On a rudimentary level, the ease of this tale, as it unfurls onscreen, functions as a barometer of the filmmakers’ success in making Lewis’s temporally-fractured story digestible for contemporary audiences by streamlining it. From the first scene, never once does the motion picture feel less than wholly transparent. The lucidity of the narrative serves the film beautifully, by setting up greater emotional involvement and immediacy, particularly for younger viewers. A 2 ½ hour feature that could have easily become bogged down in mythically-laden background material and endless, tedious battle sequences instead whisks audience members along on a gripping and magnetizing journey, from opening frames to epilogue.

And yet, paradoxically, if the film suffers from an overarching flaw or weakness, that weakness also lies in the picture’s simplicity: even as writer-director Andrew Adamson and co-screenwriters Stephen McFeely and Christopher Markus score points for clarity, emotional involvement and story construction (the sequencing is brilliantly done – it pulls us into the central conflicts at the core of Narnia even before the Pevensie children make their first appearances), it would be difficult to imagine a more thematically shallow or two-dimensional tale. One keeps hoping for Adamson and co. to plumb deeper, to add philosophical layers and thematic weight, ala Lewis, which isn’t, of course, incompatible with the demand for narrative ease. That never happens. The younger set won’t mind or even notice, though it will inevitably restrict the demographics by lessening the film’s appeal for depth-hungry teens and adults.

For much of its duration, Caspian (like its predecessor) also cries out for some sort of visual awe – an apocalyptic element to push it ahead of, for example, The Lord of the Rings or the His Dark Materials series, and the sort of jaw-droppers that classic screen fantasies such as The Neverending Story and Jason and the Argonauts handed us in spades. Fortunately, Adamson does give us that in the concluding sequence, with an arresting visual surprise that will not be disclosed here but that does leave a memorable impression (and that neatly foreshadows Dawn Treader). Even given that bravura concluding sequence, though, this film, and the Narnia series as a whole, run the same risk as all early 21st century screen fantasies: that of falling prey to the impersonality of super-advanced CGI work. In old films like The Neverending Story, one always sensed the handiwork behind each of the creatures, and the fact that so many were tactile (as opposed to being casually thrown up on the screen with computer graphics) gave them an element of plausibility and credibility that Aslan and Reepicheep the Mouse (for example) fully lack. The best of those creations also sported anthropomorphic personalities sadly missing here despite Liam Neeson’s stellar vocal work on Aslan. Walden hasn’t quite figured out how to bring those elements into play – and they may be the very missing elements holding the series back from masterpiece status.

Yet the cast here shines throughout. As the vile King Miraz, Sergio Castellitto represents an inspired choice (he brings under one roof hundreds of nightmarish visions of evil sages and kings from one’s darkest fantasies). Similarly, Ben Barnes radiates nobility and warmth as Caspian, and as the four Pevensie children – Susan, Peter, Edmund and Lucy – Anna Popplewell, William Moseley, Skandar Keynes and Georgie Henley make welcome onscreen surrogates for our adventures. Particularly laudable is the fact that none of these kids look all that glamorous, polished, or surreally beautiful, but suggest average and unremarkable Britons. (Popplewell, in particular, resembles the sort of girl one would meet at a Midwestern church bazaar, which makes the devastating Caspian’s attraction to plain-jane Susan all the more mysterious. But then again - who knows? - she may look terrific to a man who has grown up in a country of dwarves and centaurs).

Scattered weaknesses aside, Caspian represents something of a pleasant surprise. It may leave some viewers wanting more, but if approached sans expectation, it feels breezily enjoyable and adequately exciting. Younger viewers, in particular (especially those under the age of 13) will find themselves rapturously swept up in the gestalt of the tale.

Mother of Tears isn’t likely what many fans spent the past three decades hoping for as they dreamt of a conclusion to the series, but it’s a bit unfair to hold Argento to the same standards as we did back when he was turning out true classics like Profondo Rosso and Tenebre. That fact is that filmmakers, like most of us, change over time. Like many his filmmaking peers - including John Carpenter and Tobe Hooper - Argento seemed to have hit his creative peak back in the 1970s and 80s, not necessarily resting on his laurels but also not achieving the kind of late-career fame experienced by the likes of Wes Craven or David Cronenberg either. The Mother of Tears may not be Argento’s Scream or Eastern Promises, but his return to supernatural elements is deeply refreshing and, some would say, long overdue.

