The Landmark

Picture Zero Dark Thirty with bright pullovers and laser guns and you’ll have Star Trek Into Darkness, whose heavy-handed political parallels just might feel smart in a summer of Vin Diesel crashing cars. In the opening minutes, Khan Noonien... More »

Picture Zero Dark Thirty with bright pullovers and laser guns and you’ll have Star Trek Into Darkness, whose heavy-handed political parallels just might feel smart in a summer of Vin Diesel crashing cars. In the opening minutes, Khan Noonien Singh (Benedict Cumberbatch) terrorizes London, then makes like Osama and flees to the mountains of an enemy planet, causing Starfleet Admiral Marcus (Peter Weller) to order his assassination, sans trial. Here justice will be served by the blubbering James T. Kirk (Chris Pine), who so bleeds his humanity across the Enterprise’s deck that it’s a wonder Chekhov (Anton Yelchin) doesn’t slip. Again, the central conflict is between the Captain’s swaggering impetuousness and the cold-blooded logic of First Mate Spock (Zachary Quinto). After setting up its War on Terror allusions, Star Trek Into Darkness becomes Paradise Lost in Space: It’s a battle for the good captain’s soul, as Kirk is torn between Spock’s wisdom and Admiral Marcus’s war-mongering. Can Khan destroy him simply by smashing his moral code? J.J. Abrams externalizes Kirk’s turmoil by making him spend every second scene suffering unsolicited advice about what to do. The character feels neutered, despite an early romp where he beds twin hotties with tails. His only real love is for the Enterprise, that hermaphroditic ship shaped like three phalluses and a flattened boob. Abrams, meanwhile, lifts Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan’s climax, thievery that will enrage the devout as it suggests the Star Trek saga is merely a game of Mad Libs into which he plugs characters and catastrophes. « Less

Reserved Seating 12:50 PM, 3:40 PM, 9:50 PM

Zack Snyder's Man of Steel is a movie event with an actual movie inside, crying to get out. Despite its preposterous self-seriousness, its overgrown, CGI'ed-to-death climax, and its desperate efforts to depict the destruction of, well, everything... More »

Zack Snyder's Man of Steel is a movie event with an actual movie inside, crying to get out. Despite its preposterous self-seriousness, its overgrown, CGI'ed-to-death climax, and its desperate efforts to depict the destruction of, well, everything on Earth, there's greatness in this retelling of the origin of Superman, moments of intimate grandeur, some marvelous, subtle acting, and a superhero costume that's a feat of mad mod genius. There's almost a story here. And the actors, including the picture's quietly dazzling star, Henry Cavill, do their damnedest to draw it out. But there’s no stopping what comic-book movies have become, especially those bearing the royal seal of Dark Knight auteur Christopher Nolan. (He's one of Man of Steel's producers and also helped develop the story.) In Man of Steel, the titan in the red cape is almost a distraction from the movie's larger mission to impress us with its spectacle and vague, lofty ideals. And once Michael Shannon's General Zod shows up on Earth with his dumb little goatee, you know it will only get bigger and emptier. It's a relief just to watch the actors act once in a while, and thankfully, Snyder is astute enough to punch some breathing holes in this steel-clad colossus. Amy Adams is a fine, no-nonsense Lois Lane; she makes nosiness sultry. And Kevin Costner and Diane Lane, in their depiction of heartland parents, turn corn-pone dialogue golden. No wonder their pensive, angst-ridden kid grows up to be Henry Cavill, so who grounds the movie. His Superman is more a listener than a talker. That's probably what happens when you have X-ray vision, and you can see Cavill soaking it all in. « Less

Reserved Seating 12:55 PM, 4:05 PM, 7:15 PM, 9:25 PM, 10:20 PM

There's a scene in Baz Luhrmann's The Great Gatsby in which Leonardo DiCaprio's hyper-rich, super-awkward Jay Gatsby takes it upon himself to redecorate the bachelor pad of his less prosperous friend, Nick Carraway (Tobey Maguire). Gatsby's old... More »

