Thoughts on 2005 films in order of Atlanta release date, except for when they aren't

Elizabethtown (Cameron Crowe): ***

o·ver·state'ment, n.
1. An exaggerated or extravagent statement.
2. A type of statement showing up often in reviews of Elizabethtown, Crowe's latest work of life-is-beautiful romanticism, which, while way overlong and what the hell is with Susan Sarandon's tapdance, has enough nice moments, chief among them an all-night phone call between Orlando Bloom and Kirsten Dunst and a climactic roadtrip through the American South (ignoring the use of that U2 song) to make it worth your time.

Capote (Bennett Miller): ***

Exactly the kind of biopic I like: tight and focused, no unnecessary information, thank you for realizing that I don't care what may have happened to Truman Capote during his childhood that affected him as an adult. Philip Seymour Hoffman is indeed exceptional; I had feared that the performance would be nothing more than skilled mimicry a la Jamie Foxx in Ray, but, while it is an uncanny impression, Hoffman brings a surprising level of depth to the character. I also like how depressing the whole thing is, for lack of a better word; so many biopics overlook their protagonist's flaws - or try to temper them through lame psychological explanations - that it's refreshing to see one so comfortable with what a train wreck its subject is. The film is washed out and grainy, painted in strokes of black, gray and dark blue, broken up by static shots of barren landscapes. It is not, I am fairly confident, the feel-good movie of the year, nor is it a middlebrow Oscar contender (although Hoffman is a likely Best Actor front-runner). Hell, it even has a theme. Too bad the filmmakers couldn't trust the audience to figure that theme out, hammering it home at every possible opportunity. And I'm sorry, guys, but I don't care how impressive some of your movie is - if you treat me like I'm retarded, you're losing points.

Corpse Bride (Tim Burton & Mike Johnson): ***

Technically perfect and visually stunning. There are some images of such overwhelming beauty here that I feel no qualms about recommending it. And yet... and yet it's just too perfect; while Burton's rigorous visual style does occasionally result in transcendent moments like the final scene, it often seems to smother any real creative freedom in character and tone. The story is a Russian fairy tale, and it feels overly familiar because Burton doesn't want to give it room to breathe, to flourish in its own world. Also, while Danny Elfman's score is fine, his songs are as unremarkable and forgettable as they were in The Nightmare Before Christmas; nothing would have been lost by cutting them. When it's all said and done, Corpse Bride, for all its astonishing beauty, is simply too lifeless for its own good.

Proof (John Madden): ***

Imagine a movie in which Gwyenth Paltrow is the daughter of Anthony Hopkins, a brilliant mathematician who went insane in his later years, and Paltrow had to quit school to care for her father. Imagine that Paltrow is afraid she may be inheriting her father's crazy. Now imagine that this movie was produced by Miramax. Sounds terrible, yes? But although Proof succumbs to many of the pitfalls you would imagine, it's still pretty effective. I can think of two reasons for this: a.) The material, which won a Pulitzer while it was a play, is just too inherently compelling to be ruined by Miramax and the Shakespeare in Love guy; or b.) Gwyneth Paltrow's terrific performance, balancing strength and potentially unhinged intelligence, elevates the movie above its flaws. I think it's a little bit of both. Oh, and Hope Davis? Shrill is not a note you really want to play for an entire movie. Thanks.

Lord of War (Andrew Niccol): ***

An impassioned and damning reproach of American support of gun runners that would have benefited from a little more subtlety; alternately thrilling and preachy, it ends up feeling a bit too much like a speech for comfort, culminating, like The Constant Gardener, in a title card determined to shove its politics down viewers' throats. Still, there's plenty of powerful stuff here, and Nicolas Cage is very good; his character's increasingly futile attempts to justify his actions to himself keep the film grounded in reality even as Niccol's ideas threaten to smother everything else. Opening sequence a doozy, following a single bullet from creation to its final destination in a young freedom fighter's forehead; if the whole film were as emotionally resonant and subversive, it could have been great. As it is, it's just good.

