Sometimes, I really am a fool.

I walked into the screening theater to see “The Bounty Hunter,” with positivity in my heart. I was hopeful, thinking it might be a lighthearted romp, with roots in “His Girl Friday”-style sex comedies. I thought maybe it would have sharp tongues and a leading couple who, goshdarnit, are just made for each other. I hoped for Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell. Hell, Aniston’s character is even a reporter!

I really should have known better.

This movie is not “His Girl Friday.” It is not funny. It is not witty. It’s characters are not likable, and the clothes are not fabulous. This film is about a bounty hunter named Milo (Gerard Butler) who has to arrest his ex-wife Nicole (Jennifer Aniston) for skipping bail. It is an angry, joyless little work of misanthropy that pretty much ruined a perfectly good Tuesday night.

Why am I so vehement about a movie that most would think of as awful but harmless? Because it forsakes the golden rule of rom-coms: Thou shalt never make the couple unlikeable. Milo is a gambling addict who thinks it’s great fun to lock his ex-wife in the trunk of a car and steal her credit card. Nicole is a reporter who needlessly puts her anonymous sources in danger and uses Milo’s addiction to try to win money for her escape. She has a co-worker named Stewart (Jason Sudeikis) who’s in love with her, and we’re supposed to think it’s funny that Stewart is stalking Nicole and sexually harassing her in the workplace. OMG, isn’t it hilarious the way he follows her into the ladies room and propositions her!?

The saving grace is Christine Baranski, the woman who’s made a career out of being the saving grace in terrible movies. Baranski is her usual resplendent self as Nicole’s mother and an aging Atlantic City showgirl, making even the most tedious lines crackle with her dry and scathing delivery. The only moment she can’t save is this eye-rolling bit of dialogue, delivered to Milo when he comes to find out where Nicole is hiding.

“You know, on the outside she may be a strong, independent woman, but on the inside she’s just a girl who wants to be loves by her man!”

The fact that writer Sarah Thorp made her say this line at all should be classified as a crime against humanity. Christine deserves better than that.

What starts out as just a guy trying to drag his ex-wife to jail segues into a murder mystery Nicole has been trying to solve in between fending off Stewart’s advances. The plot is clear enough, but hastily concluded and really beside the point. This is a story about two people who hate each other but belong together. Or at least it would be if we cared enough about either of them to have a stake in whether they get together or not. But we don’t care. Because we don’t like them. And breaking that rom-com commandment something I cannot forgive.

So perhaps it’s fitting that 10-year-old Quinn Lord was the one to speak to Blast about his role in Gilliam’s newest film, “The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus.” The feisty young actor, who previously played the terrifying pumpkin head in “Trick ‘r Treat,” discussed working with Gilliam, hanging out with Vern Troyer, and the simple joys of blood, guts, and gore.

Blast: What was it like working on this movie with your director Terry Gilliam?

Quinn Lord: Terry Gilliam is amazing to work with. He’s a fabulous director, he always has these great movies. I’ve watched “Doctor Parnassus” like three times, and I notice something different each time I watch it.

BLAST: So there’s always something going on that you don’t catch the first time.

QL: It’s so special, about that. It’s eye-catching or something. Some magic that he has in his movies.

BLAST: So you’ve got quite a few films and television shows under your belt — which was your favorite film to do?

QL: I would say “Trick ‘r Treat.” It’s a good movie. I got to work with Michael Doherty; he wanted me to watch “The Shining.” I wasn’t even scared of that movie, I wasn’t scared of anything.

BLAST: It didn’t frighten you, really?

QL: Yeah, really! I didn’t get frightened at all. “Heeeere’s Johnny!”

BLAST: That’s impressive. I’ve seen that movie several times and it still scares me. So what did you like about that experience?

QL: The best part was backstage, I was looking at all the meaty, gut things. It was very impressive!

BLAST: So you liked the gross stuff.

QL: Yeah, I was about to say, gory.

BLAST: You’re still very young, but what have you learned as an actor from when you first started? When you go into act, do you do anything to prepare yourself?

QL: Yes, yes, it’s very easy to get into the horrifying characters. It’s why I like the creepy, creepy, creepy roles. The most fun I’ve ever had with like the gory stuff was when I was on “Smallville.”

BLAST: This is going to be a big movie — are you nervous about being famous?

QL: I’m not nervous of anything. I’m like the tough guy who can go through the scariest movies, like “The Shining” and other scary movies. I can work through the blood and gore — even if it like rains blood from the sky, it’s no problem. And being famous — I’d like it.

BLAST: Are you going to be doing any more horror films, because it seems that’s where your interest lies.

QL: I’m going to be in another scary-ish movie (“Second Chances”), but I’m the good guy in that one. It’s with Melissa George I think.

BLAST: Do you want to play the villain again?

QL: Yes, I am up for villains. Villains are the explosion! The gore explosion. I get a kick out of the bad guys, they’re so fun to play.

BLAST: So what’s next for you — what are you up to right now?

QL: Right now? Right now, I think I want to watch a movie. Like “Army of Darkness,” “Back to the Future,” that kind of thing. I like the time warps and time paradoxes, stuff like that.

BLAST: Well that must have been interesting to do in “Doctor Parnassus,” that thing about time and space.

QL: Yeah, there’s a lot of story in there. And I really want one of those mirrors — when you see the movie, you’ll want one too. Everyone would pretty much want one. Everyone would come out of the theater and say, “Wow I really want one of those mirrors!”

BLAST: Just one last question for you. What are you up to next in terms of your work, in terms of acting?

QL: I have auditioned for some stuff, and I’m coming very close to a film. I’ve got my fingers crossed.

BLAST: Is there anything else you’d like to say? I know a lot of our readers are very excited about this movie.

QL: Yes. “Doctor Parnassus” is mind-blowing. Well, not mind-blowing literally, but metaphorically it will blow lots of people’s minds.

I went to see “Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push,’ by Sapphire,” the buzz-worthy film with the terrible title with a certain amount of trepidation. The novel is a tale of woe which buries its protagonist, Claireece “Precious” Jones, in layers of torment and abuse. She’s a morbidly obese black teenager living in the projects in Harlem. She’s been raped repeatedly by her father, eventually giving birth to two of his children. Her mother, who’s defrauding welfare, sexually, physically and emotionally abuses her. She’s illiterate. She’s traumatized. She’s friendless. She’s been kicked out of school.

How do you visually craft a story that has such ugliness, cruelty and melodramatic arc in a way that doesn’t exploit the very people it seeks to uplift? How do you talk about poor urban life in a way that keeps your actors off the soap box? I admit it readers; I thought it was pretty much impossible.

I was unbelievably, gloriously proven wrong.

“Precious,” directed by Lee Daniels, and produced by the reigning king and queen of African-American film culture Tyler Perry and Oprah Winfrey, is not a message movie. It’s not trying to jerk tears out of its audience, or paint its main character as an infant by making her a victim. In short, it’s not doing what years of mainstream Hollywood film making has done to the depiction of urban poor. It is a movie about one young woman’s struggle to survive within the villainy and horror around her. Precious, as played by Gabourey Sadibe, is fierce and breathtakingly fragile. After being assaulted by her mother, we hear her slightly mopey, gravelly voice-over: “I cried today… But fuck that day. That’s why God makes new days.”

And what a mother she has. The comedian Mo’Nique brilliantly plays Mary as a roiling, semi-psychotic pool of anger, jealousy and ignorance. She views her daughter as a sexual rival. She berates the girl for what seems like hours or days. Even when she’s just watching TV, her eyes are mean and small, flicking back and forth, looking for something, or someone to blame for the imagined slights against her. Mary is something out of a nightmare, except in your deepest heart you know that there really are women like this in the world.

Mary is juxtaposed by other people who come into Precious’s life, in a series of terrific performances. After the girl gets kicked out of school, she is referred by her principal to a special program meant to help illiterate teenagers get their GED. The class is run by a goddess-like woman named Blu Rain (the wonderful Paula Patton), and the scenes that take place in Ms. Rain’s classroom are a kind of paradise that punctuate the Hell that awaits Precious in her mother’s filthy apartment. Mariah Carey (yes, that Mariah Carey) is unrecognizable as a dowdy, exhausted social worker, and Lenny Kravitz plays the nicest nurse in the whole wide world. Even her fellow students get lovingly rendered personalities. All these people are woven seamlessly into Precious’s life.

The camera is occasionally a little too on-the-nose with the hand-held documentary style. In the better moments, however, it lingers on the people and places. It slides, liquid-like over body parts of the women who dominate the story; lips, nicotine-stained fingers, the soft curvature of hips and breasts. It manages to turn the ugliest sites — the filthy diner down the street, the cold loft building where Ms. Rain has class, the faceless apartment building where Precious lives — into something captivating and even beautiful.

Perhaps the most heart-rending thing about “Precious” is that Sadibe is most likely doomed to the one-night-only style of stardom. She will without a doubt be nominated for her role (as she should be). She might even win. But after that, what kind of work is there for an obese black woman in Hollywood? Hell, what kind of work is there for any black woman in Hollywood? When African-American film is still considered a niche market, when black women are either the standard sassy sidekicks or harping housewives, my greatest fear is that Sadibe’s grace, presence and, yes, beauty, will be put aside.

Miraculously, Daniels appears to understand the need for balance between the horror that is Precious’s life and the small joys and victories that keep her going. Precious does not get a fairy tale ending by any stretch of the imagination: the road ahead of her will be hard. She very well may not make it. But those tiny victories are enough to sustain her — enough to keep her alive. And those moments are precious indeed.

The first moment we see Mr. Fox, a notorious chicken thief and loving husband, he is sauntering up the road. He stands on two legs, and wears a dapper suit elegantly tailored against his thin frame. It is fall in Mr. Fox’s world, and golden light permeates everything around him. He looks like nothing less but the epitome of the charming, slightly off-kilter illustrations in the novel version of “The Fantastic Mr. Fox,” by Roald Dahl. Were Dahl living, I thought, he would be pleased.

And never has director Wes Anderson’s trademark wryness been better served.

“Fantastic Mr. Fox,” for those who have not read it, is the story of the Fox family. Mr. Fox (George Clooney), upon learning his wife (Meryl Streep) is pregnant, gives up his life of crime to become a newspaperman. His son Ash (Jason Schwartzman) is small and sullen, and has taken to wearing a cape. He like any other father facing middle-age; he’s happy and content, but misses his adventurous youth. After he moves to a tree in the shadow of the three meanest farmers in the county, his mid-life crisis allows him to be drawn once again into thievery.

The first thought that comes is astonishment that no one has thought of using George Clooney as a voice actor before; perhaps he was waiting for the right character to stroll up the road, the way Mr. Fox does ever so delicately in the first scene. His smooth voice is filled with humor and warmth, his delivery is that of a slightly pretentious gentleman of leisure. Streep is similarly wonderful as the earth-mother Mrs. Fox.

Compared with the smooth, soulless version of “A Christmas Carol” that recently came out, Anderson and his animation crew have created something scruffy, wild and clever. While computer animators spend their time working constantly to improve the “realism” of the thing they are making, stop-motion has no such intentions. Stop-motion is not about mimicking reality, but rather creating an alternative to it, where badgers are lawyers and foxes wear cunning corduroy suits. The stunning effect is like watching Roald Dahl’s slightly cracked imagination come to life. The form also translates Anderson’s vision well; his diversions into dollhouse-like set design and quirky bon-mots come off as fun and lovely instead of cloying like it does in some of his live-action films.

“Fantastic Mr. Fox” isn’t a blockbuster. It isn’t meant to be Oscar bait, or a techie’s vanity project. It’s just meant to be small and strange and impeccable, like Mr. Fox’s suit. Mr. Fox may not be flesh and blood. He may not be perfectly smoothed and airbrushed with computers. But he is more real, and more true that many of the films I’ve seen this year. And that is pretty fantastic.

Cult films are a dangerous thing. Sometimes great, sometimes not, they create a fervor and devotion usually saved for fringe religious groups and third party candidates. And the films make their way into the canon of filmic classics, whether or not they deserve to be there.

There is only one thing more dangerous than a cult film. A cult sequel.

I was once an acolyte who worshiped at the altar of “The Boondock Saints,” the 1999 comedic thriller about two Irish brothers in Boston who decide to become vigilantes. I saw the film when I was 16, right before I was about to move to Boston. Perhaps it was the gritty Southie cache that resonated with me, or the idea of two good-looking Irish boys saving Boston from danger, but I was in love. I’d lost touch with the movie until last week, when I saw the sequel.

It didn’t matter that I hadn’t seen it in a couple years. It was the exact same movie.

The plot’s a bit different: our anti-heroes Connor and Murphy (Sean Patrick Flanery and Norman Reedus, respectively) are on the lam in Ireland by their father (Billy Connolly) after killing numerous mobsters in Boston. After a mysterious villain starts mimicking the Saints reverent killing style, they return to Beantown to take up their savage quest. They’re pursued by another FBI agent, this time a woman- Julie Benz, who does a truly spectacular job stepping into Willem Dafoe’s airy shoes, even with half of her scenes being slow camera shots up her gamine profile. We also get a protracted back story about the boys’ father, a righteous murderer in his own right.

But the cult sequel is a very big problem because it’s made for the fans, and the fans alone. Outsiders are not just ignored, they are actively discouraged. This would not be so terrible, if not for the fact that Troy Duffy, the mastermind behind the “Saints,” decided that the only way to appease his fans would be to simply make the movie again. So we have the two boys who plot to kill bad guys based around action flicks they’ve seen. We have the hilarious, vaguely ethnic sidekick (the last one got offed in the first film). We have the religious imagery, the filthy dialogue, the stylized shoot-outs and a wily Southern FBI agent with a feminine drawl. There’s even a reference to rope- one of the first film’s best gags.

