Julia Roberts and Ryan Murphy are not generally known for being schmaltzy (no, I ain’t Jewish, but it’s the perfect word), yet Eat Pray Love showcases how saccharine a mainstream movie can be–at its most uncomfortable when Julia Roberts as Liz Gilbert goes to an ashram in India and meets “Richard from Texas” and it gets all typically confessional and sad (Richard was a drunk who drove his wife and child away and now spends time “trying to forgive himself” through prayer). I don’t know, perhaps if I were more spiritual, it would resonate with me.

Julia Roberts as Liz Gilbert, longing for something more.

But I still maintain that Roberts and Murphy have produced far better, far more meaningful work. Maybe it’s because both of them are so accustomed to being involved in intense projects (Roberts with Erin Brockovich, Stepmom, and the iconic Pretty Woman and Murphy with Nip/Tuck and Running With Scissors) that they chose a movie designed to “pull at the heartstrings,” as they say.

Toward the blessed end of Eat Pray Love, Liz meets Felipe (Javier Bardem) in Bali and suddenly fears falling in love again.

Unfortunately for me, the pull was in my stomach, making me want to vomit after two hours and fourteen minutes of watching a glorified Oxygen movie. Even the scenery in Italy wasn’t enough to tide me over through the other hour and thirty minutes, because, pretty much from the moment Liz leaves Rome, this movie is boring as all get-out.

Serenity now!

The only true to life scene is in a barbershop in Italy as Liz listens to her Italian tutor, Giovanni (Luca Argentero) tell her that Americans may know entertainment, but they know nothing of pleasure. They always feel guilty for relaxing, but the Italians have a saying, “Dolce fare niente,” which means the sweetness of doing nothing. Perhaps if Ryan Murphy and Jennifer Salt (the co-writer of the script) had taken this approach, the resulting effect would seem a bit more organic, rather than totally forced for the sake of cashing in on Liz Gilbert’s ultra-successful memoir.

The beginning of Eat Pray Love is way too fucking long. It could've gotten to the point with a lot less James Franco in it.

Oh, and on a completely different side note, why is it that every time someone goes to India, we have to be assaulted with the visual of the person anxiously sitting in the back of a cab as he prepares to die while the driver weaves in and out of traffic (as with The Darjeeling Limited) and, just to make sure you get the feel for India, a song by M.I.A. will play in the background (as with Slumdog Millionaire)? In the case of Eat Pray Love, that song is “Boyz.” Incidentally, it’s like the only good song in the movie and it’s not even on the soundtrack.

Italy has struggled in recent decades to recapture the film glory of Cinecittà. The infrequency of quality films from the country that once put everyone else to shame with its bold and innovative productions is rather saddening. So when a film like The Sicilian Girl comes along, it really floors you, or at least me anyway since I have something of an obsession with my Italian heritage. But even for those who have no kindred ties to the country, this movie will still affect you in a pointed and incisive way. The ubiquitousness of the mafia in Sicily at this particular time in history is something that everyone should be cognizant of, because factions–and the inescapable hopelessness wrought by those factions–can form anywhere.

The somewhat disturbing promotional poster for La Siciliana Ribelle, indicating how much of what protagonist Rita sees is edited by her mafioso father

The film opens in a choppy, overly edited manner, showing snippets of Rita (Veronica D’Agostino) as she reluctantly gives her father Michele’s (played by Marcello Mazzarella) gun to her brother Carmelo (played by Carmelo Galati) so that he can use it to kill the man responsible for Michele’s death, Don Salvo (I know, everyone has badass names, right?). After this brief introduction, we are taken back seven years to 1985, just before Michele was killed. At this time, Rita is twelve, still naive to the corrupt and crime-ridden world around her, in spite of the fact that Don Michele is at the forefront of this criminal activity. For all of Don Michele’s underhanded dealings, there is no dubiousness about his love and affection for Rita, which is not something that can be said for Rita’s mother, who seems to loathe her even in the innocence of childhood. One example is when Rita writes on one of the sheets that is hanging out to dry on the clothesline with tomato sauce. As Rita’s mother chases after her to give her a beating, her father comes out onto the terrace to interfere. Rita tells him, “I’m learning to write.” Don Michele turns to smile at his wife and say, “That’s a good thing. Do you want her to be as ignorant as we are?”