Mother of Tears opens in 21st Century Rome, where a sarcophagus has just been unearthed containing an ancient urn belonging to Mater Lachrymarum (stunning Moran Atias) – the most beautiful and cruel of all witches. The weighty coffin is quickly rushed to a researcher for examination, but when the seal is broken by an archeologist (Argento regular Coralina Cataldi-Tassoni) and an unassuming art student named Sarah Mandy (Asia Argento), all hell literally breaks loose. From this point on, Sarah must avoid the authorities who think that she’s got something to do with a recent rash of vicious crimes occurring all over the city (which, in reality, are the product of Mater Lachrymarum’s infernal wrath), and realize her own unique powers by uncovering the truth about her deceased mother – a brave white witch who perished attempting to defeat Mater Suspiriorum, the Mother of Sighs. But before she realizes her true potential, Sarah will have to contend with malevolent monkeys, cackling witches clad in 80s goth garb (no, they’re not emo!), persistent policemen, and any other poor sap that happens to have fallen under Mater Lachrymarum’s murderous spell.
 

You don’t really need to have seen the original series to get what they were going for here — catching a parody of it on Family Guy or The Simpsons imparts the basic idea. Speed Racer is about shows of over-the-top intensity: screams and gasps, rapid fire dialogue, and more highest-of-the-high-stakes good vs. evil intrigue than the world of car racing could conceivably house outside this flashy, fantasy universe. Even without the film’s other successes, the Brothers’ rendering of that day-glo universe is reason enough for fans of enjoy-the-ride-cinema to check it out. It’s set in the original series’ era of around 1967 – if 1967 were the future. And the awesomely absurd melted-candy whirlwind that makes up every scene’s art direction is just the beginning (think Brady Bunch sets on acid); the movie’s more fantastical locales make the phrase “eye candy” sound like weak sauce. Speed’s trip to a plush-and-plastic corporate R&D facility is like a zillion-dollar science lab version of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, and that doesn’t even touch on the races – of which there are a few. They’re set on tracks like space-age, black-lit roller coasters and employ entertaining and remarkably consistent reinventions of physics.

It’s that epic, candy-coated-PCP intensity that really packages the whole film up as a faithful adaptation though. The Wachowskis dreamed up an insane plot that could support the fantastically ridiculous fierceness that’s so inherent to the franchise’s style, balancing the dramatics stroke-for-stroke with funny, well-paced, and very family friendly humor. This was, after all, a kids’ show – and Speed Racer is a PG movie. Fans who fondly remember Speed’s race track rivals flying off the road into violent, unforgiving explosions may be disappointed here to see most casualties fleeing their flaming wreckage in escape pods. It’s a necessary change to make the film consumable for today’s kids (or, maybe more accurately, today’s parents), but younger viewers still might drop-out before the end – two hours and fifteen minutes is a long time for a sugar high.

There’s a fair amount of wordy exposition that can seem like a bit much, but script is keen on spelling out the things that make all the emotional bombast so necessary. They’re simple and loudly broadcasted ideas (Family is important! Racing is awesome!) but Speed Racer wouldn’t be Speed Racer if there weren’t hurricanes of emotion and looks of desperate determination flying around – both of which, by the way, star Emile Hirsch pulls of tremendously, especially with nothing but a green screen for inspiration.

Of course, it doesn’t hurt that Hirsch, with his Tiger Beat doe eyes and heart shaped face, looks like an anime character. Christina Ricci, who plays his helicopter-flying girlfriend Trixie, has been described this way for years, and the rest of the cast, who otherwise look like normal humans, clearly took extremely nuanced direction to capture that old-school anime style. If you look carefully, you might notice scenes of dialogue where actors hold a fixed, intense expression in their eyes as they articulate wildly with their mouth — recalling the feel of hand drawn animation, where artists would animate only a character’s mouth to save money. Likewise, look for the way Paulie Litt strikes lighting-fast, freeze-frame poses as little brother Spritle, or listen for the way Matthew Fox evokes the baritone gravitas of dubbed kung fu villains as the mysterious Racer X. The film is also littered with deliberate misuses of parallax, evoking the feeling of 2D animation with very 3D elements. It’s impressive that, with everything else about the movie that goes bounding calculatedly over the top, the Wachowski’s kept this element reeled in. But then, they had to pick something.

The premise will be familiar to many from the everpresent trailers on television: Ashton Kutcher stars as Jack Fuller, a less-than-polished single Manhattanite whose most favored pastimes consist of kinky sex games with his girlfriend, such as “I’ll play the big, strong fireman, and you play the desperate mother with the baby in the burning building.” As the film opens, Jack is deservedly and unceremoniously fired from the furniture business by his well-grounded father (Treat Williams). Cameron Diaz co-stars as Joy McNally, a (less-grating) single Manhattanite publicly embarrassed when her yuppie fiancé (30 Rock’s Jason Sudeikis) dumps her seconds before she springs a surprise birthday party on him. Each down-and-outer decides to cut his/her losses by high-tailing it to Vegas, where they bump into each other by chance, and take a drunken, headfirst plunge into a long night on the town together. When Joy comes to, the next morning, she sports a ring on her finger – and is horrified to glimpse a sign from Jack referring to her as “wifey.” The twist (if one can call it that) occurs when Fuller accidentally hits a $3 million jackpot - and the bickering couple, in an attempt to claim the full share of the money, falls prey to a conservative judge (Dennis Miller) who refuses to grant a divorce and forces the pair to “try out” married life in order to give it an honest chance, freezing all of the monetary assets in the interim.