All-in-all, it’s less a movie and more of an inside joke. And as we all know, boys and girls, inside jokes are only funny to the ones who know what you’re talking about. For those who are fans of the first film, this will be a welcome diversion. Duffy is a truly wonderful screenwriter, and his dialogue clips along at a good pace. Reedus and Flanery are excellent; it’s as if they’d just stepped off the set of the first film last week. And I really did enjoy watching Benz take a luscious bite out of the scenery around her. There are surprises too- and if I spoiled any of them I’m sure I would have gold coins on my eyes by the end of the week, so let’s move on.

But if you don’t know what I mean when I talk about gold coins, or rope or that wicked funny scene with the cat, then chances are “Saints II” will only leave you slightly dizzy, and more than slightly confused. As for me, a die-hard fan of yore, I suddenly realized that somewhere between 16 years old and today, this movie had lost its cult status in my heart. It was still a good movie, sure. So is the sequel. But in terms of my devotion, I guess I’ve been deprogrammed.

It is no secret among my friends and loved ones that I am sucker for a good coordinated dance number.

I love coordinated dance numbers in the way that only a klutzy white girl with no dance talent can. If a movie – any movie – includes a dance number, it is automatically ten percent better in my eyes. And if it’s a movie based on a musical, I have just one rule: nail the big dance numbers. If you nail the big dance numbers, I will swallow whatever half-baked plotline you’ve got hook, line and sinker.

Which is why going to see “Fame” was so dreadfully disappointing. The film, based off of a musical, 80s film and TV show, should have been a slam dunk. Young, bright-eyed singers, dancers and actors! Big New York performance art school! Bebe Neuwirth! Debbie freaking Allen!! All director Kevin Tanchareon had to do was round up a group of talented teenagers who were willing to play themselves, turn on a camera and go.

What I don’t understand is the decision Tancharoen made to give the most screen time and dramatic arch to Jenny (Kay Panabaker) and Marco (Asher Book), possibly the two most boring theater kids I have ever come across in my entire life. It isn’t just that they’re not terribly good actors (though they’re not). It’s that they can’t even sing or dance, and have absolutely no cinematic presence. Book has generic boy band good looks, and we never actually see Panabaker’s character learning acting, the art she professes to be so passionate about. One awkward scene has our white bread heroine almost seduced by a big-time TV star during an “audition” (my favorite line in the entire film: as the actor paws ferociously at her sweater in front of a video camera, she asks indignantly, “Is this even a casting meeting?!”)

The most talented one among the teens is Naturi Naughton, who has a wonderful voice and actually seems to know how to play the piano. Naughton, as the sheltered Denise, is an R&B singer with strict command of her voice. Her acting is ho-hum, but she’s at least able to keep us a little interested.

Interestingly enough it is the teachers of the Performing Arts school that captivate the most attention, though all of them are underused. There’s nothing better than watching Megan Mullally make vocal love to “You Took Advantage of Me” or Debbie Allen be her resplendent, timeless self. The most honest moment in the film comes when Bebe Neuwirth, who plays the school’s ballet teacher, gently and compassionately tells a boy from Iowa that he’s just not a strong enough dancer to actually make a living at it. “But I work harder than anyone else here,” he pleads, blasting apart the usual lie that if you work hard enough and want it enough than you’ll succeed.

But the movie doesn’t make us care about the boy from Iowa, or any of the other kids for that matter. We’re supposed to be rooting for them to succeed, but I don’t think I understood who any of them really were. Why do I care that the bitchy girl got into Complexions, when her character’s so pallid and generic I can’t even remember her name?

As to the dance numbers: A few of them were pretty good, especially a beautifully realized number set at a Halloween party. But none of them made me want to applaud. And the songs, which have been reconstituted for more of a hip-hop vibe, are generally showcased in the film but really seem more like background noise. I know Tanchareon was going for a grittier aesthetic, but the result is a little listless, as if they’re only begrudgingly breaking into song.

The whole idea behind the modern musical is that whatever you’re feeling is so powerful it can only be conveyed by belting out a high C. I love coordinated dance numbers because sometimes I want to pirouette my feelings. But I have a hard time believing that any of these characters feel anything so strongly they needed jazz hands to explain. In the end they’re just empty bodies on a stage.

One of the dirty little secrets of film critique is that sometimes the hardest part of writing a review is finding something to say. Sometimes the movie is so superfluous, so mediocre, so obviously destined for obscurity that, really, why should you care what I have to say about it?

Such is my difficulty in writing this review for “Love Happens,” a colorless, ordinary story about love and loss in Seattle. Burke (Aaron Eckhart) is a lovelorn self-help guru who’s made a killing helping people through their grief and created a motivational brand terribly named “A-Okay!”

Of course, Burke could use some help of his own in dealing with the sudden death of his wife three years ago, which he’s never recovered from. Cue Eloise, the vibrant, “quirky” florist who fills her world with flowers and a funky turquoise van to administer off-beat healing. And, of course, cue their friends: a shlubby manager for Burke (Dan Fogler) and a beat poet radical feminist for Eloise (poor Judy Greer, who’s always the funky friend and deserves so much better).

“Love Happens,” seems like a relic in this day and age — a copycat of “Sleepless in Seattle” and other Meg Ryan atrocities. The plot, the characters, the very aura of this movie is so musty and overused that it seems silly even thinking about it beyond the original viewing.

But really, what is really disconcerting is that the people who have to say the lines are so good. In the hands of a better director, Eckhart and Aniston would make a terrific romantic duo. They have the same kind of likability; the same kind of down-to-earth prettiness that makes me believe they could really be attracted to each other. It doesn’t hurt either that Camp didn’t pair Eckhart with some 22-year-old ingénue, as directors are so wont to do these days, but rather with a gorgeous a woman his own age. But neither Eckhart nor Aniston can move beyond the banality of the plot and completely unimaginative film-making.

The one aspect of this film that works is its depiction of how people experience grief. At one point an elderly admirer tells Burke that his advice to remember her dead husband’s likes and dislikes was very helpful to her. “So say hello to my Stanley!” she says brightly, opening an urn, which has been filled with oatmeal cookies made out of her dead husband’s ashes. “They were his favorite!”

Yes, it’s gross, and it’s weird. But isn’t that what grief is? There is no “right” way to deal with grief, only your way. The point is that it needs to be dealt with. In many ways, this woman’s unholy baking is healthier than Burke’s constant denial.

The other bright spot is Martin Sheen, who thankfully appears as Burke’s father-in-law. Sheen can make reading out of the phone book captivating, and he imbues his tiny role with blustery sweetness and good humor. In fact he’s the last person we see in the film; it seems even Camp knew how to exit this dour redundancy with at least one thing to talk about.

Back in 2007, sci-fi master Joss Whedon wrote a scathing indictment of “torture porn” film-making, notably the film “Captivity.” Whedon said the genre, made mainstream by the work of Eli Roth and others, is simply an excuse to vent violent rage at women, to punish the female form for … whatever it’s guilty of. It’s a rage that’s been brewing since Janet Leigh jumped into that fateful shower in 1960, and it’s only grown more vengeful and exploitative since.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you “Jennifer’s Body,” Diablo Cody’s campy, hilarious and incredibly flawed feminist response.

At first glance, this would be the perfect transgressive film: Jennifer (Megan Fox) is a mega-hottie who uses men as sexual play things and (after nearly being killed in a very funny satanic ritual) uses them as tasty snacks. She’s found out by her sweet, nerdy childhood friend with the horrible name of Needy (the wonderful Amanda Seyfried), who tries to stop the carnage.

I like Megan Fox probably more than I should. She may come off as dumb as a box of rocks in interviews, but her acting always seems to have a glimmer of wry self-awareness woven into her brainless hot girl act. In this, Fox’s glazed, plastic look perfectly demonstrates Jennifer’s mindless hunger. It’s just far too apt to be an accident. In one moment, she also scared the crap out of me when she appears in Needy’s kitchen covered in blood and grins at her horrifically. It’s without a doubt the most terrifying moment in the film.

“Juno” scribe Diablo Cody wrote the film, and just like “Juno” it’s chockablock with quirky little tidbits that vary from hysterically funny to just annoying. Among other things, J.K. Simmons makes an appearance as a teacher with a hook for a hand and a Canadian accent. In anyone else’s hands it would be irritating, but Simmons has the keen power to make anything funny. On the other hand, if I ever hear the phrase “freak-tarded” or hear men referred to as “salty morsels” again, I will be forced to hit Cody with a copy of the Oxford English Dictionary.

Let us take a moment now and reflect on the much-talked-of make-out session between Fox and Seyfried. The scene is pretty sexy. It’s also exploitative (and not in the good way), occurs in a vacuum, and then lays there in the middle of the film, begging for meaning when there’s none to be had.

Then again, I’m not a straight teenage boy, so what do I know?

Possibly one of the most interesting things about this film is its total focus on the female characters. There’s a lack of any real male input, right down to the fact that neither Needy nor Jennifer appear to have fathers. In a film industry where 28 percent of speaking roles go to women, that’s no small thing. But for all the bloody prom dresses and man-evisceration, I hesitate to truly call this a feminist film, or even a really transgressive one. First of all, none of Jennifer’s victims are bad guys — in fact all of them seem to be sweet, good-hearted boys, the kind you could bring home to mom. It robs us of the sweet satisfaction of watching girl-power in action. What kind of fun is it watching Jennifer kill nice guys? By contrast, Quentin Tarantino, in the vastly underrated “Death Proof,” vindicated females by letting us watch stuntwoman Zoe Bell kick the shit out of bad boy Kurt Russell. “Carrie” let us watch the soft, nerdy girl electrocute her male and female high school aggressors.

And, in the end, Jennifer’s violent sexual dominion is her own undoing. In the end she’s punished for her sins, just like in every other male-centric horror film ever created.

To its credit, however, the end of the film partially rescues what I think Cody is trying to say. Out of the climactic bloodbath, Needy rises as our real heroine. She’s not a sexual succubus, but neither is she a weak virginal sacrifice. And by the time the credits roll, the real villain has been vanquished and we learn that chick with the stupid name can kick some serious ass.

I am loathe to discount any female director who has the tenacity to direct an action picture. The mere fact that Kari Skogland managed to get this little film financed (piecemeal, through about seven different production companies) is a testament to her sheer cajones. But just the fact that Skogland’s feat is impressive, does not mean her film is.

“Fifty Dead Men Walking,” a film that’s supremely loosely-based on a young punk in Belfast who becomes an informer for the British government during the Troubles, is deeply flawed.

The young punk in question is Martin (Jim Sturgess) who leaves his job selling stolen goods to the Catholic side of town, and becomes a British spy against the IRA. Sturgess shows a bit more acting prowess than usual. He’s got the appropriate amount of wiry energy and attention deficit you’d expect from a young man out of his depth.

However, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: if your name is not Paul Greengrass, stay away from hand-held cameras. Skogland utilizes them quite a bit for the chaotic action scenes, but “Bloody Sunday,” this movie ain’t. The brutal terrorism scenes have significant energy, but it’s not directed or clearly defined. The beauty of Greengrass’ films is that no matter how messy the scene gets you still know exactly know what you’re looking at.

Problems abound, the plot is hastily sketched and badly steered, and most of the characters we’re supposed to care about are so broadly drawn it’s impossible to relate to them. The talented Natalie Press as Martin’s girlfriend carries the traditional actress’ burden of saying things like “When you leave, I don’t know if you’re coming back.” And Rose McGowan is completely wasted as IRA intelligence expert Grace. Besides tossing her fluorescent red hair and seducing us with her wild colleen ways, she really doesn’t seem capable of anything much, much less brokering intricate deals with Iranian arms dealers.

Where Skogland’s movie really shines are the moments between Martin and Fergus. It’s established that Fergus has no relationship with his son, while Martin has no father, and as Fergus sends him deeper and deeper into enemy territory, he paradoxically becomes more and more protective of him. In one of the few humanizing scenes in the film, the two share a cup of Irished-up coffee while keeping vigil over Martin’s new baby.

As a person who spent quite a bit of time in Northern Ireland, it was certainly nice to see a genuine and loving portrait of Belfast. There is a pretty overdone sex scene on top of the Europa Hotel, but though Skogland may not have the golden touch with action scenes, she generally has a wonderful eye for places; Belfast’s gritty, war-like personality shines through in “Fifty Dead Men.” It’s just a shame the plot couldn’t shine in the same way.

Anyone who knows anything about the work of Japanese anime master Hayao Miyazaki knows “My Neighbor Totoro,” his magical early piece about imagination, hope and resourcefulness in times of struggle. “Totoro” still remains my favorite of Miyazaki’s films. The animation may not be as sophisticated as “Howl’s Moving Castle” or “Spirited Away,” but it’s knowledge about the inner lives of children, and it’s simple elegant story arc make it a masterpiece of children’s film.

How lovely, then, to see “Ponyo,” Miyazaki’s latest film that works in the same vein as “Totoro.” Drawn with shades of Hans Christian Anderson’s “The Little Mermaid,” the title character is a goldfish/mermaid kept hostage in a bubble on the ocean floor by her misanthropic father (voiced by Liam Neesan), whose job is to keep the ocean’s life in balance. She makes her escape and rides a jellyfish to the ocean’s surface where she meets and falls in love with a small boy, Sosuke. Her escape, however, causes a massive shift in the moon’s pull on the ocean tides.

That’s a little bit of the plot at least. But there’s so much more to this gentle, elegantly-drawn little fable. Miyazaki used several different forms of drawn animation, from commercial anime style (cue giant sparkling eyes during heartfelt moments) to more classic storybook drawings. He treats the scenes on land with as much care and gravitas as his dramatic ocean scenes; never have I wanted ramen more than when Sosuke’s mother (voiced by the always terrific Tina Fey) made it for the two young heroes on a cold rainy night. And there are very few animated scenes in recent history that can match the sheer force of the scene in which Ponyo dances across tidal waves made of giant fish, her stubby feet and arms akimbo, and a look of fierce and simple joy on her face.