The most despondent scene of the film: When Rita has to watch her father get shot and witness everyone around turn a blind eye and run inside.

The bond Rita has with her father is cut short after a run-in Don Michele has with another mafioso named Fiorebella, who intimates that the mafia is moving toward crime that is centered around drug trafficking. Even though Don Michele tries to squash that notion by killing Fiorebella in an intricate way that involves some rope, Don Salvo retaliates by having Don Michele killed in a public square of their small town just before Rita’s communion. Rita is the only one who rushes to his side as everyone else retreats into their homes or shops to avoid becoming a party to the conflict. From this moment forward, Rita is consumed with avenging her father’s death.

Rita ultimately turns to the state for help in prosecuting key members of the Sicilian mafia

When Carmelo tells her that Don Salvo is responsible, she yells at him, saying he is a coward for not gunning him down on sight. But Carmelo convinces her that they must bide their time and wait for the right moment. It is at this juncture that the film flashes forward again to 1992. She and Carmelo anxiously sit at the table as their typically subservient mother glides in and out of the kitchen to bring them food. During her absences from the table, Carmelo excitedly tells Rita that the time has finally come: He is close enough to Don Salvo’s clan to make a move. Rita shares his excitement but is uncertain about whether he should jump at such an uncertain chance. Carmelo cannot wait any longer, however, assuring Rita that everything will go as planned. So naturally, it doesn’t. The next morning, Carmelo’s body washes ashore and Rita’s boyfriend Vito (played by Francesco Casisa) has to restrain her from killing Don Salvo on sight. Vito, who is also closely knit to Don Salvo’s clan, betrays Rita by telling Don Salvo that Rita has gone to the chief prosecutor in Palermo to report the incident. To redeem himself though, Vito warns Rita that she must leave Sicily immediately.

On trial in Rome, Rita was one of the only Sicilians in history to break the Omertà, or mafia code of silence

Under the custody of the state, Rita is relocated to Rome under the new name of Silvia. More unsettled and dejected than ever, Rita has no one to turn to or confide in except the chief prosecutor who she risked everything to tell her story to. One of the best moments of Rita’s voiceover occurs during this period of loneliness, when she remarks, “People say time heals your wounds. But it really just gives them time to grow deeper.” Before justice can be administered, more carnage and loss must transpire in the already tragedian life of someone so young (Rita was seventeen years old in 1992).

The anti-mafia magistrate (left) in The Sicilian Girl was based on the real life Paolo Borsellino, whose car was wired to explode by the mafia during the trial

True to the events that happened, writer-director Marco Amenta concludes the film with Rita’s suicide. But before she jumps off the building of her fake apartment that belongs to her fake life under another fake identity (this time the witness protection program changes her name to Elena), she tells Vito, “This time, the mafia loses. This time, I win. Rita wins.” It couldn’t be a better way to state how much she sacrificed to take a stand against the sordid, cruel world of the mafia.

Marilyn Monroe will always have enough allure to be able to draw in a movie theater crowd. It’s part of what has earned her the well-deserved title of Legend. That’s why the Film Forum, New York’s preeminent cinema for watching cabalistic and obscure films, had the good business sense to choose Gentlemen Prefer Blondes as part of their Hollywood retrospective. The thing about Marilyn is, most people really don’t seem to be acquainted with her onscreen persona, but rather with her serene photographic poses. The motive for going to see one of her movies in the theater is to see her figure and the face that has a perpetually drugged air about it in animated pose. But as Marilyn appears less and less fuckable as the societal body image shifts completely to “Sorry, men are only interested in twigs with anatomically incorrect big tits to match,” will Marilyn still have the same draw? It’s difficult to say because, when audiences go to see one of her movies, it seems like they’re actually surprised by how comically adept she is. If everyone knew this going in, Marilyn’s legend would be sure to truly last forever despite the prospect that she will very soon be deemed morbidly obese by current standards.

Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell in a promotional still for the film

Even in New York, where intellectualism is rumored to abound, audiences have difficulty keeping a straight face through some of the more dated dialogue and practices of the time. Marilyn’s presence alone isn’t enough to distract from the occasional corniness that results from starring in a musical. Plus, the film was made in 1953, when Marilyn Monroe was still not a big enough star to snag the lead role, ousted by Jane Russell for top billing.

The fearless duo contemplate how to get out of a pickle

All of this being said, it is probably in the best interest of someone as supercilious as me to stay at home and watch a movie like this, but the 35mm print proved irresistible, and made watching it in HD look like a fucking joke. But my quandary with sharing a movie like this in a public venue stems from the fact that I just hate it when people can’t appreciate what the past was like, choosing to mock it instead of understand it. And when you think about it, if people from the past saw how we lived and functioned today, they would most likely pity us rather than jeer at the travesty of modernism.

The version of Marilyn Monroe that people are familiar with is the one in photographs

Regardless of the intermittent giggle at the sight of a scene or conversation that was foreign to the modern experience, people are still clearly enamored of this musical comedy, which is a considerable feat since almost no one can sit through a musical of any variety anymore. The reason for Gentlemen Prefer Blondes‘ ability to hold up after so many decades lies in the directorial genius of Howard Hawks and the finely tuned comedic timing of Charles Lederer’s script. Lederer also collaborated with Hawks and Monroe on one of their previous films, Monkey Business. The ribald nature of his writing and the double entendres peppered throughout the screenplay are able to make the film classically funny. A case in point is during one of the first scenes, when Lorelei’s (Monroe) fiance comes to her dressing room to give her a diamond ring and asks, “Is it too big?” to which Lorelei quips, “It can never be too big.”

One of Monroe's most iconic movie scenes as she sings "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend"

Lederer’s prior familiarity with Monroe’s personality may also have given him the foresight to write such precise dialogue for the “character” of Lorelei, who is really just a more parodic version of Monroe. Certain lines, like, “It’s awful to feel lonely. Especially in a crowd” evince the notion that she knew exactly what it meant to understand that feeling. Another acutely written line occurs when Dorothy (Russell) asks Lorelei if maybe they’ve put too many sleeping pills in Ernie’s (the private detective who has been watching Lorelei’s every move) drink, prompting Lorelei to retort, “Anything worth doing is worth doing right,” an eerie prediction of her future dependency on Seconal.

"Men grow colder as women grow older."

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes is one of about six films (the others being How To Marry A Millionaire, Bus Stop, The Misfits, Some Like It Hot, and The Seven Year Itch) that showcase how talented Monroe was as an actress, not just as a sex symbol.

Kevin Kline quoting Napoleon (who I’m not sure actually ever said that) in Shari Springer Berman and Robert Pulcini’s joint directorial effort, The Extra Man, gives us unintentionally good advice about how to watch this film. Like every other seemingly “original” movie you see a trailer for, The Extra Man is derived from a novel of the same name. Jonathan Ames, who penned the book, also helped Springer Berman and Pulcini write the script. Somehow though, I have a feeling the book is better.