There's a scene in Baz Luhrmann's The Great Gatsby in which Leonardo DiCaprio's hyper-rich, super-awkward Jay Gatsby takes it upon himself to redecorate the bachelor pad of his less prosperous friend, Nick Carraway (Tobey Maguire). Gatsby's old flame, Daisy Buchanan (Carey Mulligan), is coming to Nick’s for tea. Eager to impress her, Gatsby has brought in boughs draped with explosive white flowers, macarons in every color of the paintbox and tiered cakes straight out of Marie Antoinette's court. "You think it's too much?" he asks Nick. Nick offers the polite answer: "I think it's what you want." The Great Gatsby is both too much and what Luhrmann wants, less a movie version of F. Scott Fitzgerald's novel than a movie version of Jay Gatsby himself. It’s polished to a handsome sheen and possesses no class or taste beyond the kind you can buy. And those are the reasons to love it. The performers often look lost, but the movie moves, breathes and has color on its side. Though Fitzgerald couldn't have known it, he wrote a scene tailor-made for 3-D, the one in which Gatsby rummages through his collection of brilliantly colored silk shirts and tosses one after another toward his lady love. In Luhrmann's vision, they float down around Daisy like polychrome snowflakes. It's all so fake. It should all be so horrible. But really, all Luhrmann has done is build a crazy art deco Taj Mahal to the glory of The Great Gatsby. Like Gatsby, Luhrmann is a faker but not a phony. Fitzgerald knew the difference. Can we see it, too? « Less

Reserved Seating 1:00 PM, 4:00 PM, 7:05 PM

Something's misguided about a film built around magic in the digital era. When Georges Méliès transferred illusions to cinema his trickery was stunning, but with every DVD-extras documentary about CGI they see, contemporary audiences become... More »

Something's misguided about a film built around magic in the digital era. When Georges Méliès transferred illusions to cinema his trickery was stunning, but with every DVD-extras documentary about CGI they see, contemporary audiences become increasingly difficult to impress. Such considerations might have benefitted Now You See Me, Louis Leterrier's manic magic-heist film following the bank-robbing travails of a four-magician team (anchored by charming Jesse Eisenberg, whose talents extend beyond portraying the neuroses-riddled). Various magic tricks are demonstrated excitingly, if not convincingly—again, all those CGI wizards-- as the group teleports Euros from Paris to Las Vegas, makes safe-filled rooms appear empty, and instantaneously changes bank account balances. The bargain struck with Leterrier is a loan on credit-- the viewer will suspend disbelief if its clear the filmmakers will pay them back with a satisfying explanation. Here, problems arise. Whereas the purpose of a magic trick is its own entertainment, a film that raises crucial narrative questions is expected to answer them. When functioning like a magic trick, this breathlessly entertaining picture delights in its showmanship, but the more entertaining the trickery, the tougher the explanation, and when the truth is revealed the answer can't help but fail to satisfy. And like a magic trick, many of its visuals are captivating-- but the structure of a magic trick is ill-suited to cinema. « Less

Reserved Seating 11:10 AM, 1:50 PM, 4:30 PM, 7:10 PM, 9:45 PM

You're either with Brit Marling or you're against her. The 29-year-old blond filmmaker (who describes herself on Twitter as a tree climber/actor/writer/producer) catapulted out of obscurity in 2011 with two obfuscatory indies-- Sound of My Voice... More »

You're either with Brit Marling or you're against her. The 29-year-old blond filmmaker (who describes herself on Twitter as a tree climber/actor/writer/producer) catapulted out of obscurity in 2011 with two obfuscatory indies-- Sound of My Voice and the mournful sci-fi drama Another Earth. Marling specializes in films about faith, loyalty, and paranoia, where rationalists argue with dreamers and everybody seeks a greater meaning to what could just be nonsense, which is to say her specialty is life. In The East she acts/writes/produces/and, yes, even climbs a tree. Marling plays Sarah, a former FBI agent turned corporate spy, paid handsomely to protect McDonald’s, Wal-Mart, Exxon, and the like from the terrorists: vegans, environmentalists, and activists out to besmirch their names. Handing Sarah a pair of brand-new Birkenstocks, her boss (the coolly cynical Patricia Clarkson) sics her on the latest shadowy supergroup, The East, who we meet dumping crude oil through the air-conditioning vents of a gasoline mogul's mansion. Sarah is cut from Marling's own image. She's clever and capable, a whiz kid who can't fail. Over the course of the film, she picks handcuffs, punches men, and leaps from trees with the grace of a private-school ninja. If she has a flaw, it's that she can't hide thinking she’s the smartest person in the room. In another life, I'd love to see Marling play Bond-- imagine those Botticelli waves falling over a tuxedo. But in this life, she's still proving her brains, which is why it's disappointing that, for all its empathy and equilibrium, The East has nowhere to go after the script backs itself into a corner. « Less