The Constant Gardener (Fernando Meirelles): **1/2

Meirelles and screenwriter Jeffrey Caine want it to play as a thriller, a character study and a political polemic all at once, and they don't pull any of it off. The characters' development is often put on hold in order to throw the plot forward, but the plot is needlessly complicated and not in the least thrilling - not because there's no explosions or shoot-outs, but just because no one gives a damn what happens; only one scene, in which a character reads a revelatory note at a funeral, comes close to providing the sort of heart-in-your-throat tension that this type of thriller requires. As a political statement, the film fares a little better, getting by on sheer passion despite its preachiness (a post-credits quote from author John Le Carré - who wrote the source novel - is particularly risible; it's about as subtle as a boot to the head, and only a little bit more enjoyable). So why the passing grade? Because Ralph Fiennes and Rachel Weisz both turn in strong performances, Fiennes all slow burn and Weisz all exploding passion, and the film is a remarkable travelogue when it slows down long enough to simply observe Africa and its inhabitants. In other words: beautiful but boring, and a legitimate Oscar contender only if the award ceremony were held a month ago.

Red Eye (Wes Craven): ***

A total triumph of style over substance in that I really can't remember anything specific to say other than that I was on the edge of my seat for pretty much all of the first hour and intermittently after that. Also: Cillian Murphy awesomely creepy; Rachel McAdams just plain awesome; rocket launcher stupid.

Grizzly Man (Werner Herzog): ***1/2

Grizzly Man could have simply presented Timothy Treadwell's fascinating story with no embellishment and been perfectly acceptable, but what makes it so deeply satisfying and moving is how much more than that it does. Using Treadwell's seemingly suicidal trips - he spent thirteen summers in the Alaskan wilderness living with bears before being killed and eaten by one in 2003 - as a starting point, Herzog mounts an exploration into mankind's attempts to find purpose in a cold, uncaring world. Despite the bears' relative safety in an Alaskan wildlife reserve, Treadwell fancies himself their "protector," raging about the threat of poachers and against the Park Service for what he views as their apathy toward the bears' well-being. Herzog, in voice-over, challenges Treadwell's actions and comes to his own conclusions; but he is clearly sympathetic to, if nothing else, the way in which this protector role - no matter how exaggerated - gave Treadwell's life some sort of meaning. It's a message that - no matter how unstable Treadwell clearly was - carries an undeniable tragedy and power.

Broken Flowers (Jim Jarmusch): ***1/2

Getting a lot of press about being Jarmusch's most "accessible" movie, but that doesn't mean a whole lot when you consider who we're talking about. Broken Flowers is still an aggressively minimalist film, purposely shot with a distinct feeling of drab flatness meant to mirror its hero's mindset. It is through this, and the schematic road-trip plot, that the film draws its power. Don (Bill Murray, in yet another masterful, subtle performance) goes on a journey that forces him to a series of meetings with previous flames (all well-played, although Frances Conrad stands out the most), each progressively shorter and more hostile than the rest; finally, he can no longer accept his placid life as a former Don Juan. At the film's devastating conclusion, as Jarmusch's plain direction is ditched for a bravura circular pan around Murray's face, it's clear that although Don doesn't know the answer to his question, he would actually care if he did, a feeling far more affecting than anything that could be gained from a sense of closure.

Last Days (Gus Van Sant): ***

Seems to lack much meaning or insight beyond what it must've felt like to be Kurt Cobain before he killed himself (despite a post-film disclaimer, Last Days is clearly more than just "partly inspired" by the Nirvana frontman's death), but it's a pretty damn effective evocation of a drug-induced haze, all the more impressive due to the fact that Van Sant never once even shows a drug, let alone the use of one. In fact, the entire film more or less avoids artifice or manipulation up until the end, at which point the main character's spirit literally climbs up to heaven, an image at once audacious, striking and a little bit dumb. As envisioned by Van Sant and played by Michael Pitt, the Cobain stand-in (named Blake) is a blank cipher on which we are meant, I suppose, to project our own impressions of Cobain, suggesting that it's impossible to tell what he was thinking during his last days or even what led up to them. It's a similar message to that of Van Sant's Elephant, which through the same lack of insight claimed that school shootings are impossible to explain. So like Elephant, it's not entirely successful, but it's a film I can't help but respect, and Van Sant's static compositions are just as striking as ever.