Mirthless, obnoxious and insufferable, this film may well be immune to any sort of normal criticism – so immune that any review threatens to turn into a laundry list of excoriations. First of all, the film operates on an obscenely loud level. The first third of Dana Fox’s awful script features scene, after scene, after scene, of characters screaming their lungs out at one another, sprinting around manically, throwing objects at walls and engaging in truly painful, unfunny comic violence – from repeated slugs in the crotch, to sprays of breath freshener in the eye, to the destruction of anything and everything on the screen. A tenth of this would have been fine – instead, we are bombarded with a maelstrom of sound and fury that raises the proverbial “idiot’s tale” to a whole new plane. Tonally, both characters repulse from the word go – but particularly the scuzzball Jack, with his sleazy sex games and his irresponsibility at work; Fox and Vaughan not only fail to give us an adequate reason to truly care about either partner – they venture to the other extreme. (Perhaps the best that one can say about this couple – an effect presumably unintended by Fox or Vaughan – is this: each partner reaches a level of such obnoxiousness that, in the final analysis, they deserve each other in the worst way). On a comedic level, the film never once scores a bulls-eye or earns a genuine laugh – its so-called ‘comedic high points’ reek of desperation. Consider, for example, Fox’s decision to name Diaz’s boss (Dennis Farina) “Dick Banger” (a line repeated on several occasions to wring the most blood out of it) or to name Miller’s judge “The Honorable R.D. Whopper.” Even more troublingly, Fox’s humor rests almost exclusively on watching characters physically and psychologically attempt to wield damage against one another – not simply the leads, but everyone onscreen.

In more sensitive hands, this could ostensibly work (consider Elaine May’s original Heartbreak Kid, for example) but here, we sense no soft edge, no warm center underneath that imparts the characters with even the least iota of compassion or empathy.

Obscene humor is difficult to pull off smoothly and deftly; Mel Brooks has a knack for it, and so did the early Working Title films, such as The Tall Guy and Four Weddings & A Funeral. Even Wedding Crashers hit the mark to some degree. Not so for this ugly romp, which bombards the audience with stale and hideous double-entendres that make it feel cheap, tacky and vulgar.

On a logical level as well, the film’s basic setup proves almost impossible to swallow – Fox hands the audience one implausible twist after another, purely designed to drive the central narrative mechanism forward – from the unlikely “computer mix-up” at the hotel that throws strangers Fuller and McNally into adjoining rooms, to the “convenient” win at the slots that turns Jack into an instantaneous millionaire, to Judge Whopper’s absurd ultimatums regarding a trial marriage.

Watching What Happens in Vegas is pure misery. How miserable, exactly? One knows that one is in trouble when, halfway through the film, one begins reminiscing about screenings of Peter Chelsom’s Town & Country, and then hoping that Dane Cook turns up to drive Kutcher out of the picture.

That must certainly represent a new low.

Even if they basically follow the same superhero mold of yesteryear, the tight ensemble of Robert Downey Jr., Gwyneth Paltrow, Terrence Howard, and Jeff Bridges sells the action romp every step of the way -– so much so that one can’t help but want more. It’s quite evident that the best is yet to come, not only with this series, but also with big-screen Marvel outings as a whole. With clever shout-outs to the imprint’s expansive universe (including a post-credit cameo that’ll send the geek Richter scale off the charts), Iron Man sets the stage for as yet unrealized crossover possibilities, a dream barely hinted at in previous book-to-screen adaptations. If future productions can deliver on the story while juggling both the technology and the talent as well as this one did, then it is possible that this is the true start of comicdom’s cinematic rebirth, built by the best that Hollywood has to offer. All in all, a fine introduction to a hero that finally dares to tackle weight-of-the-world issues. It’s about time.

Obviously, the movie paints its commentary in broad strokes, including but not limited to a scene in which Harold and Kumar smoke up with George W. Bush — who insists that he can’t legalize drugs, because his dad would freak out. Rob Corddry sends up the scared-stupid, post-9/11 culture of fear particularly well as Secretary of Defense Ron Fox, who throws the film’s heroes in Guantanamo Bay on charges of terrorism when Kumar’s bong breaks open on a flight to Amsterdam. The script doesn’t really call for him to do anything but act pompous and goofy, but he does so really well, especially in a scene where he misses what’s going on because he’s busy rocking out to “Danger Zone” on his walkman.