Miyazaki also wisely downplays the environmental “message” of the film. Neesan’s character occasionally rants about the mess humans make in the oceans, but the implication is that the world is far stronger than us and still, in the end, has the upper hand. Far more important is the relationship between the two young characters, a friendship based on mutual loneliness and simple love of the world around them. Miyazaki understands children more than any other director I’m aware of. The intelligence of his imagination is truly something to behold.

Is there any group of people more obsessive and ridiculous about food than Americans? We think of food the way we think of sex: we are both giddy about it and repulsed by it. We can be puritanical about consumption and at the same time cram food down our gullet without a second thought. We eat more than the rest of the world, and we probably diet more than the rest of the world too. We attempt to conform to impossible standards set by the ladies at Vogue while we totter out to McDonald’s three times a week for our delicious, delicious quarter-pounder with cheese.

We like food, but rarely do we take real, true sensual pleasure in the act of making and eating our own meal. We eat on the road, while we Twitter something inane and flash our grease-laden middle finger at the guy we just cut off.

“Julie & Julia” is about what eating is supposed to be like. This is evident from the first scene, where cooking powerhouse Julia Child (Meryl Streep) smells the fish she’s just been served and whispers, in absolute ecstasy, “Butter.”

That moment of bliss is what characterizes half of the film, a delightful, fresh view of Child’s life in Paris with her husband Paul (a wry and sweet-natured Stanley Tucci) who works at the American embassy. Streep is perfectly frothy as Child, reminding us again why she’s a living legend on the Hollywood scene. Instead of mocking the chef’s hulking stature and staccato voice, Streep characterizes her quirks as attributes of a strong, intensely-focused, sensual woman. Child was wonderful because she was both motherly and unwaveringly independent, everyone’s slightly hedonist auntie. Ephron, who’s never been a heavyweight in terms of dialogue has sparkling wit and verve in the Child scenes. The plot line may not be the most dramatic (will Child publish her book?) but the joy of cooking, and, by extension, living fully in the world, is heartily felt.

This half of the movie however, makes it all the more disappointing that the other half of the movie is so dry and flavorless (pun intended). The other half stars Amy Adams as Julie Powell, a struggling writer who abandoned her work for a steady, but low-level government job, and decides to blog her way through Child’s cookbook. I have loved Amy Adams since she first crashed the Hollywood party in her tender role in “Junebug,” but her Julie is a little boring, unrelateable and selfish in the most uninteresting way. Perhaps it’s prejudice, but I believe this is less Adams’ fault and more Ephrons’. Too often the writing resorts to having Julie pitch a fit or cry on the floor when things go wrong. Compared with Child’s intricate layers of joy, sadness and jealousy when she learns her sister is going to have a child, having Powell whine over the fact that she burned a casserole is pretty unwatchable.

When you think about it, it’s pretty unbelievable that nourishing our bodies has become one of our biggest stresses in life, or one of the things we overlook completely. We could all stand to learn from Julia Child, who believed that food (cooking it and eating it) was one of the ways to make ourselves purely happy for its own sake. Watching Meryl Streep channel her tornado of a personality made me remember to at least make more of an effort to taste and enjoy every bit of food I inhale on the train to work- regardless of how much butter was used.

At first glance, “Adam,” the freshman effort by director Max Mayer, seems full of pitfalls. It’s a Woody Allen-esque New York love story about a man with Asberger’s Syndrome; besides the obvious problem of any actor attempting to portray someone with a developmental disorder (or, as Robert Downey, Jr. put so eloquently in “Tropic Thunder,” “go full retard”) I feared greatly that the indie kitsch-factor would be far too much to bear. Believe me folks, we’re about two years away from the DSM-IV recognizing “hipster indie fatigue” as a legitimate condition.

On the main, however, “Adam,” and especially Hugh Dancy who gives an incredible performance as the title character, manages to avoid the usual dramedy landmines. For those who are unfamiliar, Asberger’s is a condition on the autism spectrum; broadly defined, it makes the sufferer unable to understand social situations, feel a normal level of empathy or read nonverbal cues. Adam has the condition, and after his father dies he’s left lost and somewhat alone in New York City, until he begins a relationship with Beth, a woman who lives upstairs (Rose Byrne).

Dancy is given the unenviable task of both carrying the majority of the movie and walking that thready fine line between a true portrayal of developmental disorder and simple mockery. He did better than I would have believed possible for the man who’s last film was “Confessions of a Shopoholic.” Instead of being twitchy, or obvious, Dancy executes Adam’s condition in a sense of terrible, unending discomfort with the world around him. Besides a few safe places that he knows, the entire city is a field of traps; restaurants are impossible, as are parties, or a particularly heinous scene when he’s forced to meet Beth’s parents. It’s a strangely graceful performance, and one that Dancy should be proud of.

Byrne performs admirably as Beth, though her character isn’t nearly as well-written as Dancy’s is. We understand quite a bit less about Beth and I wish there was more of her. As always, the inimitable Peter Gallagher gives a great performance as Beth’s sleazy yet winning father. But perhaps the real star of “Adam” is Mayer; this is Mayer’s first feature film and he approached his material with a tremendous sense of honesty and compassion. There are quite a few funny parts in “Adam,” but we never feel we’re making fun of him.

I went to see “I Love You, Beth Cooper” reluctantly. The ouerve of teen sex comedies where young nerdy boys go on wild adventures in the hopes of getting laid has been pretty much exhausted since the late 90s. And, judging from the trailers only, that’s what this film looked like: two recent high school graduates spend one night trying to lose their virginity (one of whom is in love with the most popular girl in school, natch). Been there, done that, got the T-shirt, pawned the DVD a while ago.

But what a pleasant surprise to see what “I Love You Beth Cooper” really is: a delightful, sweet, and relatively gentle comedy. It’s not a masterpiece, but it does have a sense of joy and whimsy that’s frankly astonishing at some points.

The beginning is pretty typical: Dennis (Paul Rust) is the valedictorian of his high school class and a regulation nerd. After confessing his love for the mythical popular girl, Beth Cooper (Hayden Panettiere), he and his best dork bud Rich (Jack Carpenter) get taken away by her and her friends for one night to get the true high school experience. There is the usual roster of boner jokes, slapstick fighting, sexual innuendo, and slow-motion shots of Panettiere in a low-cut dress. The first half hour is an awkward, stilted affair; a half-baked reincarnation of every teen sex comedy since Jason Biggs first molested a pie.

But the moment Dennis and Rich enter Beth’s adorable car (which she drives like a bat out of hell) something very different comes to the fore. Dennis realizes that the Beth Cooper of his dreams may not exist; the real Beth Cooper is a real flesh-and-blood girl with flaws and a past. The rest of the movie may be slightly absurd in parts. It may hold to cliché and the dialogue may be a little simple. But there’s an essential truth there about the nature of our teenage dreams, which may or may not have been deflated in the face of cold hard fact.

Panettiere is unlike any other female comedic lead I’ve seen in a long time. Instead of a simpering virgin, slut, bitch, or airhead, we get a whirlwind; a reckless, magnificent goddess of destruction. Beth Cooper’s a little lost and flailing in her suddenly dropping off the cliff of graduation; astonishingly self-aware, she knows full well this is her last night to be the coolest girl in school. Panettiere has pretty decent comedic timing, but in the more dramatic moments she’s wonderful to watch as she oscillates between vulnerability and steely will. Even the two girls who work as her entourage are terrific, especially Lauren Storm, who gets probably the best comedic lines in the film. (Upon hearing that the boys have wine, she rebuffs them, saying, “Oh no, wine reminds me of Jesus.”)

The film will probably fall to the wayside in the wake of the press tsunami that is “Bruno,” and that’s quite a shame. It’s so rare to see a real surprise come out of the major film industry anymore; it’s well worth the $10 to go see one.

Remember when “Miami Vice” came out a few years ago? It had everything going for it: a truly accomplished action director, a terrific cast and captivating source material. It promised to be a fun, interesting ride — maybe not an Oscar film, but solid summer fare. Then it came out and we got an overlong, unsatisfying mash of maudlin storytelling and Colin Farrell’s sideburns. Sighs of disappointment could be heard from miles around.

Mann does a little better in his latest, “Public Enemies,” but I do see the signs of a repeat performance. Again we have the truly talented director. We have the fabulous cast (Depp! Bale! Cotillard!) And we have excellent source material: the films follows the rise and fall of John Dillinger, a 1930s bank robber and show-boater who lived fast and died young. And, in general, it’s an homage to every gangland film ever made since Jimmy Cagney was walking. Mann appears to be hoping reignite our fascination with amoral bank robbers who shoot at police while riding the running boards of their getaway cars. And it’s a good time for it — anti-heroes abound in today’s films, and moral ambiguity fits our current sensibilities just fine.

All this would be great, if Mann and Johnny Depp (who plays Dillinger) had created an anti-hero anyone could actually care about. No one’s a bigger fan of Depp than I, but it’s pretty obvious he’s phoning it in here. Dillinger was a fascinating character. He understood the power of the media in shaping history, and he played it to his advantage. He was also fearless, and would walk in and out of police stations and prisons just to show that he could. We see scenes of both these attributes, but the real Dillinger; his motives, his inner life and his personality largely remain a mystery. Depp appears to be under the impression that a twitch of the eyebrow and a a half-smile constitute fine acting, and we know he knows better.

Depp’s supporting case fares much better. I was completely underwhelmed by Marion Cotillard’s performance as Dillinger’s dame, Billie, until a scene late in the narrative when she lets loose with a vicious, spitting, animal soliloquy that stops the show. It’s a version of “Stand By Your Man” with a hell of a lot more chutzpah. Bale does a surprisingly well-shaded performance of FBI Agent Melvin Purvis, assigned to the task force to capture Dillinger. Bale lures us into the belief that we’re watching the normal trope of the relentless, obsessed lawman and then shows us a real human being who loves his job and fears the increasingly draconian methods he has to use to do it. And Billy Crudup shows up doing a pretty damn good impression of a young J. Edgar Hoover — he’s sleazy and insincere in just the right way. Mann also includes a bunch of fine actors who show up, yell “Hey, I’m here!” and then leave again; Lili Taylor, LeeLee Sobieski and Giovanni Ribisi are just a few that make up the carousel. Since this story basically rests on Depp’s shoulders, it’s still pretty disappointing, but at least we have some good people to look at in the meantime.

I always give Mann props for taking chances with his camera work, but he’s doing some weird stuff in here. As with all action films made in the last ten years, the movie suffers a severe case of shaky-camera syndrome. Mann also seems way too fond of extreme close and low shots, sending the audience right up into the actors’ nostrils (an amateur mistake that’s far below what Mann’s capable of).

There is, however, one brilliantly executed action sequence: a shoot-out at a safe-house, followed by a midnight car chase. In this scene handheld cameras are used to their intended effect: a sense of controlled chaos that makes the audience feel as if they too are running through the woods, dodging the sniper fire. The car chase especially is wonderful: two cars barreling down a highway, with shooters firing while hanging on to the running boards for dear life while the night closes in on them. It’s a familiar scene, no doubt; we’ve seen this chase scene since the beginning of narrative film. And it still manages to terrify, exhilarate and take our breath away.

It’s a classic for a reason.

I went to see “My Sister’s Keeper” the other day, and I still can’t get the taste of earnestness out of my mouth.

From the first over-exposed shot of beaches, scrapbooks and poor, doomed Katie Fitzgerald (Sofia Vassilieva) you can tell you’re in for a classic Cassavettes uber-weeper (he also directed “The Notebook”). The Fitzgerald family is completely geared towards fighting for the life of young Katie, who has cancer, so much that the parents (Cameron Diaz and Jason Patric) actually have another child (Abigail Breslin) for the express purpose of using her to help keep her sister alive. The girl, Anna, sues her parents for the rights to her own body, so she doesn’t have to give her sister a kidney when she goes into renal failure.

The novel upon which the film is based was written by Jodi Picoult, the Queen of Child Misery, and Cassavettes in many ways is the perfect director to adapt it. Which would be perfectly fine, except for the fact that every moment from the first opening credit to the bitter, bitter end is narrated: every movement, sound, sigh and hiccup is deciphered by omniscient cast members; whenever a true emotion or poignant moment threatens to break the surface the voice-over is there to tamp it back down into its Lifetime movie box. Then it’s mixed with the predictable soft lighting and the near constant slow-motion, just to emphasize that what’s happening is SERIOUS and IMPORTANT and that this is a movie about life and love and family and death, in case you didn’t realize it before.

While focusing completely on Katie’s illness, both Anna and brother Jesse fall to the wayside. Jesse is left to his own devices, which apparently consists of his walking around some vaguely seedy downtown area and watching streetwalkers while gnawing on a Slurpee straw — would that all neglected youth were so clean-cut.

Also, Alec Baldwin’s in it.

What, you’re surprised? He plays the TV lawyer that Anna hires to sue her parents. He’s basically playing Alec Baldwin, which is hilarious and delightful, but he’s doing it in a movie about a dying teenager, which is perplexing and weird. Joan Cusack is much better cast as a grieving judge; her usual slightly twitchy nature is beautifully translated into a woman just barely holding on to her sanity.

I was crying by the end of “My Sister’s Keeper.” But every moment of the film is so manipulated and twisted to achieve that end, I’d be shocked if anyone could sit through that film without getting at least a little choked up. But whatever Cassavettes thinks, crocodile tears aren’t based on anything real.

The decision marks a return to the first years of the Oscars, when an average of ten nominees were chosen each year for the top prize. The last time the Academy nominated that number was in 1943 (the winner was “Casablanca”).

“We will be casting our net wider,” said Ganis. “And in casting that net wider, who knows what will turn up?”

Ganis said the decision was based on the hope that more nominations will leave room for films that are usually left out of the top honors but are well-regarded in other categories. He demonstrated the new plans using the crop of films nominated for Best Picture in 1939, which are part of a retrospective the Academy is currently running. That year held ten nominations, including masterpieces: “Gone with the Wind,” “The Wizard of Oz,” “Goodbye, Mr. Chips,” and “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington.” Ganis said that it would have been virtually impossible to narrow these films down to five contenders in 1939, as would have been the case if they were nominated today.