Kevin Kline: Not a gigolo, just a seat filler

Henry Harrison (Kevin Kline) may appear the central character of the movie, another misleading element in the trailer, but it all comes down to the alienation of Louis Ives, played by the evermore loveable Paul Dano (he puts Michael Cera’s portrayal of awkwardness to shame). This alienation manifests itself early in the plot when Louis’ sexual issues are made apparent from the get-go. After discussing The Great Gatsby with a student (suspend your disbelief at the thought of Dano being old enough to carry off the professorial role), he retreats to the teacher’s lounge, where he can’t resist grabbing a bra out of someone’s bag and putting it on over his suit. Naturally, his boss walks in during this nod to Jean-Paul Gaultier’s vision of fashion, subsequently contributing to his sacking. While Louis may not have a plucky, seize the day attitude, he ultimately takes this as an omen to finally move to Manhattan like he has always dreamed of doing.

Mary Powell (Katie Holmes) and Louis share an uncomfortable working relationship for the majority of the film

Like every fresh off the boat Manhattanite, Louis makes a rather unfortunate choice about his living situation, being somewhat pressured to move in with Harrison after looking at the apartment earlier that day. Harrison is more than eager to take Louis on as a lodger (for a paltry 350 dollars a month no less. On East 91st Street. Yeah fucking right. You can’t even get that price in Washington Heights). Harrison’s motives are not all that sentimental, however, when he reveals to Louis that he’s the best candidate because he’s the only one that came to see the apartment who speaks English.

Louis (left): The peanut butter to Harrison's jelly. That sounds inadvertently sexual.

Louis is able to fill in the next piece of the survival puzzle by finding a job at an environmental magazine called Terra, where he meets the weird/somewhat annoying Mary Powell (Katie Holmes. See, Tom Cruise lets her work). At first, he is taken with her, in spite of the fact that she openly says she loves Bob Marley and has plans to go to Jamaica with her boyfriend. His faith in her confidence is so great that he even feels brash enough to confess to her that he sometimes pretends he’s a character in an F. Scott Fitzgeraldesque novel with a narrator recounting his every move and thought. And it is at this point that we start to see Louis’ craziness become more evident. Soon after, he goes to a prostitute (played by Patti D’Arbanville, who some may recognize as Rayanne Graff’s drunken mother on My So-Called Life) to cross-dress and get spanked. Having gotten a small taste of sexual deviancy, Louis also goes to Sally’s Tranny Bar, not because he’s particularly interested in fucking, but because he wants to look like one of them.

Paul Dano, Katie Holmes, and Kevin Kline at The Extra Man premiere in New York

As you might have gathered by now, The Extra Man is unequivocal in its absurd hilarity, but, at its core, I don’t think the film has any idea what it is trying to express. And this is the fatal flaw that holds it back from being as good as it could be.

It’s been over twenty years since the footage of esteemed/adored/regarded graffiti artist Jean-Michel Basquiat was filmed by Tamra Davis, a “friend” of Basquiat’s while he was in his L.A. phase. That footage is now a documentary called Jean-Michel Basquiat: The Radiant Child. You may detect a hint of derisiveness in my tone when I refer to Davis as Basquiat’s friend, but it’s only because I find it a hair exploitive that she would turn the footage into a movie in the wake of directing 2002′s Crossroads (that’s right, the one starring Britney “Hot Mess” Spears). Since then, Davis has directed television episodes only. And while I would like to have faith in the assumption that she created the project out of appreciation for the mind of a genius, a part of me can’t resist thinking there’s an ulterior motive. Though in Davis’ defense, the Basquiat crowd is definitely a niche audience, but that doesn’t mean the film won’t work to the benefit of restoring her credibility.

Promotional poster for The Radiant Child

The film opens with an eerily prophetic poem from Langston Hughes, called “The Genius Child.” The poem reads as follows:

This is a song for the genius child.
Sing it softly, for the song is wild.
Sing it softly as ever you can -
Lest the song get out of hand.

Nobody loves a genius child.

Can you love an eagle,
Tame or wild?
Can you love an eagle,
Wild or tame?
Can you love a monster
Of frightening name?

Nobody loves a genius child.

Kill him – and let his soul run wild.