Reserved Seating 11:20 AM, 2:00 PM, 4:40 PM, 7:20 PM, 10:00 PM

In Joss Whedon’s The Avengers, Iron Man gets off a good burn on Thor during their intramural fight in the woods: “Shakespeare in the park?” he says. “Doth mother know you weareth her drapes?” Like any good Shakespearean pastiche, The Avengers... More »

In Joss Whedon’s The Avengers, Iron Man gets off a good burn on Thor during their intramural fight in the woods: “Shakespeare in the park?” he says. “Doth mother know you weareth her drapes?” Like any good Shakespearean pastiche, The Avengers began in media res, with a glowy cube thing ripping open a hole in space and admitting a Nordic trickster god, the culmination of events set in motion before the rise of the curtain. Whedon, whose body of work is almost entirely composed of television genre fiction, shares other traits with the Beardwright of Stratford, including his facial hair, populist leanings, affection for clever wordplay, willingness to kill beloved characters, and penchant for strong women. His tiny production of Much Ado About Nothing strips away all the CG chrome to lay bare the core elements of his style: fusillades of wit, romantic chemistry, sharp characterization, tough-ass heroines, and dramatic confrontations. Despite the characters’ Club Monaco single-breasted suits, Much Ado About Nothing remains the play you tackled in middle-school English, the tale of an enchanted sausage festival in the country beset by a ridiculously evil villain, the action hinging on the incongruously cruel humiliation of a young girl. Whedon suggests the timelessness and universality of Much Ado, and he clearly wants his audience to be as uncomfortable with it. Shakespeare is a living art, relatable and pleasure-extruding with or without pantaloons, always as fun and engaging as its participants. Whedon, whose interests in vampires and spaceships are adjacent to his feminist perspective and love of classic literature, is a lot of fun, and he has talented friends. « Less

Reserved Seating 11:40 AM, 2:15 PM, 4:50 PM, 7:25 PM, 9:55 PM

Zack Snyder's Man of Steel is a movie event with an actual movie inside, crying to get out. Despite its preposterous self-seriousness, its overgrown, CGI'ed-to-death climax, and its desperate efforts to depict the destruction of, well, everything... More »

Zack Snyder's Man of Steel is a movie event with an actual movie inside, crying to get out. Despite its preposterous self-seriousness, its overgrown, CGI'ed-to-death climax, and its desperate efforts to depict the destruction of, well, everything on Earth, there's greatness in this retelling of the origin of Superman, moments of intimate grandeur, some marvelous, subtle acting, and a superhero costume that's a feat of mad mod genius. There's almost a story here. And the actors, including the picture's quietly dazzling star, Henry Cavill, do their damnedest to draw it out. But there’s no stopping what comic-book movies have become, especially those bearing the royal seal of Dark Knight auteur Christopher Nolan. (He's one of Man of Steel's producers and also helped develop the story.) In Man of Steel, the titan in the red cape is almost a distraction from the movie's larger mission to impress us with its spectacle and vague, lofty ideals. And once Michael Shannon's General Zod shows up on Earth with his dumb little goatee, you know it will only get bigger and emptier. It's a relief just to watch the actors act once in a while, and thankfully, Snyder is astute enough to punch some breathing holes in this steel-clad colossus. Amy Adams is a fine, no-nonsense Lois Lane; she makes nosiness sultry. And Kevin Costner and Diane Lane, in their depiction of heartland parents, turn corn-pone dialogue golden. No wonder their pensive, angst-ridden kid grows up to be Henry Cavill, so who grounds the movie. His Superman is more a listener than a talker. That's probably what happens when you have X-ray vision, and you can see Cavill soaking it all in. « Less

Reserved Seating 1:05 PM, 4:15 PM, 7:25 PM, 10:30 PM

For many people, particularly those who were in their twenties at the time of its release, Richard Linklater's 1995 Before Sunrise-- in which Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke play young tourists who fold a lifetime of romance (and plenty of arguing)... More »