“I can only bet that each of us would answer that question differently,” said Ganis, “but one thing is obvious: Whichever five movies you selected, you’d be losing five extraordinary films.”

No category of film will be restricted from the Best Picture category. In recent tradition, comedies, documentaries, foreign film and summer blockbusters have been ignored in favor of a specific category of dramatic feature films, deemed “Oscar-bait” by film insiders. Ganis said his hope was that wider category will allow for more genres of film and a more open-minded approach to what is considered Oscar-worthy.

“It may make it more interesting, and less cloistered,” Ganis said. “It will be more open with more possibilities and more potential.”

The changes will go into effect for next year’s 82nd Academy Awards. The nominees will be announced in February 2010.

Film festival selections are tricky things. There’s a tendency to ascribe undo praise to a film that, though it’s made the festival rounds, doesn’t necessarily deserve festival buzz.

“The Last International Playboy” was an official selection at several festivals last year. It may have street cred, being written and directed by freshman indie filmmaker Steve Clark, but it doesn’t deserve any more credit than your average mediocre rom-com put out by Universal Pictures seven times a year.

The vaguely existential, concretely pretentious movie features Jack Frost (Jason Behr), the titular playboy and author who learns that the true love of his life is getting married to another man, prompting him to re-evaluate the course of his empty, upper-class existence.

If you think this sounds exactly like the recent Matthew McConaughey vehicle “Ghosts of Girlfriends Past” then you’re absolutely right. There are no ghosts in “Playboy,” but it includes other things that are almost as bad: a spunky, alcoholic female friend, a shlubby, misogynist sidekick and a precocious 11-year-old girl named Sophie who befriends our hero and lays some hardcore innocent wisdom on his ass.

But the main crime is Behr — it’s an unwritten rule that the player who learns the error of his ways needs to be likable even when he’s being a dick. You have to understand why anyone would actually, you know, go out with him. But Behr plays his player without charm or any discernible personality at all, an empty vassal, ironically no more interesting than the nameless models who hang out at his apartment.

Behr may be boring, but I doubt it’s his fault. There’s nothing specifically wrong with Clark’s film making — he uses a lot of hand-held digital cinematography which gives the movie that unfortunate amateur porn aesthetic, but that’s more about finances than anything. But 90 percent of the film is just normal, perfunctory film making — not great, not terrible, and especially not noteworthy.

It would be unfair not to mention, however, that there are a few surprisingly beautiful parts to the film, usually within the quiet moments where the dialogue can’t explain everything for you. A shot of Frost delicately putting face paint on Sophie before going out with her on Halloween shows more sweetness and emotional depth than any of the monologues he gives his ex-girlfriend.

And in perhaps the loveliest part of the film is located in its opening credits — as the credits roll, winsome, lithe young beauties are capering in an apartment, engaging in naked pillow fights, drinking cocktails and passing out together in a pile like puppies. Though it’s explained that these scenes occurred about seven years before, it seems to be from an altogether different time, a remnant of Greenwich Village or the 60s swinging London.

At first I felt my finely-tuned feminist sense begin to growl, but then I saw the true innocence of these scenes. To be a playboy (or anyone who thinks of sex as an easily traded commodity) takes a certain cynicism. Paradoxically, it also takes a certain naivete. It’s the one token of real depth in a movie that otherwise is more than content to remain treading on the surface.

Lynch and S. were kind enough to answer a few of Blast’s questions by email.

First of all, thanks so much for taking the time to talk to me! Can you both tell me a little bit about how this project began?

Jason and I were sitting together at the kitchen table one afternoon when the initial idea for Interview Project struck us. Shortly thereafter we told my dad about our idea and he became very excited about it. The three of us spent the next few weeks developing the project and gearing up for the trip.

During filming you two traveled all around the country, just meeting and talking to people. What surprised you most during filming?

I think Jason and I were most surprised at how receptive people were to our project. The majority of the people we interviewed were genuinely excited to be a part of this series.

How did you map out where you were going? Did you have specific places you wanted to hit?

Not really, our goal was simply to cover as much of the country as we possibly could. We decided to stay away from most major cities and towns, but other than that we made our route as we went along. We would come up with our next destination or direction but never knew what would come after that.

Were there any disappointments, or things you weren’t able to do that you want to accomplish in the future with this project?

Quite honestly, and this will make more sense further down the road, our only wish is that we would have been able to get a shot of Jefferson Orwell Opal riding away on his bicycle. We are hoping to put out a DVD of Interview Project at some point if there is enough interest in the series.

How well can you get to know a person in three to four minutes?

It depends, sometimes you can get to know someone intimately in a three to five minute episode, other times, for various reason, you may not get to know the subject as well, but this short glimpse will still give you a sense of their character.

Can you give me an example of the kinds of questions you would ask?

We asked each person a series of biographical questions, like “Where were you born?” or “What was your early childhood like?” as well as a series of more open ended or subjective questions, for example “Do you have any regrets?” or “How would you like to be remembered?” We tried to structure the interviews in a very simple and straightforward manner that would allow the people to tell there story, or speak their mind, as effortlessly as possible.

Austin: You’re David Lynch’s son, who’s presenting this show. What was your experience of working with your father?

It was great. My dad was mainly involved with the development of Interview Project. He didn’t go on the road trip with Jason and I, but he was, as I mentioned before, instrumental in getting this project off the ground. He also presents each of the episodes, providing a brief introduction to each of the people that we interviewed, and it was a lot of fun for Jason and I to shoot those intros with my dad.

What are your future plans for this enterprise?

We’re not really sure at this point. Right now were waiting to hear back from Pierre Edelman and focusing on launching our website June 1, 2009.

I have a confession to make: I really kind of liked “Drag Me to Hell.”

Sam Raimi’s latest project is an homage to the gross-out B-horror flicks of the 70s and 80s (minus the nudity; hence the PG-13 rating). Alison Lohman plays Christine, a young woman with a bright future who finds herself at the business end of a gypsy curse thrown on her by an old woman, Mrs. Ganush (the fabulous Lorna Raver). Christine learns that the gypsy has set a demon on her, which will torment her before… um… dragging her to hell.

Most of the film is just one scene after another of blood, guts and corpses vomiting unpleasant substances into people’s mouths. It’s less a movie, really, than a full-length, grotesque “Looney Tunes” cartoon — at one point, an anvil literally drops on someone’s head, their eyes popping out like two ripe grapes. The final showdown/exorcism scene is wonderfully fake — if you don’t blink you may just see the wires, and the production guys moving the curtains.

For a movie that’s all about trashy flicks, it’s actually decently filmed. Raimi, whatever one may think of him, does understand how to place a camera, and “Drag Me To Hell” is better-edited and cohesive than I’m used to seeing in a horror movie. Raimi also obviously understands gross-out horror — he knows that these flicks speak to the most uncouth, uncivilized parts of ourselves. Let’s not lie, part of the reason we like horror movies is the sense of controlled madness. We see crazy, frightening things; things that, if they happened in real life, would traumatize us. But in the safety of our cushy seats, we can scream and howl and laugh at the grotesqueness, and then walk out of the theater, civilized and confident once more.

Is this a good movie? Not really. The dialogue is terrible (and possibly meant to be so), the performances are silly, and the idea that there may be a higher meaning is laughable. But I jumped a few times in fright in that theater. I yelled in disgust and laughed at the absurdity that I was going to have to write a high-minded review of the film after it was over. Because “Drag Me to Hell” is decidedly not high-minded. It is low-brow and proud of it.

Winkler is an acolyte of Scratch, a simple programming language designed for children by a group at MIT. The free, open-source language was launched two years ago, allowing people of all ages to make digital music, greeting cards and invitations, animation and other media.

Over 200 “scratchers” (and their parents) met May 16 at MIT for Scratch Day, a meet-up event and workshop. Participants got to connect with people they had met online but not in real life, and collaborate on projects. Five boys at one table in the atrium had synced their computers to send a cartoon cat (Scratch’s mascot) bouncing and running from one computer to the other.

“I think it gives kids a voice in a realm that they’re not used to being heard in,” said Stephanie Gayle, an administrative assistant with Lifelong Kindergarten, the group that created Scratch. “They can do incredible things with it, and it lends an opportunity for kids to become teachers to other kids.”

Gayle said that there were 118 Scratch Day events being held in 43 countries, demonstrating Scratch’s universal appeal.

“We finally got a Scratch Day in Africa,” she said proudly, pointing to a world map on her computer. “We have many scratchers in Africa, but it’s difficult to create a meet-up because of infrastructure problems.”

The Scratch team launched a web site two years ago where participants can post their creations and connect with other fans. Team leader Mitchel Resnick said more than 400,000 projects have been posted to the Website, and hopes that educators start to use Scratch in the classroom. He cited many benefits to childhood cognition, including thinking creatively, systematic reasoning, and working collaboratively.

“These are the three things people need to learn to succeed today,” he said. “The education system right now is not set up to do that in many ways.”

Sue Celentano, a parent of twin 10-year-old scratchers Emily and Duncan Haywood, agreed.

“It’s like they’re learning through osmosis,” she said. “They program things on my cellphone I didn’t even know existed.”

Whatever benefits Scratch has to offer, Winkler perhaps best described why he likes Scratch.

“I like that you can do what you do,” he said.

Scratch

Lynch is presenting “Interview Project”, a 121-part web series that will premiere on June 1. The program will feature three to five minute interviews with people from all across the country. Filmmakers Austin Lynch (David’s son) and Jason S. went on an extensive road-trip around the U.S., finding people in bars, on their front lawns, and other ordinary places, using brief but in-depth interviews in an attempt to chronicle the human experience. David Lynch will provide an introduction to each episode.

The series will debut at interviewproject.davidlynch.com.

Paul and Hale wrote the story, which, according to Beloved President Caleb Applegate, is “profoundly believable and fantastically multidimensional.” The film is set in New Haven, Conn., and centers around one family dealing with loss and grief.

“I have known Cinco for years and have wanted to work with him for a long time,” said Robert Abramoff, Vice-President of Beloved Pictures. “This project is a unique blend of a heart-wrenching story along with often hilarious situations that everyone can relate to.”

Paul also wrote “Despicable Me,” starring Steve Carell and Julie Andrews, which is currently in production at Universal. “Nora” is slated to be finished next year.

BROOKLINE — It appears they saved the best for last.

The closing film for the Independent Film Festival of Boston, “World’s Greatest Dad” represents the work of a mature, intelligent, thoughtful director, a man who wants to discuss loneliness, pain and the strange environment of middle age.

Yes, I am talking about Bobcat Goldthwait. Bobcat “Police Academy” Goldthwait. It’s inexplicable. I knew Goldthwait as a decently funny comedian who specialized in gross-out comedy, and making Jimmy Kimmel marginally more palatable. I had no idea he was capable of this kind of comedy-stinging, rhythmic humor that makes your stomach hurt after laughing too hard.

I haven’t seen any other of Goldthwait’s films (the one he made prior to this, “Sleeping Dogs Lie” got excellent buzz at Sundance two years ago) but there’s tremendous prowess and skill in this film about a shlubby poetry teacher and his perverted son. I had my doubts the first 20 minutes or so. We are introduced to Williams’ character Lance, a man who calls himself a writer, though he’s never had anything published. He works as an unpopular poetry teacher at his son’s private school (before you ask, this is not “Dead Poet’s Society”) and soothes his ego by schtupping the much younger art teacher (Alexie Gilmore). His son Kyle (Daryl Sabara) is really more of a type of person than an actual one: he’s disrespectful, a liar, a pervert and unpleasant to everyone around him. It could make for some great verbal sparring between Williams and Sabara, but instead it’s just a slightly off-key, out of step round everyone calling each other a “fag.” A lot of these scenes were at least partially ad-libbed, and it’s extremely possible that Sabara simply got lost in William’s legendary improv.

But then, after a crucial turning point in the plot, something happens. Maybe Williams and his co-stars found some sort of equilibrium, or Goldthwait had a spark of inimitable genius, but I found myself laughing continuously for the next hour and a half. Without giving away a key point, I’ll say the film is about what happens when a person who dies is appropriated for someones own physical or emotional purposes (it’s not an accident that a band member from Nirvana makes a special guest appearance.) Williams is wonderful- amoral without losing our sympathies, sweet without being saccharine. Whenever he’s approached by someone he looks a little surprised that they noticed his existence. I’m not Williams’ biggest fan, but after this performance I absolutely forgive him for “Patch Adams.”

I wish I could have seen more at IFFB this year (note: do not work two jobs on top of covering a film festival. t’s bad for business.) But if I had to pick among the films I saw, “World’s Greatest Dad” is easily the best one I saw. Go on and see it if and when it gets distributed; a comedy for adults, real adults, is far too rare in these parts to ignore.

SOMERVILLE – It is always a question in documentary about how the camera effects its subject- how do documentary filmmakers consciously or unconsciously affect the film they are making, and hence the truth they are trying to tell?

This question kept ringing in my head while watching the screening of “Invisible Girlfriend,” a documentary about a man with schizophrenia named Charles who believes he’s dating Joan of Arc. The two filmmakers follow Charles as he bikes 400 miles from his home in a small town in Louisiana to New Orleans. Ostensibly, he’s going to see the statue of Joan of Arc that stands in that town; truly, he’s going to a woman he really loves: a real woman named DeeDee who works in a bar in the French Quarter.

It’s a great story to be sure. Charles bikes through the almost apocalyptic scenes of rural Louisiana, meeting odd yet familiar people who give him kindness, food or a place to stay. Charles is fascinating: he’s usually calm, well-spoken, intelligent, but randomly begins to ramble about “Joanie” or suspect the filmmakers are sabotaging his bicycle.