The utter accuracy of this poem is astonishing. It is as though Langston Hughes crafted the words expressly with Basquiat in mind. From there, the film proceeds to inform us of the gloom and metaphorical alluvion that took place in the New York of the late 70s and early 80s. Because of how cheap it was to live in the East Village at that time, artists were actually able to be artists without having to have the motherfucking scourge known as a day job. Basquiat, already a native of Brooklyn, didn’t have too much difficulty making the transition to downtown New York, where he essentially lived as a vagabond tagging the walls of SoHo with the moniker of Samo (an abbreviation for Same Old Shit). This notoriety would allow Basquiat to parlay his name recognition into a loosely autobiographical film called Downtown 81, following Basquiat through the sullied streets of downtown in search of someone who will buy one of his paintings.

Basquiat: In his post success phase

Gradually, the downtown scene came to consist of several key players, such as Keith Haring, Debbie Harry, Thurston Moore, Fab Five Freddy (a frequent cohort of Basquiat’s), Madonna (who naturally had a brief sexual dalliance with Basquiat around 1982, referred to in several of his paintings), the already firmly established Julian Schnabel, and, eventually, Jean-Michel Basquiat. These well-known faces of the Lower East Side became known as “The Downtown 500″ (though I find it hard to grasp that there could be five hundred famous people within such a small radius).

Basquiat would often paint with the TV on, the record player playing, and a stack of books that he could intermittently refer to

In spite of Basquiat’s immense strife at the start of his career, it didn’t take long for people to start asking questions about who the elusive Samo was and where they could get more of his unique take on graffiti art. Diego Cortez, the first supportive curator of Basquiat’s work, was more than willing to help the young prodigy move forward in his career, noting of the 1980s New York art scene, “I was tired of white people, white walls, and white wine.”

Opening credits for The Radiant Child

Once Cortez started promoting Basquiat’s art, it took about less than a second for the 20 year old to explode. Soon after, curator Annina Nosei was offering the young artist a basement studio on 100 Prince Street (currently the building where Prada offshoot Miu Miu has taken up residence). At last, Basquiat was given the space and the freedom to create limitlessly.

During happier (read: drug-free) times

However, as many critics and fans have speculated, becoming famous at such a young age and continuing to ascend into the limelight at such a rapid pace forced Basquiat to fall even harder. In 1986, Basquiat had a joint exhibition with mentor/friend Andy Warhol. Rather than being praised as one might have expected, the show was unanimously panned, seen by outsiders as a way for Warhol to cash in on a trend and a way for Basquiat to gain acclaim from the largely white-dominated art world.

Advert for the Warhol/Basquiat collaborative art show

Another speculative reason within the documentary for Basquiat’s insistence on turning to heroin for comfort and validation was the lack of such predilections from the tastemakers of art and the curators of major museums like the MoMA, still largely dominated by a crusty, oldish white demographic. In an early TV appearance, the interviewer talking to Basquiat makes the mistake of telling him that his work is “primal.” Basquiat retorts, “You mean like an ape?” It is unquestionable that Basquiat was constantly under pressure to prove himself as a representative for the “black community.” And while the “white people are assholes” bandwagon is already pretty fucking full, in this case, the sentiment rings true.

Basquiat fled to Los Angeles for a time during his later career, opting to live in the laidback Venice area

What Jean Michel Basquiat: The Radiant Child seems to be saying is that all geniuses are subconsciously doomed to spiral out of control, too sensitive and too lonely to exist in the same world with the rest of us, merely grateful admirers of the work.

In general, film locations for the American movie are generally either New York, Los Angeles, or someplace that is so nondescript it’s not worth mentioning within the context of the plot. And let’s face it, no one really gives a fuck about San Diego. Even in Some Like It Hot when they actually are in San Diego, they pretend it’s Florida. Then there’s Chicago, which gave us the unfortunate disaster that was The Break Up starring Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Aniston. So it seems the one city that is occasionally forgotten in terms of how many amazing films have used it as a backdrop is San Francisco. Below are some of the finest cinematic frames rendered in a city that once prompted Oscar Wilde to say, “It is an odd thing, but everyone who disappears is said to be seen in San Francisco. It must be a delightful city, and possess all the attractions of the next world.”