Me and You and Everyone We Know (Miranda July): ***1/2

"Buoyant" is the first word that comes to mind when I think about this film; other adjectives I'd use to describe it include: good-natured, joyous and effervescent. It almost seems to just float by, gently bobbing by on its own optimism. This could have made for an inconsequential film, or, even worse, a precious one; and although it occasionally comes close, it's more often just a refreshing change of pace from the misanthropy of many art films, and one that is far more memorable and affecting than you would expect. Performance artist July, who also stars in the film, directs like someone with no concept of the rules of film-making, and I mean that in the best way possible - without resorting to any weird camera angles or movements, she has crafted a film that feels, in both rhythm and look, not quite like anything else you'll see this year. One scene in particular - a conversation between July and costar John Hawkes (both terrific) as they walk down the street - is absolutely perfect in its deceptive simplicity.

Hustle & Flow (Craig Brewer): ***

It's quite clear that Mr. Brewer has never met an underdog-achieves-success cliché he doesn't like, but Hustle & Flow succeeds largely based on his devotion to the (admittedly basic) material. And then, of course, there's Terrence Howard, the official Revelation of the Summer™, who turns in a performance of such conviction and realism that many scenes are carried wholly on his shoulders. He's a terrific rapper, too, delivering some damn fine music - "Whoop That Trick" and "It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp" being two of the summer's catchiest songs. Much of what happens in Hustle & Flow is mapped out, from rapper DJay's rise to his inevitable fall to his resurrection, but Brewer believes in this, dammit, and his commitment makes this one of the most traditionally satisfying - and entertaining - films of the year.

Happy Endings (Don Roos): ***

Has faded considerably in memory since first viewing, but I've gotta go with my reaction at the time, which is that it's funny and occasionally poignant, if ultimately a bit shallow. It's one of those films, where separate stories unfold and only sort of connect, and, as is often the case, some stories work far better than others. Maggie Gyllenhaal's is the best, followed by Lisa Kudrow's and then the other one. At once arrestingly self-possessed and insecure, Gyllenhaal is a marvel, and she easily walks away with the movie. Lisa Kudrow puts up a good fight, though, confirming once and for all that she's the best actor of the Friends group. The text-on-screen gimmick could be smug and irritating, and sometimes it is, but more often than not it is surprisingly effective; some of the best jokes come from the titles - "All bets are off when it comes to stealing sperm" is a personal favorite. Not anything to get too excited about, but better than a lot of people are giving it credit for.

Fantastic Four (Tim Story): **

Even more evidence that superhero films should take the material seriously. Not that Fantastic Four aspires to be in the same league as Spider-Man or Batman Begins, but even on its own terms it doesn't work. It's stupid and not particularly fun, and it features some of the worst special effects of any summer blockbuster. Fun on occasion, I guess, thanks exclusively to Chris Evans' cannily playful performance as the Human Torch and the occasional so-dumb-it's-funny moment (pre-epilogue shot of the Statue of Liberty being my favorite). Reviews have been praising Michael Chiklis, but don't listen to them; he's acceptable at best, although that's still more than can be said for most of the cast. A note of warning: I saw this with a group of friends, and we spent much of the running length making fun of it, so I probably enjoyed myself a little more than I would have had I seen it alone, hence the seemingly generous rating.

Mysterious Skin (Gregg Araki): ***

Araki clearly has quite a few demons he needs to excise, and Mysterious Skin's occasionally therapeutic nature can grow tiresome. Still, it's a relatively powerful film, helped by nice little visual touches (the rain of cereal in particular) and a stunning lead performance from Joseph Gordon-Levitt. Many actors gain praise for bringing emotions to the surface, but Gordon-Levitt buries them under a layer of cool, stoic insularity; it's fearless, gutsy work, establishing him as one of the best actors of his generation. On paper, the film's portrayal of the different responses to sexual abuse (outward sexuality vs. self-delusion), seems obvious and academic; in practice, however, it proves rather effective, especially in the film's final, scene, in which one character learns a truth that we've pretty much known all along. Even nicer is the film's lack of self-satisfaction; too many such films revel in their own supposed Importance, but Mysterious Skin keeps it simple, and the moments when Araki succumbs (the first UFO sighting, "Where Neil's soul should be, there is a black void," etc.) are by far the film's weakest.

