

Director Steven Soderbergh and writer Scott Z. Burns transform the infectious disease thriller from overwrought melodrama (see 1995’s OUTBREAK as an egregious example) into a tense kaleidoscope of the global society’s reaction to a pandemic, focusing primarily on the CDC’s efforts to find and implement a vaccine and the emotional fallout in patient zero’s immediate family.  Shortly before Thanksgiving Beth Emhoff (Gwyneth Paltrow) returns from a Hong Kong business trip via Chicago (and a brief affair with an old flame) to husband Mitch (Matt Damon) in Minneapolis, while carrying a deadly virus along with her baggage.  After Beth collapses in seizures, dying shortly thereafter, head of CDC Dr. Ellis Cheever (Laurence Fishburne) sends colleague Dr. Erin Mears (Kate Winslet) to the scene to contain the virus’ spread.  But people start dropping in Hong Kong, Chicago and across the northern hemisphere at an alarming rate, and panic soon begins to spread, thanks in no small part to paranoid, muckraking blogger Alan Krumwiede (Jude Law).  While WHO agent Dr. Leonora Orantes (Marion Cotillard) searches for the pandemic’s source in Hong Kong and CDC’s Dr. Ally Hextall (Jennifer Ehle) works tirelessly on a vaccine, the military and the Department of Homeland Security entertain the notion that this may be a terrorist attack.  In contrast to the film’s large scale, both in geography and character, Burns’ script remains economical and controlled.  Soderbergh mutes the hysterics throughout, finding small, quiet moments that hit hard despite (perhaps because of) this restraint.  His frequent collaborator, editor Stephen Mirrione, maintains a relentless pace but never sacrifices speed for clarity.  The assembled all-star cast is a true ensemble and hit their physical and emotional marks with precision, but Winslet, Damon, Fishburne and Ehle are standouts.  Soderbergh has been categorized, sometimes justifiably, as a cool, detached filmmaker.  But here his objective tone works, and the film insidiously gets under the skin.  Those hoping for a hyperbolic entertainment may be disappointed, but the rest of us will likely be washing our hands obsessively for days afterward.

ATTACK THE BLOCK (2011)

If you were left dispirited (as I was) by the cynically sentimental SUPER 8, you will find reason to rejoice in this lean, nifty “B” horror movie from writer/director Joe Cornish.  Set in present day South London, the film introduces a gang of teen hooligans led by Moses (John Boyega) as they rob nursing graduate Sam (Jodie Whittaker) of her purse and jewelry.  A crashing meteorite that contains an outer space alien interrupts the robbery.  Armed with knives and bats the boys attack and kill the creature (it’s the size of a large chimpanzee) and carry the corpse back to Wyndham Towers, a large tenement building where they each reside (along with, as we soon find out, Sam).  In the penthouse flat of local weed-grower Ron (Nick Frost) the gang discusses where to sell their trophy.  The reverie is interrupted by a shower of meteorites around the block, portending a fresh batch of invaders.  Emboldened, the boys storm down but discover instead a pack of black-furred aliens the size of Saint Bernards with sharp, glowing teeth and bad tempers.  Cowed, they retreat to the Towers, doggedly pursued by the monsters.  Director Cornish playfully toys with genre conventions -- at times honoring them, at other times turning them slyly on their head -- while writer Cornish shows genuine affection for his not-so-wholesome teen characters.  His clever script acknowledges their faults without judging or absolving and provides subtle social commentary that could have been written by George Romero in a more lighthearted mood.  Thanks to an engaging cast, we, too, become fond of this ragtag band of underage thugs, which raises the emotional stakes once the monsters start biting.  Resembling a teenage Denzel Washington, Boyega has a soulful gravitas that commands attention.  He, along with the appealing Whittaker, ground the often-chaotic proceedings.  Meanwhile Alex Esmail, as the aptly named Pest, and Luke Treadaway, as perpetually stoned amateur zoologist Brewis, provide the film’s largest helpings of comic relief, a task normally delegated to Frost (whose performance here is subdued).  In his promising first feature Cornish ably delivers ample scares and generous laughs.  I look forward to his next film.