1. Vertigo: Only Alfred Hitchcock could make paranoia and deception look this good. The best scene ever captured in front of the Golden Gate Bridge is when Jimmy Stuart rescues Kim Novak from her fake plunge into the San Francisco Bay.

This scene fucking regulates

2. Dirty Harry: Clint Eastwood as rogue inspector Harry Callahan isn’t the only thing that makes this movie worth watching repeatedly. The opening shot alone of an anonymous killer skulking from atop a high building waiting to hone in on his prey shows us a side of San Francisco that only a loose representation of the Zodiac killer could force us to see.

"Do you feel lucky?"

3. Play It Again, Sam: Woody Allen may have filmed movies in Europe, but he only left New York once in favor of the west coast. In the 1972 film adaptation of his play based on a neurotic man who lives his life by taking guidance from imaginary friend Humphrey Bogart, Allen shows a brief affection for a part of the country he usually disdains.

San Francisco: Momentarily graced with Woody's wit

4. What’s Up, Doc?: Some people think The Way We Were or Prince of Tides is Barbra at her best, but nothing–nothing–is as good as the scene with Ryan O’Neal and Streisand trapped on a delivery bike careening through the steep streets of San Francisco.

Streisand songs were never this fast-paced

5. Bullitt: Admittedly, this movie is not very good. But it won an Academy Award at a time when that still meant something. What makes it number five for me is how fucking good the city looks in a car chase scenario. It was 1968 so it all had the fresh appearance of an unpolluted, relatively unpopulated city. Plus, Steve McQueen is hotter than a recently steamed tamale. More men should strive for his ruggedness.

San Francisco brought out the sexier side of car chases

6. Foul Play: Goldie Hawn truly established her skills as a comedienne in the hijinks of this movie. Oh yeah, and Chevy Chase is kind of there. Like always.

This might be the only movie where Chevy Chase takes his top off in a sexual context

7. Harold and Maude: What city could be better for the suicidal tendencies of an adolescent boy? After all, the Golden Gate Bridge is the number one locale for jumpers.

The first documented case of gerontophilia

8. The Maltese Falcon: San Francisco, 1941, Humphrey Bogart. Enough said.

9. Milk: Sean Penn, a man who in the early days of his career would never be associated with playing a flamboyantly gay politician, gives Harvey Milk and his city the tribute they deserve in this historical biopic filmed prevalently in the Castro.

Harvey Milk's constituency: Fighting for their right to party

10. So I Married An Axe Murderer: Maybe I’ll get a lot of shit for this one, but I just don’t care. I was almost tempted to place it above Bullitt. This movie is the last great thing Mike Meyers will ever do. And how can you resist the warm, fuzzy feeling that rises up in your chest when you see the scene of him driving while “There She Goes” by The La’s plays in the background?

Even a black and white still can't make this movie look serious

Adrien Brody has been accused of having made quite a few bad film choices over the course of his career, but perhaps none of those choices have been as maligned as 2002′s Dummy. The story, written and directed by Greg Pritikin (who really hasn’t done much else since then), follows the extremely pitiable life of Steven (Adrien Brody), a 28 year old who works in an office and lives with his parents. His best friend Fangora (Milla Jovovich) is not in a much better position either. In many cases, her situation is worse since she has to live with her belligerent and ailing mother who is constantly screaming at her to pick up her prescription from the drugstore. And, while Steven at least has a soul-crushing office job, Fangora (or “Fannie,” as her mother calls her) has no source of income.