But as Charles’ odyssey progressed, I became increasingly uncomfortable with what I was watching. Many of the scenes are played for laughs (indeed, Charles can be very funny). But when the audience laughs — when we are made to laugh — it means we are laughing at a man who is severely mentally ill. He’s a man with three children who talks to statues. A man who believes people are sabotaging him. Actually, it may be a question as to how the filmmakers are manipulating his situation: at a question and answer session after the screening, director Ashley Sabin said that she and her co-director David Redmon biked most of the way, though they also had a car in case of emergencies. When asked whether Charles ever asked to use the car, Sabin said he did, but that they wouldn’t let him.

I’ll repeat that. They wouldn’t let him use the car when he got tired and didn’t want to keep driving his beach cruiser bicycle 400 miles to New Orleans. Because they wanted him to bike the whole way. Because it made a better movie. I can accept playing with color, chronology, sense of place and time in a documentary. All these things are par for the course. But I have a real problem knowing that these two manipulated a man not in his right mind to make what they believed was a better film.

Moral questions aside, there are other problems with the film, including playing with the speed and color of the film to make the experience more “intense” (in reality it just looks a little pretentious). But there are also little nuggets of truth that almost redeems what we’re watching. For example, we see a terrible moment when Charles leaves his weeping son at the start of his journey with no discernible remorse for what he’s doing. When he shrugs at the camera while his young son wails in the background, we see what Charles’ life is really like behind the veil of wanderlust and quirkiness: he’s a damaged man who has responsibilities that he simply is not capable of meeting. Charles’ life is a tragedy. But that doesn’t make it an epic.

The most frustrating thing about watching “The Brothers Bloom” is that if it had ended 20 minutes earlier it would have been just about perfect.

Rian Johnson, who came out of the ether with a bang two years ago with his brilliant and sophisticated “Brick” makes all the classic mistakes for a sophomore director in his latest film: there’s one twist too many, one scene that exists out of place with the rest of the feature, and an extended climax followed with a hasty, ill-plotted denouement, all generally in the last 20 minutes.

Which really is a shame considering how quick, smart, poignant and hysterically funny the other hour and half of the film is. The eponymous brothers (played by Adrien Brody and Mark Ruffalo) are con-men, looking to score a big mark in the form of an invalid heiress (Rachel Weisz). The adventure that ensues echoes nothing so much as the British thrillers Alfred Hitchcock made before he crossed the briny deep to stab Janet Leigh in the shower and terrorize Cary Grant in a crop duster. There’s a beautiful ocean steamer, seedy Russians, vast exchanges of money and a constant barrage of razor-sharp dialogue.

Brody and Ruffalo have a terrific rapport with one another, and Weisz has revealed herself to have quite the comedic chops (the moment when she skips down a beach, singing a little tune of her own creation is truly priceless). But, as was the case in her role in “Babel,” Rinko Kikuchi nabs the spotlight from her more famous co-stars and keeps it on her the entire film. Kikuchi plays a demolitions expert named Bang-Bang and says only three words in the entire film; her sardonic; kohl-rimmed eyes say everything we need to know.

In “Brick,” Johnson demonstrated a wonderful visual eye in his filming of an austere, sun-bleached southern California. This film features more exotic locales (Montenegro, Serbia, Prague), and obviously higher production values. Johnson both indoor and outdoor spaces beautifully; there’s a scene set in an old theater that’s completely unnecessary, but damn if it isn’t gorgeous. The costumes are similarly lush and well-produced: if any part of this film should become iconic, it should be the image of Kikuchi in her ratty fur coat, blood-red gloves and wide-brimmed hat.

Johnson said in the question-and-answer session following the film’s screening that originally there had been more to the ending, but that he had edited it out in favor of a more streamlined narrative. I can’t imagine what else he could have stuffed in there — the end was too long and pompous as it is. In any case it definitely could have used another go in the cutting room; he includes a “false ending” that really should have been the real one. But don’t let the flaws of a newer director frighten you away- there’s so much good stuff in here, more than enough to put up with a little frustration at the finale.

Is watching this movie about film critics completely self-involved? In the immortal words of Sarah Palin, you betcha!

An unapologetic sermon on the importance of film criticism in American culture, this Boston-made documentary chronicles the little-known history of the film industry’s relationship to those that sought to find its meaning.

The film itself is not really best-suited for theatrical release — it’s partially produced by WGBH and it looks like it belongs there. The music tends toward that unfortunate old-timey piano quality known to historical docs all over America, and Patricia Clarkson provides the perfunctory voice over, alternating with other voice actors delivering the writings of different film critics over the years. Such things are oddly grating when heard in surround sound.

But the subject matter (at least to my taste) is so fascinating, I’d be happy to watch it again. Among the odd tidbits of info is a terrific explanation of the philisophical debate between Andrew Sarris and the late Pauline Kael. For those who haven’t taken advanced film theory, Sarris was and is the leading proponent of auteur theory; during his stint at The Village Voice, Kael attacked his views and the auteur belief viciously in her article Circles and Squares. Where Sarris believed in film as high culture, Kael was a determined populist. The reason this feud is so important is because Kael and Sarris at one time were the awesome, terrible demi-gods of film scholarship, and arguably the most influential film critics who ever lived. Their reviews could literally make or break a film, and the telling of their Olympian struggle rightly demonstrates the basic struggle of all film criticism: are movies high or low culture? Are they both? And how in God’s name do we interpret them accordingly?

The movie does a terrific job illustrating Kael, who was a character of contradictions (as just one example, she was one of the few women in the field who was staunchly against feminist criticism in the 1970s). Found footage and interviews she conducted before her death in 2001 are rich with her incisive views, her violent wit and her maddening absolutism. Though her ideas may be flawed, she’s not a bad role model for a burgeoning female movie critic.

Peary has some heavy-hitters in the talking head interviews: besides Sarris we meet Roger Ebert, Lisa Schwarzbaum, and Boston’s very own Wesley Morris. All of them have a ridiculous amount of passion for their jobs. They view (as I think most film critics do) that their calling is based on interpreting the primary way the public demonstrates its hopes, anxieties, fears and arguments. I wish there’d been more discussion of this symbiotic relationship — Peary tends to get side-tracked with silly questions about things like whether a film critic needs friends who are film critics.

There’s a lot of discussion about the decline of influential film journalism, and of course the usual suspects are blamed: the VHS, the DVD, the Internet, the blogs, the decline of newspapers and the shlubs like me who sit outside screenings, typing away on our Blackberries, and our Ipods and our gosh-darned netbooks. The film’s pretty fair in dealing with this issue, showing that it’s not a violent coup that’s taken over film criticism but rather a relatively peaceful, inevitable transfer of power. Indeed, everyone is a critic now. What that means for me is it may be a while before I can find a paying job. But what it means for cinema? That question still remains unanswered.

I’ll preface this by saying that I feel writing this review is somewhat of a conflict of interest. Not that I know anyone that had to do with its production. But as a member of the print media, I feel as if this film was made especially for me.

“State of Play” is a reasonably tight, entertaining thriller, a competent knockoff of the great journalism movies of yore (“All the President’s Men,” obviously, “The Pelican Brief,” “Absence of Malice,” etc.) In certain moments it’s also a surprisingly tender elegy to the rapidly changing print journalism industry (stay for the ending credits, which has shots of working print presses while CCR’s “Long As I Can See the Light” wails melancholically in the background.)

Mainly, though, “State of Play” is more or less simply an opportunity for journalism nerds to indulge in their worst impulses and desires. It’s a hell of a lot of fun.

What journalist in their heart of hearts wouldn’t want to be Cal McCaffrey (Russell Crowe), the hard-bitten investigative journalist who bribes, steals and illegally tapes his way to the top of a story? McCaffrey is old-school; he detests internet journalism and its ilk, he types on a 16-year-old computer and daily risks being sued and/or jailed in pursuit of The Truth. He’s thrown together with a chirpy, no-nonsense and unfortunately named cub reporter, Della (Rachel McAdams), after a story breaks surrounding a Congressman (Ben Affleck), his mistress who dies mysteriously and a corrupt Blackwater-esque military contractor. Then the fun begins.

The film may be chock-full of Blackberries, blogs, and references to the War on Terror, but nonetheless there’s something lovingly dated about the whole setup. Besides Crowe and Adams doing the “His Girl Friday” routine, we get a bunch of jaded, wise-guy co-workers (a fabulous trio of Michael Weston, Rob Benedict and Josh Mostel) and the coup de grace: McCaffrey’s Dragon Lady editor Cameron (Helen Mirren) in a role that trumps “The Queen,” because Queen Elizabeth never got to use the phrase “Fuck you very much.”

Not surprisingly, it’s Mirren who steals the show. Her role as it’s written is a complete cliché, of course, but Mirren goes about it with a razor-sharp glint in her eye; this woman’s been a member of a resolute boy’s club for many years, and it has pissed her off. Even picking up the phone and dialing a number is imbued with passion and barely-controlled tremor of rage. I loved her. I wanted to be her.

There’s a lot of good stuff in here, despite the fact that the plot has that cheesy, ripped-from-the-headlines aura that plagues so many thrillers today. Besides Mirren, we get Crowe, who always turns out at least a decent performance, and Jason Bateman.

Yes, that Jason Bateman.

He plays a sleazy PR guy. A sleazy PR guy who does uppers. It’s just … it’s just awesome, especially by the time he appears, you’ve relaxed and begun to ignore the glaring inconsistencies of the plot, the ridiculous twists and the fact that at the end of the day none of these journalists would have jobs after what they’d done for The Truth. When Bateman appears, you are ready to watch McCaffrey bully him in a sleazy hotel room until he cracks. You’re ready to hide information from the police and ignore codes of ethics. Because you’re a journalist too, dammit! Just as in “All the President’s Men,” which created a huge influx of journalism students looking to bring down a president of their very own, “State of Play” let’s the public, and the lithograph, be the hero.

This marks the beginning of “Either You’re In, or You’re In the Way,” a memoir and how-to book by young film-makers (and twin brothers) Logan and Noah Miller. After washing out of minor league baseball, the boys decided that instead of working on construction back home in Northern California, they’d crash on their buddy’s floor in Los Angeles and become screenwriters. Their first film, “Touching Home,” chronicles the story of the brothers and their father, a talented craftsman and roofer who died in poverty after succumbing to alcoholism.

With no money, no contacts, and no initial clue about how to make a movie, the two young men proceeded to produce, direct and star in their film, opposite famed actors Ed Harris and Brad Dourif, within one year. The film is tentatively slated for release sometime this fall. The Millers gave Blast movie critic Emma Rose Johnson a call from their home in Northern California to discuss inspiration, fate and Brad Dourif’s theories on goat milk. In form true to the first line of the Millers’ book, they speak in one voice.

Emma Rose Johnson: First, I just want to congratulate you on the film and on the book — it sounds like it was great experience for you guys. And, really, quite extraordinary, the fact that you guys managed to pull this together, with nothing that people usually would have. I would just like to talk briefly about how you became interested in film. You two started out wanting to be ballplayers. When did you think this was a better route?

Miller Brothers: Thank you first of all for the compliment. We always loved movies growing up. We tried to go to as many movies as possible — we’d usually go to the 11 a.m., the matinee, and then you know, just sneak around jumping from one movie theater to the next (laughter). Actually, no, we paid for every single movie — I just want to make that clear we don’t do that anymore. And we had a buddy who was living in Los Angeles — I don’t know if you know the geography out West, but we were living in Tucson at the time, and Tucson is connected to Los Angeles on I-10, it’s a straight shot and I-10 would take us to I-5, which would take us up to Northern California. We didn’t really want to go back home and pound nails, and our buddy said, “Hey look, you guys need to go through L.A. on your way home, why don’t you guys just crash on the floor of my apartment for a few months until you figure out what you want to do with your lives.” (Actually it was a few weeks, which turned into a few months.)

So we went and crashed on our buddy’s floor. Baseball hadn’t worked out, and we wanted to figure out what we were going to do with our lives. And we always had people growing up telling us, “Do what you love.” So baseball was our first love and movies were sort of our second favorite thing to do. And we had this story that we wanted to tell about our dad and we wanted to turn it into a movie. So we bought a book on screenwriting, called “Lew Hunter’s 434″ and we read it. It just sort of made sense to us. So we started writing the screenplay for “Touching Home” about us and our dad. We got the writing bug after that.

EJ: When I read the book, it really is a fascinating insight into the world of film making, especially on the West coast. You worked with non-professional actors in Tucson, you worked with people who’d just come to California to get their start and then you worked with major people in production, people like Robert Dalva, and then of course with Ed Harris and Brad Dourif. What was it like working in this nexus between A-list people and people who were just hoping for a break?

MB: It was a very exciting dynamic, I think. You had a passion and a desire and the really intensive enthusiasm of people that were like us, like first-timers; and then you had the insight and the wisdom and the experience and also the passion of the veterans. It really created a very exciting sort of mixture with a really diverse crew. Each side sort of fed off of each other you had the young, passionate up-and-comers, and the seasoned veterans that provided insight and experience. So it was pretty fascinating. I think the veterans got a kick out of working with the people who were trying to break in, and the first-timers did with them.

EJ: You did get to work with some truly terrific actors. Was it frightening being in control of all that talent?

MB: I think you have the same fears and doubts as anyone going into this. But we weren’t going to allow that fear to prevent us from realizing our dream from making this movie. And at the same time we tried to break out of that intimidation by saying “These are people just like us who are actually here to help us make our movie, not hinder us from making our movie.” We said in the book that making movies is a team art. So we had this extraordinary team of people who are helping us make the movie. Ed [Harris] came up two days early to rehearse and get to know us a little more and we drove out to all the locations and talked about our dad quite a bit; Ed was trying to discover who our dad was. And he asked us where we could have a good cheeseburger, and we knew this burger joint called Ebenezer down the road, and we got burger and shakes. About half way through he said, “I want to let you know that I understand what you guys are up against, and that you’ve got a tremendous amount of pressure on you. But I’m here to help you realize your dream, so I’m here for you guys. Whatever you need just let me know.” And that released a lot of pressure, the moment he said that.