For many people, particularly those who were in their twenties at the time of its release, Richard Linklater's 1995 Before Sunrise-- in which Julie Delpy and Ethan Hawke play young tourists who fold a lifetime of romance (and plenty of arguing) into one night--is one of those secret movies we keep in our pockets like lucky coins. For others, 2004's Before Sunset, which reunites Hawke's Jesse and Delpy's Celine in Paris and ends with one hell of a cliffhanger, is the treasure. Now along comes the painfully articulate Before Midnight. Proceed with caution, tissues, and possibly wearing armor. Here, Celine and Jesse-- now together although not married-- head off to a romantic hotel, free from their kids, where Celine's frustrations explode in a diatribe melding thousands of years of female oppression with the everyday anxieties of raising twins. She turns on Jesse with such vengeance that she nearly crushes their union. The original tagline for Before Sunrise was "Can the greatest romance of your life last only one night?" Here Celine raises a horrible counterpoint: Can you destroy the person you love most in less than an hour? Her suffering is real; it's her choice of words, their heat-seeking precision, that makes you want to take her by the shoulders and shout “STOP!” Celine does most of the talking, but it's really Hawke's movie-- we see in his eyes how Celine's misery cuts him. Her anguish is his failure. Jesse still dresses and carries himself like a kid, but adulthood has hit him hard, like a crack to the jaw, perhaps just now. « Less

Reserved Seating 11:30 AM, 2:05 PM, 4:40 PM, 7:15 PM, 9:45 PM

Sitcoms, especially since Seinfeld, have a way of getting audiences to root for jerks. The Kings of Summer attempts to pull off the same narrative trick by getting us to mistake 15-year-old protagonist, Joe (Nick Robinson), for a scamp instead of... More »

Sitcoms, especially since Seinfeld, have a way of getting audiences to root for jerks. The Kings of Summer attempts to pull off the same narrative trick by getting us to mistake 15-year-old protagonist, Joe (Nick Robinson), for a scamp instead of a sullen little shit, even when he calls his widower dad's girlfriend a "spider woman you found in the gutter." Joe thinks his gruff, sarcastic father (Nick Offerman, playing a less noble variation of Parks and Recreation's Ron Swanson) is totally ruining his life, so he moves into a fantasy cabin-- complete with a loft and air hockey table-- with his athletic best friend, Patrick (Gabriel Basso), and a nonsense-spouting ethnic cartoon named Biaggio (Moises Arias)-- one of the two dark-skinned, asexual characters the film prods us to laugh at. To clinch all the Urkel-era clichés, Joe and Patrick run away by telling their parents they're sleeping over at each other's house. For a while, the teenagers live in a Boys' Life paradise, jumping into lakes, dueling with swords, and sneaking off to Boston Market to retrieve dinner. But their idyll evaporates with the arrival of a popular blond girl (Erin Moriarty)-- do teenage boys in movies ever fall for anyone else?-- who unwittingly pits Joe and Patrick against each other. Joe’s conflicts with his friend and father lead to a tense, funny, mettle-testing climax, but the ending is more cornball than Tony Danza. The film's grown-up world-- populated by the tart, shticky likes of Offerman, Megan Mullally, Alison Brie, and Mary Lynn Rajskub-- a lot more interesting than its pimple-faced counterpart. « Less

Reserved Seating 12:40 PM, 3:00 PM, 5:20 PM, 7:40 PM, 10:10 PM

It's not news that the American "war on terror" has helped create growing anti-American sentiment (in Iraq and Afghanistan, for starters) rooted not in people's envy of our culture or hatred of our values but in the senseless bloodshed suffered... More »

It's not news that the American "war on terror" has helped create growing anti-American sentiment (in Iraq and Afghanistan, for starters) rooted not in people's envy of our culture or hatred of our values but in the senseless bloodshed suffered by their families and countrymen. A sobering illustration of how the U.S. creates such enemies is merely the starting point of Richard Rowley's documentary Dirty Wars. Written by David Riker and celebrated investigative journalist Jeremy Scahill (author of Blackwater: The Rise of the World's Most Powerful Mercenary Army), the film follows Scahill as he unpeels the layers of Joint Special Operations Command, the powerful covert military outfit that answers directly-- and only-- to the President, and whose maneuvers in the Middle East have left more civilians dead than we can know. Fast-moving and sleekly made, the film is woven from graphic images filmed on phones, in-the-field footage shot on handheld cameras, and interviews with both survivors of violence and stunningly calloused American military figures. At times it plays like a real-life Jason Bourne flick as Scahill travels from country to country connecting the dots between mysterious and misbegotten attacks on outpost villages, the U.S. military's hunt for the Taliban, and the complicity of both the U.S. government and media in covering up massacres and smearing journalists who do more than phone in PR-spun news. Dirty Wars is essential viewing for anyone who wants to know how we wage war right now; it's also a chilling prologue for what's likely a global future of endless war and blowback. « Less