Steven and Fangora: BFFs since high school

So far the plot is sounding fairly normal, right? The protagonist has a dismal life and relies on his only friend for relatability in a town where nothing ever happens. But throw ventriloquism into the mix, and things always become a bit creepier. We don’t know much about what Steven was like or how he functioned before the introduction of the dummy into his life, we only know that, within minutes of the film’s opening, he feels compelled to buy a dummy after watching an old Hollywood movie. Evidently, his lifelong dream has been to become a ventriloquist.

Promotional poster for Dummy

Around the same time he starts practicing his act, Steven gets fired for fucking up the copy machine, though it’s clear his boss was just looking for any excuse to get rid of Steven’s awkward, gawky ass. Enter Lorena (one of Vera Farmiga’s earlier roles, and probably one she’s slightly ashamed of in the wake of critical acclaim for films like Up in the Air and The Departed), an employment counselor Steven must see as part of his quest for a new job. He shyly admits to her that the sort of work he’s looking for would ideally include use of his ventriloquism skills. Instead of being totally fucking freaked out and put off, Lorena is actually sort of beguiled by Steven. One woman’s psychopath is another woman’s Casanova I suppose.

Lorena braves a typical date with Steven

In the midst of all this, Steven’s family (best described as Partridge Family zany mixed with Royal Tenenbaums repressed) serves as an explanation for why Steven is so maladroit. His sister Heidi (the much underrated Illeana Douglas) is recovering from a broken off engagement and coping with the fact that her ex is the type of guy who would jump out of a bush and stab you, his mother (the always enjoyable Jessica Walter, best remembered for playing Lucille Bluth on Arrested Development) is obsessed with making sure Steven always has a sandwich, and his father is consumed with making model ships. So yeah, not the most conducive environment for elevating one’s self-confidence.

Adrien Brody at the 2002 premiere of Dummy

For all intents and purposes, Dummy is truly one of Adrien Brody’s best role choices. At least better than the roles he had in The Village, Hollywoodland, Splice, and King Kong. I think what made this film seem so odious to critics was that it was released the same year that The Pianist came out, the film that won Brody an Oscar. In comparison, people viewed the existence of Dummy as something that was in offensively bad taste. I mean, to them, it was like Brody was almost diminishing the Holocaust by trying to cash in with another movie about ventriloquism–which is why people who star in Holocaust movies shouldn’t be in another movie for the rest of the year. But maybe now that there’s some distance from the overlapping of The Pianist‘s and Dummy‘s release, Dummy can be revisited and seen for what it is: One of Brody’s best independent film roles.

So goes the tagline for Angelina Jolie’s latest film after a two-year absence from the silver screen. And, much like another famous (and rhyming) question, “Who is John Galt?,” Evelyn Salt proves herself to be just as mysterious and multi-faceted. Though it is no secret that the script was originally intended to be played by a male lead, Jolie still manages to surprise with just how well she is able to hold her own in a genre that has primarily been reserved for men.

The promotional (and enigmatical) poster for Salt

Opening in everyone’s favorite capital for torture and general scariness, North Korea, Salt is tormented brutally when she does not admit to her enemies that she is a spy. Already within the first minute, it seems she will not survive. And that trepidation persists for most of the film as we watch Salt fight for her liberty from the CIA agents in pursuit of her after an inscrutable Russian named Orlov tips them off to the idea that she is a Russian spy, the concept of which could not be more chic right now in the wake of Anna Chapman’s arrest in New York.

Jolie: Going rogue with dark hair in the latter half of the film to camouflage herself. Plus, brunettes always symbolize a more sinister nature, n'est-ce pas?

Naturally, when her colleagues become privy to the insinuation, they try to lock her into a room for questioning. But this bitch ain’t having none of that. She concocts a simple yet elaborate bomb, explodes her way out, and runs away in search of her husband, Mike (August Diehl), a German scholar of spiders and the person who was responsible for her safe return from North Korea. From there, she goes to her apartment to find him. Once again, in the natural progression of Kurt Wimmer’s (another screenwriter to loathe on the basis of the money he’s made on a string of similar action stories, including The Recruit, Ultraviolet, and Law Abiding Citizen) script, Salt comes home to discover an overturned chair and an uneaten sandwich–short of an unexpected onset of diarrhea, these are all the telltale signs of an abduction.