There are almost too many other noteworthy appearances to mention, as our heroes’ ADD adventures land them everywhere, from a “bottomless party” (as opposed to a “topless party”) to the IKEA decorated home of an incestuous redneck couple. Especially awesome is Neil Patrick Harris’s triumphant return as that terrifying fantasy version of himself that we all sort of hope is real. He doesn’t come away unscathed from an encounter with a Louisiana brothel’s hot-tempered madam (played by Beverly D’Angelo), but you just can’t expect any event in this movie to be less than over the top (also: remember to stay until the end of the credits).

All the performers give memorable comedic turns. From Jonah Hill’s starstruck resort employee, to Bill Hader’s supportive step-brother, to Jack McBrayer’s sexually frustrated newlywed, everyone in the supporting cast gets at least one scene to really shine. The leads impress as well: Mila Kunis shows no traces at all of her dumb rich girl from That 70’s Show. She is more than up to the challenge of playing her character’s strengths, while hinting at the fear that keeps her from leaving the island paradise she has made her home. Kristen Bell captures every detail of the insecure actress Sarah Marshall, but finds quirks to make her much more than a cardboard cutout. You can see, beyond her fame and her looks, why Peter loved her. And Russell Brand delivers a breakout performance as a sexually voracious rock star who would be detestable if he weren’t so happy to share his encyclopedic knowledge of all things carnal with anyone who needs it.

As promising as these young faces are, this winning comedy is, above all, the launching pad for Jason Segel. As a writer he shows incredible skill for character development and as an actor he seems quite fearless. He plays the infamous opening break-up scene with torrent of blubbering emotion – not to mention the most male nudity in a comedy since Walk Hard. Segel seems unafraid of the truth no matter how embarrassing or painful – this is both the mark of an artist, and what makes Forgetting Sarah Marshal his coming out party.

Of all the Rolling Stones concert films, Shine a Light offers the greatest argument the Jagger might be the best frontman in rock history. While his authoritative sexuality was teasing and dark in the sixties and seventies, it mutated into near self-parody in the next two decades. Time being on his side, Jagger in his sixties doesn’t so much seem a dirty old man, as just a dirty man who still enjoys the art of tempting and teasing his audience, his bandmates, and himself. IMAX might be the only format that can fully communicate the sheer amount of commitment that goes into every one of his movements. He could seemingly go on forever.

Working as a contrast to Jagger’s relentless energy, is the stoic realism of Charlie Watts. There are very few out of shape drummers, because it’s the one instrument in a rock band you need physical stamina to play over the course of a concert. At one point in the show, Watts looks directly into the camera and lets out an exhausted sigh. It’s a small moment, but one loaded with meaning. In that quick instant you realize that for all of Mick’s boundless enthusiasm, the Stones are not immortal. Charlie has not lost a beat, but looking at him that spent so early in the evening, you understand that one shouldn’t take this band for granted ever again.

That leaves Keith Richards. He could drop dead on stage, or he might live another 100 years, and either way he will continue to do what he has always done – play music, preferably with Ron Wood at his side. And the music is why Shine a Light matters a great deal. From the still relevant “Satisfaction,” to the urgency of “She Was Hot,” to the longing “Just My Imagination,” the perfectly constructed setlist showcases everything the Rolling Stones do well. They still appreciate their own gifts, but have not grown so bloated that they can’t share the stage. The three guest stars that show up underscore the band’s flexibility. Jack White III harmonizes with Mick on “Loving Cup,” and it wouldn’t have sounded out of place on the album he produced for Loretta Lynn. Christina Aguilera matches Mick grind for grind as well as note for note in a duet on “Live with Me” that would be funny if it weren’t treated with such commitment by both of them. And blues legend Buddy Guy joins the boys for an authoritative rendition of “Champagne & Reefer” that offers ample proof of the Stones chops – as far as traditional blues numbers go it’s equal to the legendary Muddy Waters performance in The Last Waltz.

There is something to recommend about every Rolling Stones documentary. The cult classic Cocksucker Blues forever captured the most excessive aspects of their life, Gimme Shelter showcased the group’s skill as well as the occasionally dangerous power of their music, and even Let’s Spend the Night Together puts Mick’s inclination for pomp on the big screen. But Shine a Light captures where the band is right now, forty-five years into their careers, capturing their ability to be larger than life, while staying intimately connected to each other through the music. Scorsese records for posterity the band member’s connections to each other, to music, and to their audience, making Shine a Light one of the most ferociously entertaining movies of the year.