Dark Water (Walter Salles): ***

Not really at all scary; instead, it's a slow-moving, beautifully shot psychological study. Tackles the same issues of child raising as Hide and Seek and The Ring 2 but is far more effective at it, thanks largely to Jennifer Connelly's nuanced work. Supporting cast is uniformly strong, with John C. Reilly turning ingratiating kindness into quiet menace and Tim Roth finding genuine pathos in a stock role. Final act doesn't really make much sense, but god damn is it lovely. Also: Ariel Gade isn't yet quite up with Dakota Fanning on the Creepy Little Girl Scale, but she's getting close.

Dull, formulaic squandering of an intriguing premise, made bearable only by the luminous Nicole Kidman and moments of inspired and most likely improvised nonsense from Will Ferrell ("And I want a cake! A... two-story tall cake! Every Wednesday is Cake Day! We'll wheel it out, and we'll act like it's a surprise, because it's Cake Day!"). Everything else, though, is exasperatingly limp, safely adhering to the classic rom-com formula: woman meets man and they fall in love but there's a misunderstanding in the third act and it looks like the relationship might not work but then Steve Carell shows up with a terrible Paul Lynde impression and they (the man and the woman) fall in love again and kiss under the stars and live happily ever after. Don't waste your time.

My Summer of Love (Pawel Pawlikowski): **1/2

How - dear sweet Jesus how - are critics falling for this thing? Not that it's bad, per se, but it's absolutely nothing you haven't seen before. It has nothing interesting to say about anything, and despite Pawlikowski's seemingly naturalistic style, there isn't a narrative moment not already predetermined by the Laws of the Cinema - including the ending, which is as emotionally unsatisfying as it is ludicrous. The actors all do nice work - Emily Blunt in particular is quite good - but none of them are playing even remotely human characters, so that kinda puts a damper on things. My Summer of Love is facile, unchallenging and false; looking back, I'm not entirely sure how I justified that extra half star - maybe it was some of Pawlikowski's nice visual touches, like the giant metal cross Paddy Considine builds - but I guess I'll stick with it for now.

Mr. and Mrs. Smith (Doug Liman): ***

Whatever is going on between Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie in real life, they certainly have chemistry on screen, and the moments in Mr. and Mrs. Smith in which they are allowed to simply play off of each other are by far the best in the movie. Watching those two bicker and fight ("Any last words?" "Yeah; the new drapes are hideous.") is a sheer joy, and more fun than you're bound to have at any other movie this summer. I also loved the gloriously anarchic, amoral way in which everything plays out; these characters are never judged for what they do, they just are, and the way that things like the running over of a recently created corpse (matter-of-factly staying in close-up inside the car as it bump-bumps over the body) are handled had me rolling. Too bad the plot had to kick in, then, full of twists and double-crosses; it's all very dumb, and it interrupts what really matters: Brad and Angelina. Also, Pitt should never be allowed to play a serious action hero - he's always, always, at his best when he's having fun; check out his sly smile when he holds up ten fingers in the film's last scene (you'll know it when you see it) and just try not to laugh. I dare you.

Layer Cake (Matthew Vaughn): ***

I wasn't quite sold on Daniel Craig as the next Bond, but his performance here removed any doubt in my mind. Laid-back and effortlessly charming, his performance seems to suggest that his character is such a successful gangster because he never had any real interest in being one. Director Matthew Vaughn, once a Guy Ritchie associate, ditches his buddy's smug, empty humor for an actual heart - Vaughn is more concerned with his characters and the effect their lives have on them, climaxing with the film's shocking final scene. Not that the film doesn't have its funny moments - Craig's vaguely baffled expression while having his head slammed in cooler being one particularly amusing example - but they always seem to evolve from his story, rather than the other way around. In fact, the worst bits in Layer Cake are the ones in which Vaughn resorts to the quick-edit, hipster plot machinations of Ritchie's work.

3-iron (Kim Ki-duk): ***1/2

The reason I didn't write a full review of this, for perhaps the first time ever, is not because I'm hopelessly lazy when not shackled by a deadline; no, it's because, quite simply, Kim Ki-duk's 3-iron is damn near impossible to write about - or, rather, to verbalize what makes it so memorable. Perhaps it's how skillfully Kim and his actors handle the main characters' relationship, creating a palpable sense of yearning and mutual need without the protagonists ever speaking a single line of dialogue; maybe it's the obvious formal mastery; maybe it's the ambiguous, haunting conclusion. More likely - no, most definitely - it's all of those things. But that's all you can really say about them without being hopelessly repetitive or straying into spoilers, so that's all you're going to get. Final word: go see it.