EJ: So it almost helped having a guy there who knew that this was hard, who knew the score.

MB: Absolutely.

EJ: You talk a lot about angels in your book, people who just sort of fell into your lap who were just terrific and really brought you forward. I think a lot of people have this image of the film industry as just soulless and unhelpful, but that doesn’t seem to be the case for you.

MB: Well, it’s not like we didn’t meet a lot of soulless people. No, we just highlighted the people that we were able to get on board and who believed in us. We were really extremely fortunate, that there were so many people that helped us along the way. It definitely gave us a really positive outlook of the movie business in general, I would say. At least the people that made movies, from the actors to the crew, to everyone involved overall in the production — we were really, really, fortunate to assemble a team that we did. We got really lucky.

EJ: There were so many ways that this could have failed. Do you think there’s an idea that maybe fate was in play here?

MB: I guess whatever you call it — faith, luck, coincidence, I think you could bundle them all together. We never had many breaks prior to that, and then all of a sudden it just started happening for us. I guess I feel like our dad was with us, because there were so many times when it seemed like this kind of miraculous event occurred that actually was in our favor. So we definitely felt like our dad was pulling some strings from somewhere. Whatever you luck he had that he wasn’t able to use in life he used it to help us in death. I think that also, we’re not afraid to ask people for help or to place a phone call to a stranger. I think the world opens up to you if you’re willing to just go after it.

EJ: I’m a massive fan of Brad Dourif, and I was wondering if you could just talk about working with him for a minute. He sounded just so interesting and strange.

MB: He’s a fascinating, fascinating man. We call him a genius. He’s one of the smartest people we’ve ever met. You can have a conversation with him on astronomy, and rocket science, and then switch right into the nutritive qualities of goat milk. I’m serious.

EJ: You had a conversation about goat milk?

MB: Oh yeah, absolutely! He told us all about the health benefits and the importance of rearing children on goat milk — I wish I could remember more of the details. He has an expansive intellect and he’s really extraordinary artist. He’s very eccentric, in a good way, a way that keeps you fascinated and keeps you curious. He taught us quite a bit about the art of not just acting but of film making in general. He’s done so many movies that if he wanted to, he could direct. That’s how extensive his knowledge is of the overall craft. He’s definitely one of a kind. I’ve never met anybody like him.

EJ: I have to ask — you guys talk about “sleep-directing” which is this weird hallucination/dream while you were in production. Has that stopped?

MB: Oh, no, that just lasted a short time. Now we just don’t sleep. I’d much rather be sleep-directing than have no sleep. Yeah it’s pretty crazy — I think because it’s so intense when you’re shooting you don’t…that’s you’re still in it when you’re sleeping because you’re so completely focused with your entire mind, solving all these problems. So then when you try to go to sleep you’re still in that, you can’t escape it. I don’t know if you’ve ever waited tables, or done any sort of job where it’s the same exercise over and over and over, and you try to go to sleep that night and you’re still doing that, that’s what happens when you’re directing.

EJ: What gave you the idea to write a book about your experience?

MB (Logan): We had no intention of writing a book, until we started telling people how we made our movie. We got in the editing room, and had a little bit of time to where we would run into people on the street and catch them up on what we’ve been doing for the past year. And almost to the person, when we would tell our story, they would go, “Wow, you should make that your next movie, or write a book about it.” For a while we didn’t really give much thought to it. We figured we needed time to finish the movie. But we kept hearing it over and over, and Noah kept saying, “Look, we should write the book,” and I kept saying, “We’re editing the movie right now, we don’t have time, how are we going to write this book?” And he kept saying, “Look, Robert, our editor, he doesn’t show up until 10:30 or 11. We could get up at 5:30, write until Robert shows up, and we’ll have first draft in a few months and we’ll be glad that we did it.” He kept pounding me every single day, over and over again. “We gotta write this book, we gotta write this book, we gotta write this book.” Finally, I just gave in because I just wanted him to shut up.

Then there are the Miller brothers.

Logan and Noah Miller, twin brothers from Northern California, had a very singular experience with the Hollywood machine, which they describe with pinache and infectious style in their first book “Either You’re in, or You’re in the Way.” The brothers, after the death of their father, made a promise to get their script “Touching Home” made into a film within one year, with Ed Harris as the star. One year. With no money, and no real contacts in Hollywood. THe book tells the story of that eventful year, in which they wheeled, dealed, and maneuvered every level of the film industry to make their dream come true. They worked with everyone from non-professional actors and young hopefuls, to method actors, to angry teamsters, to Academy Award-winning production people. It’s not too much of a spoiler to say that they’re successful in their quest; though the book is a mix of memoir, family history, and how-to book for young, aspiring film makers, “Either You’re In” is actually a fascinating look at the way such success always happens in America: a madcap combination of hard work, daring, embellishment and a heavy dose of pure dumb luck.

In case you’re keeping count, there are literally thousands of ways this enterprise could have failed, and part of the great fun of the book is watching two young, gregarious, slightly wild men walk into big important offices, with big important people, and manage to wrangle talent, support and money out of them. Instead of the faceless monster of Big Hollywood, we see reasonable people who truly, actually want to see a creative duo succeed in their quest. The brothers wrote the film about their father, a brilliant craftsman and roofer who fell to alcoholism and became homeless for years before his death.

The brothers (who speak as one being, saying in the beginning of the book “Bro is me and I am bro.”) have a knack for easy and capable, if not terribly complex, storytelling. As the overarching arc (two guys with a dream) is somewhat trite, the true gems lie in the characters who people the landscape of their story. Especially delightful is their strange experience working with brilliant character actor Brad Dourif, who loves astronomy and cannot work without a hi-definition television, a moving scene where they have lunch at a burger joint with true mensch Ed Harris and a hysterical night they spend in Tuscon pulling off a difficult scene while their ruffian assistants get drunk on the set.

This is a truly American story — a couple of outlaws breaking all the rules and getting fame and glory in the process (there’s a reason one major chunk of the book is called “Desert Shoot-Out”). I’m a pretty cynical person, but who doesn’t want to see these guys strike it rich with a little film they wrote, produced, directed and starred in themselves, with nothing to their names but about $50,000 in credit card debt? If anyone in the sunlit universe of Southern California can prove Ellroy wrong, these are the two to do it.

Everyone has a favorite summer. It’s that summer when you worked some crappy job to pay the bills, spent your spare time reading excellent books, blew your paycheck on movies and trips to the beach and lay on your bed in your underwear on the scorching days in July when you didn’t have any air conditioning. It’s that summer when you fell in love, or severely in like, and you had time to dream, or nap or write really terrible poetry. It’s that summer you spent riding around in a friend’s car at one a.m., with the windows open and the radio playing that one great song you listened to over and over again and never get sick of. You’re tired, or drunk, or just in a really good mood, and even though it’s a complete cliché to think so, you find that you feel freer than you ever have before.

“Adventureland,” the new film by Greg Mottola, is not a story so much as a creative compilation of these moments in time. Ostensibly set in 1987, it could be any summer, in anyone’s hometown, with anyone’s friends. This particular moment takes place in Pittsburgh, in a broken-down amusement park called Adventureland, where the games are rigged, the corn dogs have been out in the sun awhile and everyone has a story about some guy who got decapitated on one of the rides.

Adventureland is a purgatory of sorts for the main character, James Brennan (Jesse Eisenberg). He’s a newly minted college graduate who had originally planned on spending his summer in Europe with his rich friend but instead was forced to return to his childhood home after his parents ran into financial troubles. A degree holder in classical literature, he is qualified for nothing, and so goes to work at Adventureland. There he runs the said rigged games, parties with his co-workers and falls in love. Eisenberg, with his mop of curly hair and body of sharp angles at first seems a bit of a caricature (he’s so awkward in the first quarter of the film, he’s practically twitching). But he grew on me after a while, and by the end of the film mellows his performance to something more rounded and dimensional.

I’ve never been a big fan of Kristen Stewart who plays James’ wounded summer love, Em. I find her misunderstood, girl-next-door schtick a little bland (and more than a little annoying). But there are moments in this film that Stewart plays with a wonderful slow burn, demonstrating she may not be the one-note actress I assumed she was. There’s an especially terrific scene with her father and society-seeking step-mother; the dialogue is typical for a family fight scene, but Stewart delivers a quiet, understated little performance that made me forgive her tonelessness exhibited in other films.

But the most surprising star is Ryan Reynolds as the park’s mechanic and cool dude, Connell. I kept waiting for Reynolds to pop out of his shell, start making dirty/smart wise cracks and have a good joke involving masturbation. But Reynolds played Connell instead like someone slightly broken-down — he’s much like the rides he fixes. Yes, he’s the coolest guy at the park (he brings a guitar to work and claims to have played with Lou Reed). But below his shallow small-town mystique, Connell knows that he’s settled. Most of his co-workers are simply there for the summer before heading off to their elite universities to major in Russian literature; Connell will be there, or somewhere very much like it, forever.

It’s a touching portrayal, but it must be mentioned that “Adventureland” is also terribly funny — Mottola appears to have learned from his previous experience with “Superbad.” He’s kept all of the comedic tropes that worked so well in that endeavor (the sharp, witty pot humor, the understated one-liners) and marginalized the gross-out and toilet humor to a more manageable state.

The always-wonderful Bill Hader and Kristen Wiig play the husband-and-wife team who run the park, and one of my wishes is that there were more of them. They are the kind, but slightly clueless, bosses everyone has had before.

My favorite summer was three years ago; I remember every day of it, in sounds, and smells and orange-tinted light. “Adventureland” may not have much of a plot, but it perfectly captures the essence of that one great summer- a lazy, sensory stop-gap to the next big adventure in your life.

CAMBRIDGE — One of the less pleasant aspects of the American film industry is its unwritten mandate that films about non-Americans are distributed rarely and with little fanfare (unless, of course, they’re nominated for an Oscar). If one does not live in a major metropolitan area where art house theaters allow access to foreign films, you’re pretty much out of luck.

So, alas, “Sin Nombre,” a film by newcomer Cary Fukunaga, will probably flow in and out of theaters unnoticed. It’s too bad because this unpretentious, clear-eyed film can appeal to anyone who knows what it’s like to go looking for a new identity.

“Sin Nombre” has essentially two plot lines. In one, a girl’s absent father shows up to escort her from her home in Honduras to his new family in New Jersey. The girl, Sayra (Paulina Gaitan), makes the treacherous journey through Central America using the tops of train cars as her transportation system.

The other plot is a “City of God”-esque exploration of the dominant gangs in Central America, where young gang-banger El Caspar (Edgar Flores) helps an even younger recruit Smiley (Kristian Ferrer) learn his way around the gang’s politics. Though the two plot lines do collide about halfway through the film, they can still be discussed as two different threads.

Fukunaga did his homework for this project, with thousands of tiny cultural details woven in. One of the best scenes is a long shot that meanders through the gang’s incredibly realized headquarters in the slums of Sur de Mexico. The gritty, unsentimental scenes about gang culture are both fascinating and horrifying to watch. The violence is brutal and very unpleasant, but it never seems unnatural or manipulative.

The best scenes by far take place on top of a train, where thousands of immigrants ride through Central America to the Mexican border. Fukunaga uses documentary-style camerawork without over-stylizing it; he knows the value of straightforward, beautifully composed shots. The simple image of a hundred people riding atop a moving train with garbage bags over their heads to keep out the rain is more powerful than any camera trick in the book.

There are political statements in this film, but to my substantial relief these statements aren’t shouted from the rooftops. They aren’t even said in the dialogue. There’s no pretentious discussion about illegal immigration, no morally conflicted Americans cluttering up the landscape. The immigrants featured are allowed to be real live people, as opposed to props around which Very Important Ideas are discussed. In the end, you are outraged by what you see, but it’s not because the director badgered you into it.

The phrase “sin nombre” means “nameless,” in Spanish; an excellent title indeed for the film, which on both plot lines deals with people who have lost their names. The term “undocumented worker” is thrown around, but the deeper meaning beneath that legal definition is very strong. These are undocumented, nameless people; if they injure themselves, if they commit crimes, if they die, they do so anonymously. It wasn’t until after I was walking home from the theater that I realized how this notion was entirely out of my realm of experience. I live in a country where government has all sorts of means to keep track of me. Heck, I live in an age where anyone can keep track of me. Thus there is a certain special horror that comes with the idea that I could be lost, forever, and no one would know what happened.

We can see this namelessness happening again in the gang, where all the men have created nicknames for themselves and each other. They too have been made nameless by their circumstances. They too are no longer the people they once were; they left our world to inhabit their own closed little universe of blood feuds and heart-breakingly pointless murder.

Spiegelman, who wrote and illustrated the Pulitzer Prize-winning graphic novel “Maus”, released his latest compilation “Be a Nose!” March 1. The book is a reproduction of the artist’s sketchbooks, a meandering panoply of eerie musings from what many consider to be the father of the mopdern graphic novel.

The video, also titled “Be a Nose!” and directed by Lars Edwards, is a work of art in itself. Edwards took a few of Spiegelman’s drawings and animated them, fitting the barely two-minute video to the cool stylings of Pat Carney, the drummer for The Black Keys.

It’s strange how weirdly affecting this little opus is: tiny creatures crawl out of heads, arrows point to nowhere, or lead you right back to the beginning on where you were. A short interlude where a hook-nosed creation goes fishing while wondrous sea creatures floating gently below his boat is particularly moving.

It’s a lovely rendition of Spiegelman’s work: many times when reading his novels it’s impossible to tell whether his ideas come from his dreams or his nightmares. Carney was an excellent choice for music as well- his drumming in this is “cool” in the way that I believe that word was actually intended.