Reserved Seating 11:10 AM, 1:20 PM, 3:30 PM, 5:40 PM, 7:50 PM, 10:05 PM

Directed by Morgan Neville in fan-boy mode (that's high praise), Twenty Feet from Stardom is an exquisitely rendered look at the dialectics of celebrity and artistry, luck and hard work, its conversation laced with smart observations about race... More »

Directed by Morgan Neville in fan-boy mode (that's high praise), Twenty Feet from Stardom is an exquisitely rendered look at the dialectics of celebrity and artistry, luck and hard work, its conversation laced with smart observations about race and gender. At heart, it's a praise-song for the many black women whose backing oohs and aahs have done the heavy lifting of turning good songs into classics and rock stars into icons. In its goals of tracking the birth and evolution of the background singer, and rescuing the women (primarily but not exclusively black) and men (a much smaller number whose ranks include the late Luther Vandross) from the sidelines, Neville's camera takes in a staggering amount—old performance footage and photos; original interviews with everyone from Darlene Love and Merry Clayton to Sting and Bruce Springsteen. Neville understands that one way pop stars function is as our proxies. Through them we get to imagine ourselves as talented, beautiful, sexy, powerful, and infallible. Even their failures are glossed with a patina of glam we common folk are denied when our lives crumble. In focusing on the backing singer, Neville complicates our notions of success, failure, and heroism. Perhaps a tad too long, Stardom is a rousing and at times heartbreaking cinematic experience. It does what the most powerful films and music have always done, which is to spark contemplation of our own lives and choices, and our place in the world, while also stoking compassion and empathy for lives far removed from our own. « Less

Reserved Seating 12:30 PM, 2:45 PM, 5:00 PM, 7:15 PM, 9:55 PM

At their best, Sofia Coppola's movies, so unassumingly tensile and precise, live in the present instead of just reflecting it. And that's precisely where The Bling Ring fails. Coppola adapted the script from a 2010 Vanity Fair article by Nancy Jo... More »

At their best, Sofia Coppola's movies, so unassumingly tensile and precise, live in the present instead of just reflecting it. And that's precisely where The Bling Ring fails. Coppola adapted the script from a 2010 Vanity Fair article by Nancy Jo Sales, documenting the crimes of a bunch of fairly well-off kids who couldn’t resist the allure of celebrity stuff: They repeatedly broke into the houses of lip-glosserati like Lindsay Lohan, Rachel Bilson, and Paris Hilton, making off with more than $3 million in cash, watches, clothing, jewelry, and shoes. Here, ambitious wannabes Marc (Israel Broussard), Rebecca (Katie Chang), and others played by Emma Watson and Taissa Farmiga Google celebs to find out who's out of town and then break-and-enter one fancy manse after another. Hilton's lair is the ne plus ultra-- the celebutante actually allowed Coppola to film there--boasting a separate room lined floor-to-ceiling with those blobby-looking Christian Louboutin platforms so beloved by women with crap taste and pots of money. The girls aren't the only ones who preen in these My Little Pony hooves; Marc flaunts a pair of hot-pink patent leather numbers, in the process betraying a touch of almost poignant gender confusion. The picture is a departure for Coppola, a half-appalled, half-amused piece of social reportage-- it lacks the illusive pastry layers of mood and tone of Somewhere or Marie Antoinette. Perhaps that's why it's almost impossible to know what Coppola is trying to say, or how she feels about her characters. It's as if she found her way to the material and discovered, too late, that it was an empty, glossy shell. « Less

Reserved Seating 11:00 AM, 1:10 PM, 3:20 PM, 5:30 PM, 7:40 PM, 9:45 PM