Kingdom of Heaven (Ridley Scott): **1/2

Almost worth it for the huge battle late in the film, but most of the setup is just a stultifying bore (notably excepting an uncredited - and excellent - Edward Norton as the leper king. Where has he been, by the way?), all pretty pictures and dull exposition. It's also certainly not helped by Scott's ham-fisted moralizing - can't we all just get along? - and obvious attempts to draw connections to the present. Still, no one can deny that the man can direct action, and that skill is still in full effect here. Orlando Bloom is terribly miscast - he tries his damnedest, but he just can't pull off big, rousing speeches; Russell Crowe he is not. And Eva Green, so beguiling in 2004's otherwise tepid The Dreamers, is almost completely useless here; it's hard to imagine that anyone could fall in love with such a vapid waste of space. She sure is cute, though.

The Interpreter (Sydney Pollack): ***

The film seems to adopt the UN's talk-over-violence standpoint in its plot and details - the Nicole Kidman character started out as a freedom fighter in Africa but is now an interpreter, working to increase dialogue between nations; the African custom of forgiving murderers ("Vengeance is a lazy form of grief.") - and this subtext is just substantial enough to give the otherwise simple thriller some heft. Working hard are Sean Penn and Kidman, two terrific actors who break a sweat trying to imbue some real emotion into their characters and mostly succeed, despite some really lame dialogue. Pollack does a nice job of emphasizing his two characters' emotional isolation by often shooting them looking at each other over long distances. Catherine Keener is a nice touch, too, playing a character who would seem to be useless but really is there to show Penn's distance from reality - she clearly cares for him, although it is never outwardly stated, but he doesn't recognize it. The one major action set piece is a doozy, dealing with a bus and a bomb and thrillingly edited to recall Hitchcock's crosscutting in Sabotage, but it's the only one, so the film must rely on its quieter moments to succeed. It does.

Fever Pitch (Bobby Farrelly & Peter Farrelly): ***

Except for one vomit gag, there's absolutely nothing here that would distinguish Fever Pitch as being from the brothers Farrelly, which is at once a good and bad thing. This film would be sunk if loaded down with the brothers' typical gross-out humor, but the rom-com story doesn't lend itself very well to their talents. Still, Nick Hornby (from whose novel the movie is adapted) has a way with examining men and their obsessions, and that transplants rather well to the screen. Message is simplistic - you have to lose your obsessions when you grow up - and bluntly delivered, but it's not without its merits. Drew Barrymore loses nearly all of what made her so appealing in 50 First Dates, but there are a number of funny bits here, mostly at the hands of Jimmy Fallon, who transforms his stuttering buffoonery - which before had never not annoyed me - into actual charm.

Sin City (Robert Rodriguez & Frank Miller): ***1/2

I was prepared to dislike Sin City for being simple, self-indulgent and over-the-top, and it is all of those things. But it is also brilliant, the best piece of entertainment I've seen in some time. Rodriguez's love for the material bleeds through every frame, and his pure movie-making bravado makes for an enthralling, thrilling experience. The two standout sequences are Marv's (Mickey Rourke) and Hartigan's (Bruce Willis); both are brutal, dark and uncompromising - Hartigan's story is even a little affecting - and both feature terrific performances from their leads. Faring less well is Dwight's (Clive Owen) story; it's never not entertaining, but it's more than a little repetitive and, ultimately, a bit pointless. Oh, and you can't review the film without mentioning its visual style, which is absolutely stunning and like nothing I have ever before seen. In what has been - and looks to continue to be - a mediocre year for movies, Sin City is a shining triumph.