CRAZY, STUPID, LOVE. (2011)

This romantic comedy written by Dan Fogelman (CARS) and directed by Glenn Ficarra and John Requa (the writers responsible for the gleefully offensive BAD SANTA) lurches uneasily between bittersweet and quirky before settling, tragically, for emotional uplift.  Jacob (a charismatic Ryan Gosling) avoids commitment but knows how to seduce women.  Meanwhile Cal (Steve Carell) adjusts to single life after Emily (a wonderful Julianne Moore), his wife of 25 years, admits she’s been having an affair with co-worker David (Kevin Bacon).  After spotting the sad sack at his local pick up spot, Jacob tutors Cal in the fine art of fashion and facileness, which leads to improved confidence and a spirited one-night stand with Kate (Marisa Tomei).  However, Jacob meets his match when spunky law student Hannah (a charming Emma Stone) tells him no.  Amidst all these romantic machinations, Cal’s 13-year-old son Robbie (Jonah Bobo) nurses a crush on his 17-year-old babysitter Jessica (Analeigh Tipton) who in turn pines for Cal.  Fogelman’s superficial, uneven screenplay meanders, introducing a promising storyline or engaging character only to abandon it.  The marvelous Tomei captivates every time she’s on screen, but the filmmakers hang her out to dry.  The scenes with Gosling and Stone crackle, thanks primarily to the performers’ chemistry.  But Fogelman’s script cheats the audience out of significant information to facilitate a surprise twist near the film’s end.  And, despite a fearless performance by Tipton, the babysitter story turns queasily unfunny, with characters responding to mortifying situations as if they were appearing on the Disney Channel.  Ficarra and Requa elicit strong performances from their cast but alternate between pedestrian camera shots and self-conscious visual flourishes that undermine coherent storytelling.  The filmmakers back away from any meaningful portrait of modern romance and settle, literally, for the insipid platitudes of an 8^th grade graduation speech in which dishonesty masquerades as profundity.

RISE OF THE PLANET OF THE APES (2011)

Forget the clunky Tim Burton “reimagining” if you can.  In this entertaining prequel to the PLANET OF THE APES film series, scientist Will Rodman (James Franco) has developed a brain-enhancing drug for Gen-Sys, a San Francisco-based pharmaceutical company.  After successful results on chimpanzee Bright Eyes, Will pitches the idea of human tests to the corporate board.  But his prize subject runs amok, and the project is shut down.  Too late Will discovers that Bright Eyes had been protecting her newborn child and that her rampage was not a drug side effect.  He adopts the orphaned baby chimp (whom he names Caesar) and raises him in the house he shares with his father Charles (John Lithgow), a concert pianist gradually succumbing to Alzheimer’s disease.  Will soon discovers that Caesar (played by a motion-captured Andy Serkis) has inherited his mother’s enhanced cognitive capabilities, and they begin communicating through sign language.  But after Caesar violently defends ailing Charles against an antagonistic neighbor, the courts order the grown chimp moved to an animal shelter.  There Caesar engages with his simian peers and foments revolt against the oppressive jailers.  Unlike prequels of yesteryear (and I’m looking at you STAR WARS: EPISODES 1-3) this film keeps the exposition brisk and the tone surprisingly upbeat.  Though we know where the story will lead, Rick Jaffa & Amanda Silver’s screenplay (suggested by Pierre Boulle’s novel La Planete des Singes) surprises just enough while making clever (and mostly subtle) references to earlier APES movies.  And while director Rupert Wyatt displays a canny visual flair, he never lets the CG effects or the action overwhelm the story, deftly balancing scenes both large and small.  Franco anchors the film with his steady, irony-free performance, and Lithgow proves that less is more in his welcome return to the big screen.  But the movie belongs to the remarkable Serkis, who creates a full-blooded simian character that we believe in as much as, if not more than, its human counterparts.