“New Boy,” was one such story, and one of the nominated films for Best Live Action Short — the winner on Sunday was “Spielzeugland (Toyland).” Based on a Roddy Doyle short story, “New Boy” is the depiction of Joseph, a boy from Africa, as he starts his first day of school after emigrating to Ireland. The 11-minute film covers Joseph’s less-than-welcome reception by the other boys and the extraordinary circumstances that brought him to this strange new country.

Blast spoke by phone to Tamara Anghie, the producer of “New Boy,” recently. Anghie told us about the joys of short film making, “New Boy,” and why preparing for the Oscars is like getting ready for a wedding.

Emma Rose Johnson: Well, I just want to start by saying congratulations on your nomination. I thought that it’s a really lovely little film.

Tamara Anghie: Thank you so much, thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.

EJ: I did, I did, very much. You’ve produced several short films. I know a lot of people aren’t familiar with the form, as it’s not something you usually see in your multiplex. Tell me about producing a short film; what does it look like, how does it work?

TA: Well, really producing a short film in many ways is the same sort of tools and the same sort of skills that you put into any production. And I think a lot of people don’t realize that the amount of work that goes into producing a short is actually close to being what you would do on a much longer film feature as well. I guess why I’m attracted to them is I think short stories in a very short space of time can actually convey so much. I think in the process of story telling, some of the best stories that you hear are conveyed in ten minutes- you don’t sit and listen to somebody talking for an hour and a half. And the mechanics of it- it’s really very much the same producing skills in terms of raising the finance, getting the appropriate people together, and really having a very strong relationship with the writer and director to make sure that the best quality material is put up on the screen.

EJ: How does one finance short film, because these are not films are not exactly blockbusters. Do you work with other producers or with studios to get these up?

TA: Well, we’re very lucky in Ireland to have a film board that is very supportive of emerging film makers, which has put into place programs that finance short films, and has done so for over ten years. And there are also small community organizations that work with the national broadcasters that also provide an opportunity to do short film making for a much smaller amount of money. There tends to be in certain European countries this desire to help emerging film makers and a real desire to support the short film making process; it’s seen as a craft in itself. So I’ve been fortunate that I’ve applied for grants or loans with my short films. I had done a few where I’ve had to raise it through private finance and private equity, which is really going and speaking to organizations and people that have some money who are interested in the project, because they love the story or who’s involved. It’s certainly not a money-making exercise- it’s certainly not something where any of us involved in it make any money from it. We do it for the love of doing it, and really having the opportunity to exercise our craft.

EJ: Absolutely. So it’s just for the love of film, the love of film making.

TA: Definitely. And telling stories. It really comes down to the expression of story-telling, and the wanting to be part of that process. In a visual way.

EJ: I do want to talk about this film in particular- what attracted you to this project?

TA: Very much the story; I have to give credit to my long-time writer/director partner Steph Green, who came across the short story. It’s based on a short story by the well-known Irish writer Roddy Doyle. He had published it in a multi-cultural magazine called Metro Ireland. Metro Eireann, it’s called in Ireland. She came across the story, and immediately knew that she would be able to make a great short film from this. And so we approached Roddy Doyle and asked if we could get the option to make it into a film, which he granted, and it went from there. But I think the qualities of the story that appealed to both of us, was that there’s a universality of being the new person, whatever age you are and whatever your circumstances, there is a quality of feeling alien and having to make those adjustments. And certainly that’s true on a personal level for me: I’m an Australian living in Ireland now, and I originally was born in Sri Lanka and moved to Australia, so I’ve had a lot of new starts. So I think I can really relate to the character of Joseph and what he was going through.

EJ: That’s actually something I wanted to ask you; this is an Irish story, it was filmed in Ireland, but the main character is an African boy. And I know that Ireland has been dealing with having a recent influx of immigrants. Do you consider this an Irish film, or do you think it’s more international in nature?

TA: Well, I think because there’s a universality of the themes that are explored in the story, I think that people can relate to it from all around the world. I think that’s what we’ve seen happen as it’s made it’s first festival run and been received so well in the festivals. But I do think very intrinsically that it is an Irish story, largely because Roddy Doyle’s writing is very specifically Irish. He has an Irish voice. And I think in this story, he is portraying what’s happening in Ireland in a very specific way. I think the answer to that question is it does both, but it is very much reflecting what is going on in Ireland at the moment.

EJ: Did you get to work personally with Roddy Doyle at all? Was he involved in the filming in any way?

TA: Very much so. I didn’t specifically, that was more Steph as the writer and the director. Roddy gave Steph the permission to adapt the story herself, which was very gracious because normally he writes his own screenplays. But Steph had several meetings with him, and went through the first draft of the screenplay with him. Then through the casting process, we sent him clips of the various people that we were casting, as a courtesy as much anything else, in case he had anything insightful in terms of the characters we were casting. And then he also commented right down to the edits. So we kept him involved in the process all along the way. He’s been terrific, just absolutely been terrific with us.

EJ: Oh, wonderful. Has he seen the film yet?

TA: Oh yes, he saw the premiere. He came to the cast and crew screening that we had a couple of years ago now, because we made the film a couple of years ago. And he really loved it. I think we knew we had succeeded when he said his eight-year-old daughter, I think she was eight at the time, just kept playing it over and over and over again. So once we knew we had her seal of approval, we knew we had his too. (laughter)

EJ: That’s got to be very gratifying to know that the original man who created the source material really enjoyed the film.

TA: It was very important to us that that happened. Which is I think why we involved him so much in the process- Steph has such integrity in her film making, and she wanted to be sure that she was representing, as you say, the source material, in a way that was heartening to and accurate for the originator of the material.

EJ: Absolutely. I do want to ask- have you been to the Oscars before?

TA: Never! Never, this is my first experience.

EJ: You must be very excited.

TA: It is extremely exciting. And you know, the thing that I have really taken from this is it’s a wonderful experience, but you don’t realize how much is involved. The whole process. And the planning that goes into getting everything together for it is almost like a wedding planning. It’s the dress, and the fittings, and the shoes, and the accessories, and everything else. And then the people who are coming along. It’s a process, but it’s fabulous, absolutely fabulous.

Boyle, upon taking the stage to receive his award for Best Director, jumped up and down furiously. He then said that he’d promised his children that “if this miracle ever happened, that I would receive it in the spirit of Tigger from ‘Winnie the Pooh.’” After presenter Stephen Spielberg announced that “Slumdog” had won, the stage was besieged with cast and crew from the movie, including several children who appeared in the film.

There were few surprises in terms of the winners this year. The only bit of disappointment was that the Academy gave Sean Penn Best Actor for his role in “Milk,” instead of sealing fellow nominee Mickey Rourke’s fabulous comeback in “The Wrestler.” But Penn was gracious towards Rourke in his speech: “Mickey Rourke rises again, and he is my brother!”

To the surprise of no one, Heath Ledger won Best Supporting Actor for “The Dark Knight.” Ledger’s family took the stage to accept the award on his behalf, giving a simple, eloquent and heartbreaking speech about their lost loved one. “We proudly accept this award on behalf of your beautiful Matilda,” Ledger’s sister Kate said, referring to Ledger’s three-year-old daughter.

The event was cast as a “scaled down” Oscars this year, in view of the recession, but host Hugh Jackman and the evening’s architects made it look far more like the Tonys than the Oscars on a budget. There were several musical numbers, involving Jackman (in a wonderful duet with nominee Anne Hathaway, among other things), Queen Latifah, John Legend, Beyonce, A.R. Rahman (who won best song for “Slumdog”), and a coterie of dancing girls and boys.

The whole show had a scrappy, off-the-cuff feeling that was quite a nice surprise after years of pretentious montages and extended acceptance speeches. When Bill Maher announced that “Man on Wire” had won Best Documentary, Philippe Petit, the subject of the film, ran onstage, gave a shout-out to fellow nominee Werner Herzog, did a magic trick, and then balanced the Oscar statuette on his chin. Steve Martin and Tina Fey had a terrific exchange of scripted banter to introduce the nominees for Best Screenplay. Judd Apatow and actors Seth Rogan and James Franco filmed a skit in which the two actors get high with famed cinematographer Janusz Kaminski and laugh hysterically through “The Reader.”

And so it would seem that this evening, unlike many that had proceeded before it, was truly about artistry, humility and, above all, having one hell of a good time.

Blast Entertainment Editor Terri Schwartz is with me, and will be assisting the outpouring of snappy bon mots. Plus we’ve got a whole bottle of wine, so as the evening wears on, I’ll be more and more hilarious.

Ooh, they’re starting! Let’s watch!

8:30 p.m.: Hugh!!!! He’ll be better than Jon Stewart at this, maybe!

8:32: “Next year I’ll be starring in a movie called New Zeland,” – not bad, Hugh, not bad

8:34: Jackman’s made this The Tonys! Which means we may not fall asleep… this is already a thousand times more fun than any other awards show ever made.

8:38: I like that “scaled down” means Oscar’s cut out of paper.

8:41: Montage #1: supporting actresses…and the curtains don’t work. Man this is scaled down.

8:43: And now they’ve hauled them all out for the supporting actress award: Tilda Swinton says that they’re here welcoming another person into group…like a sorority, or a cult.

8:45: “It’s not easy being a nun.”- Whoopie might have one of the best lines of the night.

8:47: The winner is… Penelope Cruz!! Thought Viola Davis had it, but what are ya gonna do?

8:52: haha Jackman just yelled at the band. Teach you to cut people off.

8:53: Steve and Tina! What are you doing here? Excellent intro, and I like how they’re introducing the noms for best screenplay.

8:58: Dustin Lance Black is getting me all feclempt.

9:01: Simon Beafoy wins best adapted screenplay for “Slumdog,” hooray!

9:04: Animation’s next up- they’re getting the big stuff in early this year. I need to know when the technical awards are out so I can go get a pizza or something.

9:08: Wall-E: the only sure winner besides Heath Ledger.

9:10: domo arigato, Mr. Roboto. Sank you.

9:16: The production design stage is very cool- I would love to have my apartment designed like this.

9:17: B.Button won for it’s fussy CGI design, yay.

9:19: Oooh, Sarah Jessica Parker looks like a pretty, pretty princess. And The Duchess won for costume design. It should have won for the giant blue hat with fox fur all over it alone.

9:22: Daniel looks hot, but really uncomfortable. B.Button wins for its admittedly awesome age makeup.

9:25: Pattinson is looking mad vampiric right now, but I think it’s just the lighting. Ooh, romance montage! It makes my heart sing!

9:27: ROBERT!!!!

9:28: To clarify, that outburst was for Downey, Jr., not Pattinson.

9:30: We will be back tomorrow to liveblog the interview with octomom’s lover.

9:32: At first I thought Stiller was supposed to be a rabbi, but he’s apparently having an existential crisis. It’s official- this is the greatest Oscars EVER.

9:34:Slumdog again, for cinematography- First India takes all our jobs, now they’ve taken all our awards. UPDATE: Stiller was being Joaquin Pheonix. Much funnier.

9:35: Jessica Beal is making CGI sound a lot more interesting than it is.

9:44:This short with Franco and Rogan is so much better than any montage they’ve ever done. Am I drunk, or is this actually a pretty good event?

9:48: One of my favorite things during this event is watching the announcers herd the winners off stage, sheepdog-style.

9:52:I wanna see Doubt: The Musical!

9:53: oh, it’s Vanessa Hudgeons wearing a ridiculous hat! This is absolutely The Tony’s with Beyonce. And I LIKE IT.

10:02: Supporting actor awards: I know you’re all sitting on the edge of your seat for this one.

10:04: Walken’s tie is crooked- it’s a direct representation for his state of mind.

10:04: Kevin Kline: a fitting memorial of Ledger…and he won. Of course. And wisely, his family, not Christopher Nolan will be accepting the prize. It is unexpectedly moving to see these lovely people- non-Hollywood people- take the stage for their lost loved one.

10:12: I really, really need Werner Herzog to win. I always need him to win. In everything.

10:14: Oh Bill Maher don’t be an asshole. Just give it to Herzog already.

10:15: Booo, Herzog didn’t win. But Man on Wire did, so it’s all good. But the question remains: Why is Bill Maher such a douche?

10:17: The documentary short winner is wearing a fabulous dress. And she made Maher go away. She is an American hero.

10:22: Post-production!! Editing, sound! The cool stuff! Actually this is code for technical awards, so not really, but they’ve got a car chase montage, so I’m a happy camper.

10:23: Will Smith just called Brad Pitt in B. Button a garden gnome. There’s really nothing else to say.

10:27: And the Garden Gnome creators have it!

10:29: It’s hard to call these, or judge the winners, because how do you judge tech awards if you’re not a techie? I only viciously critique art, thank you very much.

10:31: Let’s take a moment and thank Ms. Terri Schwartz for assisting me, giving the best quips of the evening, and lending me use of her computer. Thanks Terri!! In addition, Terri would like to take a moment to appreciate the Will Smith phrase “bat-like speed.”

10:35: Slumdog won for it’s bat-like editing!! I whole-heartedly support this judgement, as the editing set the whole tone for this movie. Yay Slumdog!

10:41: Can I just mention how wonderful it is to see the Slumdog crowd being chipper and enthused and acting like they’re genuinely happy to be there? I want them to win EVERYTHING.

10:42: Eddie Murphy is really not great at this presenting thing, what with his eyes following the teleprompter and what-not. Ironically, Jerry Lewis, who’s getting the award he’s presenting, would be a lot better at presenting his own award.

10:45: I’m glad Anne Hathaway’s in the front row- I just like looking at her.

10:47: Why is it that Jerry Lewis can mug for the cameras and I don’t find it irritating? All of you have to see “The King of Comedy” the Martin Scorcese film. Lewis is wonderful in it.

10:53: They’ve done the pretty muzak, and now…Slumdog’s won again!! A.R. Rahman is GOD.

10:55: I expected Rahman to be strange and elusive, but he’s actually chubby and adorable.

10:57: And now the stage is filled with Bollywood dancers, and the wine I’ve been drinking is warming me inside, and John Legend is singing the song from Wall-E, and for once I actually wish I was in the Oscar’s audience.