Melinda and Melinda (Woody Allen): **1/2

"How do things that start out so promising end up so depressing?" asks a character in Melinda and Melinda, and although he's not specifically referencing the film he's in, he might as well be. Allen takes a great premise - telling the same story from two perspectives, one comedic and one tragic - and then blows it. The real problem here is that Allen is trying to make a point - that comedy and tragedy aren't really that different - so neither the tragic or comedic parts of the movie are far too similar to be as good as they should be. In both stories, Radha Mitchell plays Melinda, a down-on-her-luck woman who imposes herself on a troubled couple. She pairs off with Will Ferrell in the comic section, and he proves himself more than capable of taking on the part, investing the stock Allen character with enough of his own personality to make it work. The two of them carry the entire section, and it proves to actually be fairly charming and compelling. And, actually, more affecting than the tragic portion of the film, which is almost a complete waste of time. The only thing consistent about Melinda and Melinda is Mitchell's tremendous dual-tone work; the two Melinda's are so different - one a goofy, charming ingenue, the other an emotional and physical wreck - and so convincingly acted that it is difficult to imagine they are the same actress.

Millions (Danny Boyle): ***

Pretty much the best bet for a family film around. It's a charming, perfectly harmless - if ultimately forgettable - trifle that will appeal to kids and adults alike. Kids will respond to the intelligent child protagonists, sense of humor and lively visual style; adults will appreciate its mature handling of heavy subject matter (death of a mother, religion, etc.). Millions never talks down to the audience, and that's key; I'm never too big on the use of imagined spirits to milk emotion, but I have to admit that the kid's climactic meeting with his mother sort of got to me. Wasn't much impressed with the dumb criminal subplot, although I think the kids'll like it.

The Ring Two (Hideo Nakata): **

First and foremost, it's skillfully made. Nakata proves quite good at setting an atmosphere, and everything looks pretty damn great. So The Ring Two isn't "bad," per se, it just isn't scary or creepy. At all. Really, it's just dull. The only even passably creepy moment is Naomi Watts spitting "I'm not your fucking mother," and that's more a testament to how terrific an actress Watts is than anything to do with the actual movie. People, stop dulling down your horror films in order to get a PG-13. Okay? Thanks.

The Upside of Anger (Mike Binder): ***

Yes, you've seen it all before, more or less, but The Upside of Anger still works, thanks largely to the performances. Joan Allen is terrific as always as the volatile, alcoholic Terry, and equally good is, surprisingly, Kevin Costner, who is so effortlessly charming that he hardly seems like the same humorless ass who made Waterworld and The Postman - in fact, had the film been released later in the year, he might've stood a chance at an Oscar nomination. Too bad, then, that the lovely and talented Evan Rachel Wood is given practically nothing to do save deliver poorly-written framing voice overs, a large problem in writer-director Mike Binder's script, which otherwise is pretty strong - except for the retarded last-act twist, which reveals Terry's rage and emotional turmoil as nothing more than the result of an unfortunate misunderstanding. It's a betrayal and a cheat, not to mention thematically stupid; I guess Binder is trying to reveal the dangers of misplaced anger, but there's absolutely no reason that his point couldn't have been made so much better without the twist - and without dragging Terry over the coals far more than is necessary. But forget all that; Allen and Costner are the real draw here, and they're well worth the price of admission.

Constantine (Francis Lawrence): **1/2

An imaginative and visually stunning fantasy film that gets bogged down in its narrative, which is far too complicated considering how idiotic it is (the "Spear of Destiny?" I mean, Jesus). But I like its ideas, especially the central conceit of God and Satan being locked into what basically amounts to a cosmic pissing contest, only with the fate of all mankind hanging in the balance. Keanu Reeves is actually not bad, and I continue to feel terrible for him - few actors work as hard, but he just isn't talented. Much better - superb, in fact - is Tilda Swinton in full androgynous glory as the angel Gabriel. And anyone who can sit through Peter Stormare's hilarious interpretation of Satan without gaining at least a little good will toward Constantine should consider never going to the movies again.

Bride and Prejudice (Gurinder Chadha): **

So why was this a good idea, exactly? Bollywood musicals are inherently ridiculous, and as such are enjoyable only when this silliness is enhanced by the material, a demand that Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice doesn't exactly satisfy. I want my Bollywood Indians to randomly burst into song in a middle of a cricket match, not while lamenting their love problems. Bollywood musicals are also supposed to be in Hindi, for god's sake; there's no way that, in English, these songs could have lyrics any stupider had they been written by the Spice Girls. The movie looks great, vibrant and colorful, and its energy is infectious, even during shit like the absolutely horrid rap - rap! - number about halfway through the film, but that's just not enough.