10:59: We’ve decided that the medley they just performed should win Best Song.

11:02: I want A.R. Rahman to be my boyfriend.

11:05: I can’t believe we only have five awards left. And my beloved Freida Pinto is announcing foreign film with my beloved Liam Neesan… And it’s Departures, a Japanese film I’ve not yet had the pleasure of seeing.

11:08: Sometimes people who only speak broken English can say something in it’s most basic form, and it says everything you need to know. The director of “Departures.”- “I am very happy. I am here because of film.”

11:10: Terri says that Queen Latifah looks like a little present.

11:12: I really love Latifah’s song- this actually makes me sad. We had a lot of big deaths this year, a lot of wonderful talent, and a lot of potential lost…Wait no memorial for Heath Ledger? Did they consider his win the memorial? A little awkward to say the least.

11:20: Director awards people, sit up and pay attention! This is basically an early prediction of who will win.

11:20: And it’s Danny Boyle!! I feel bad for Gus Van Sant, but- oh, damn, Boyle just jumped up and down like Tigger!!! It’s because he’s just realized that he’s never going to have to worry about work again.

11:24: All right, babies, we’re near the end of the line. Best actress up next: Will Anne Hathaway snatch the award away from Kate Winslet?

11:28: Sophia Loren: Goddess of Destruction

11:31: And, yes, it’s Kate Winslet. She should win, but not for “The Reader.” Ah well, cest la vie. I have a feeling that her lovely speech is going to be in furture montages. Now on to the lads!

11:37: They’ve got a good line-up for the actor fraternity- De Niro, Adrien Brody, Michael Douglas…Richard Jenkins thought bubble: “You googled me?”

11:41: Wait people, stop: WHERE is Jack Nicholson???? Has someone checked on him?

11:43: OH!!!! And it’s an upset, with Sean Penn taking the award from favorite comeback Mickey Rourke! (Terri just made me go deaf by screaming in joy).

11:45: Penn is quite humble, and gave an awesome shout-out to Rourke. Excellent job, you commie, homo-loving sons of guns.

11:48: It’s a montage of the past genre films that influenced the current nominees- a rather inspired idea, actually.

11:52: All right kids, hold on to your hats: And, to no one’s surprise, it’s Slumdog Millionaire! Part of kinds hoped for an upset, but I love that movie so much, I’m a happy girl. Oh, god, they have adorable children on stage! This whole cast and crew look like just about the nicest people you could ever meet.

Well that was deeply satisfying, wasn’t it? Generally what was expected in terms of winning, though I have to say I was really hoping that Rourke and his chihuahuas would win. I’ll post a longer follow-up tomorrow on my thoughts. And now: bedtime!!

I love Steve Martin. I loved him on Saturday Night Live. I love his classic roles in “The Jerk” and “Roxanne.” And I love his newer roles, particularly his bit part as a hippie business owner in “Baby Mama” and a guest star appearance he made on 30 Rock.

But I cannot forgive him this.

The original “Pink Panther” films starred the irrepressible Peter Sellers in the 1960s and 70s. The films, about the bumbling-yet-brilliant French detective, Inspector Clouseau, remain masterpieces of physical comedy. I still remember the scene where Clouseau fights his manservant Cato in “The Pink Panther Strikes Again” as being one of my favorites as a child.

The sequel stands alone story-wise to Martin’s original, with Clouseau joining a “dream team” of detectives from around the world to track down a master thief. He’s joined by his trusty sidekick Ponton (Jean Reno) and his beloved secretary Nicole (Emily Mortimer).

There is nothing more depressing in Hollywood than the decline of a comedic actor. The problem with Martin is that there’s a terrific amount of evidence to show that he’s not in decline. Besides the aforementioned bit roles in “Baby Mama” and 30 Rock, every interview I’ve seen with him demonstrates that he’s still got game. He’s engaging, quick-witted, and his jokes still have great timing. But then he puts out stinkers like “Pink Panther” or the egregious “Cheaper by the Dozen”, and I find myself on the couch, watching “Bowfinger” with tears in my eyes, longing for the glory days of yore.

Martin’s Clouseau is not endearing. He’s just irritating. Instead of Sellers delighting us with his bad-on-purpose French accent, we have Martin saying “hamburger” seven thousand times until we want to strangle him. Instead of Sellers’ balletic physicality, we have Martin in a ridiculous flamenco dancer’s costume, tripping over shoe laces. The most infuriating thing is that we know Martin is capable of doing better.

The dialogue (partially written by Martin himself) isn’t awful, just mediocre. They do manage to get off a few good lines: Kenji (Yuki Matsuzaki), the Japanese detective, says of Clouseau “I’m going to have to stop being a Buddhist, I’m so filled with hate.” But most of the time the lines are adequate, yet lack the punch and timing necessary to actually, you know, make people laugh. Everything just seems to be one step out of sync.

Not sure if we can forgive Steve Martin for this one

In the film’s defense, there was nothing in it that struck me as outrageously offensive. It’s just entirely what you would expect — not very well-written, with mediocre physical humor and boring performances. But that’s precisely the problem: considering the source material (and a lineup of truly terrific performers) mediocre is a failure. There’s no excuse for boring when you have talent like Reno and Mortimer, as well as Alfred Molina, Andy Garcia, Bollywood star Aishwarya Rai, John Cleese, Lily Tomlin and Jeremy Irons. Most of the time you simply have to put any one of these fine actors in the frame and the rest is accomplished by itself.

I would listen to Irons deliver an instruction manual.

But there was no joy in any of their performances. And there’s nothing less pleasant than watching a group of talented people phone it in.

The only motive these people can have for agreeing to be in this film is either an absurd amount of money or blackmail. The former may be more likely, but the latter would explain why none of them look all that happy to be there.

I understand that Martin needs to pay the bills. And there’s nothing wrong with a relatively bad film if you come at it with panache and self-awareness. But there’s no defense for this kind of flat, flavorless material.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go watch “Little Shop of Horrors” again and make myself feel better.

Most of the thrillers made within the past few years have been somber affairs. They are grey, de-saturated and sterile compositions, with vaguely political overtones and a penchant for upper class intrigue (think “Michael Clayton”, “The Insider”, etc.).

And then there’s Luc Besson and Pierre Morel, the masterminds behind the original “District B-13″ and respective writer and director of “Taken,” the new thriller with Liam Neeson. Morel and Besson are great men in the world of what I affectionately call “Art Euro-trash.” These filmmakers like filthy, tawdry thrillers, with villains that are unambiguously evil, so much so that we don’t look askance as the hero does really, really, terrible things to them. The result is a frenetic, satisfying, though ultimately absurd film.

The girl is this case is Kim, and her father Brian (Liam Neeson) is the man who goes after her. It’s given out in the beginning (through some awkwardly-phrased dialogue) that Brian was largely absent during Kim’s childhood, and is now trying to get back in touch. He helps see Kim off to a trip to Paris with a friend, which immediately goes awry, and Kim is kidnapped by evil Albanians.

Conveniently, Brian is an ex-CIA operative, so he’s got a leg up in the situation. He quickly tracks down his daughter’s kidnappers one by one, in a series of scenes which alternate between beautifully composed shots of the Parisian slums and ill-advised forays into shaky camera techniques. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: if your name is not Paul Greengrass, stay the hell away from a hand-held camera.

Neeson is strangely riveting in this film. His portrayal of Brian, especially in the beginning scenes, is akin to that of a wounded bear. Brian’s a man filled with regrets- about his treatment of his ex-wife (Famke Janssen), his absence from his daughter’s life, his work for the government. But as soon as his daughter is taken all his self-doubt goes out the window, and he is simply a killing machine with one goal. Is it plausible? No. But is interesting? Goodness, yes.

Perhaps the most astonishing thing about “Taken” is it’s rating: the MPAA board inexplicably gave the film a PG-13 rating. There is a lot of leeway and randomness to the way the board makes their decisions, but I have a hard time believing that any reasonable person would give this movie anything other than an R rating. I’ve got a high threshold for this kind of stuff, but I could understand some parents getting the vapors over a few scenes. At one point we are treated to a tour of a whorehouse in a hellish construction site, where emaciated prostitutes lay prone on their beds, dead or strung out on drugs. Even leaving aside the fact that Neesan’s character kills a lot of people (par for the course), there are scenes of torture that are too brutal (and patly rationalized) for my fine sensibilities.

But there is an allure to the pursuit of unambiguous evil. It’s hard to find a thriller now that doesn’t have some moral quandary attached, some Big Questions to ask. And I have to say, it’s a lot of fun watching Neesan hunt down evil Eastern Europeans. We haven’t done that since the Cold War, and I’ve missed the firm (albeit naive) certainty of it. For once, here is a thriller that shoots first and asks questions later.

Full disclosure: for those who do not know, I must mention that I am an ex-patriot of what some people affectionately call a “flyover state”. It’s a little place called Toledo, Ohio, the proud home of the Mud Hens, P.J. O’Rourke, Klinger from “M*A*S*H”, Tony Packo’s hot dogs, Katie Holmes, and, of course, Joe the Plumber.

Thus, it is always intriguing for me to watch Hollywood’s take on Middle America. Probably one of the best is “Fargo,” the Coen brothers’ noir set in North Dakota, and starring the wonderful Frances McDormand.

Not so great is the new film “New in Town”, which attempts to channel “Fargo” as a romantic comedy. They get the accents right. That’s about it.

In the right hands, this actually could have been a decent film. Lucy (Renee Zellweger) is on the fast-track to becoming an executive at her company. She’s entrusted with going to the company’s Minnesota plant to mechanize it, eliminating most of the workers in the process. She goes, and of course learns to value the American worker while falling in love with a cute Union rep named Ted in the process (Harry Connick, Jr.) It could have been a quick and fun fish-out-of-water tale, with real questions about feminism and class.

Instead it’s an abrasive and unpleasant treatise on the joys of being blue collar; the film version of a “You know you’re from the Midwest if…” skit by Jeff Foxworthy.

To be fair, there are occasional glimmers of what it’s really like to live in a small town in Middle America. All the men hang out at the VFW Hall, which has fish fries on Friday. After learning that Lucy almost died after plowing into a snowdrift, the ladies of the town make her a quilt with their phone numbers stitched in the squares. All gifts are homemade and/or edible. They are intimately acquainted with ways of keeping yourself warm (there’s a hilarious description in the beginning of the various heating accouterments in Lucy’s rental.) And of course, there is the ultimate blessing and curse of living in a small town- everyone knows your business. There is genuine sweetness in these scenes, “aww shucks” moments that are not entirely manufactured. And Zellweger is best when she simply seems befuddled, and even a little detached, from the kindness being heaped upon her. She’s not used to people paying so much attention to her well-being.

But for a film about the joyous, kind, resourceful people of Middle America that make our country great, it sure does take a lot of time to make fun of them. And not in the affectionate way either. These people are not just provincial; they are actively stupid and naive. The film infantilizes them, and depicts them as overly-religious and uneducated. The first person to meet Lucy upon her arrival invites her home for meatloaf and then asks her if she’s found Jesus. When Lucy talks about the museums, nightlife, and culture available in Miami, everyone looks at her with the blank stare of cows chewing cud. And, after giving us an hour of raging stereotypes of “normal Americans” the film has the temerity to chide the audience for being cynical and dismissive. “You think that because we talk funny…and introduce Jesus into normal conversation, that means we don’t matter,” says Blanche Gunderson (Siobhan Fallon Hogan), Lucy’s assistant. How dare the audience patronize mid-Western people, just because the entire movie is about how quirky and childlike they are?

The chemistry between Zellweger and Connick, Jr. is a sad, hollow representation of the joyous fire between Zellwegger and Colin Firth in “Bridget Jones’ Diary,” no matter what the film trailers say. It’s not really their fault; Bridget Jones was a wonderful character because she was a real person: she was kind of chubby and awkward in her bearing, had a wide lazy streak and drank more than she should. Her romance with the straight-laced Mr. Darcy was satisfying because she didn’t need to change anything inherent about herself. Lucy, on the other hand, is simply tired rendition: the single, workaholic dragon lady and lipstick feminist who just needs a good man to tamp down that pesky Type A personality. Lucy’s romance with Ted isn’t satisfying; it’s just expected.

Searchlight President Peter Rice announced the deal Jan. 20.The film, an unconventional love story starring Hugh Dancy and Rose Byrne, will be released some time in 2009, according to Rice.

“Adam’ has deeply satisfying and romantic storytelling, pitch perfect performances and the discovery of a new American filmmaker,” he said. “This is what Sundance is all about.”

This is Mayer’s first feature-length motion-picture. He also wrote the script for the film, about a lonely, awkward man who develops a relationship with his upstairs neighbor. It received the Alfred P. Sloan Prize at Sundance, which is awarded every year to a feature film which focuses on science or technology as a theme, or features a scientist, engineer or mathematician as a major character. Mayer said that he was very pleased with the film’s reception at Sundance.

“Before today, I’d seen ‘Adam’ a few times in groups of six or eight friends,” he said. “Hearing an audience of 1400 strangers take the movie into their collective hearts this afternoon was overwhelming, humbling and incredibly gratifying.”

“Maniac,” produced by Sony Picture Television, will showcase and comment on different “minisodes” from The Minisode Network. A minisode is a five-minute adaptation of a popular television show, usually older shows like “Married with Children” or “Diff’rent Strokes.” Buckley will showcase clips from the minisodes and provide his patented fast-paced, off-the-wall commentary and trivia.

Buckley became famous for “What the Buck,” a web show on celebrity news and gossip. The show has 335,000 subscribers on YouTube, and Buckley is considered one of the top ten rising stars on the video web site. He recently signed deals with HBO and BlogTV to develop shows for those networks.

“Minisode Maniac” will air monthly on Crackle, YouTube, MySpace, Adobe Media Player, Verizon’s Wireless V-Cast Video and Sprint TV.