Playing the angel as a blonde

At this point, it would seem like Salt’s new mission would be solely to find her missing husband, but it quickly devolves into fulfilling everyone’s suspicions about her as a Russian spy planted in the CIA to ultimately assassinate the Russian president at the U.S. vice president’s funeral (but I highly doubt there would be that much fanfare over the death of a vice president. Joe Biden could die today and a lot of people would say, “Who?”).

An arcane look that Jolie has for most of the movie

Since it does appear that spy movies are having a renaissance, other films will be hard-pressed to match the twists and turns of Salt. Take another, much shittier “spy movie” from earlier this summer, Killers. Although it was marketed as more of a comedy to compensate for its badness, it had many of the same key points: People are planted within normal, everyday life to strike when the time is right, no one is to be trusted, and everyone you thought you could trust is a total liar and asshole. Director Phillip Noyce (who also directed Jolie in The Bone Collector) is very adept at wielding the script in this way, evoking paranoia and mistrust at every corner. And he deserves many accolades for one of the best (or at least in the top five) scenes in the film: Salt strangling someone (who shall remain unnamed) by lurching upward, catching the person’s neck with the chains that are binding her hands, and “falling” off the side of the staircase.

The faceless people of Salt

To say anymore about the film would be to ruin the suspense, so I’ll just say this: As with most movies released in the summer, there is definitely sequel potential. Angelina Jolie may have briefly been distracted by children and UNICEF, but she is back in a big way judging both from her flawless action genre moves and from how many upcoming projects she has been working on (most notably the biopics about Cleopatra and Gucci).

Before the currently lauded–though paled in comparison to this documentary’s subject–music producers of recent decades (Timbaland, Nellee Hooper, Dallas Austin, William Orbit, Stephen Street, Mirwais Ahmadzai, Feadz, Brian Eno, Dr. Dre, et. al.), there was the unworldly genius of Phil Spector. And he is an incontestable genius. This is one instance where music is not subjective. The Agony and the Ecstasy of Phil Spector is simultaneously intimate and impersonal. It does not rehash the events of Phil Spector’s life, so much as it interweaves footage from his trial for the murder of actress Lana Clarkson with sound bites and video footage of the music he produced, along with filmmaker Vikram Jayanti’s (who loses just a shred of artistic integrity by having directed another music documentary called Britney Spears Saved My Life) interviews with Spector while he was on trial the first time in 2007.

One of many scenes from the film that involves long shots of Phil Spector simply sitting there tremoring.

Phil Spector’s openness and ability to discuss some of his greatest collaborations (The Ronettes, John Lennon, The Beatles, The Righteous Brothers, and The Crystals) stem from the mindset of facing a possible conviction and sentencing. He is unafraid to malign, among others, Tony Bennett (the person he regards most as overrated it would seem), Paul McCartney (when discussing how Spector felt about McCartney re-releasing the Let It Be album without Phil Spector’s production and arrangements, he said, “He has me mixed up with somebody who gives a shit”), and Yoko Ono (on producing her music, he asserts, “I had to pass on that”).

Spector during more dashing days

The reason the film can be both agony and ecstasy for viewers is because of just how bluntly it portrays the bleak and lonely existence of being a genius. And while Spector may claim that loneliness is a state of mind, you can either choose to be lonely or not, I imagine he is someone who has been misunderstood from the very beginning. Case in point being his first hit song, “To Know Him Is To Love Him” by The Teddy Bears. The song is automatically interpreted as the lament of unrequited love, though it is actually, Spector confirms, about his father. That is in fact the epitaph on his father’s grave, who committed suicide when Spector was ten years old.

One of Spector's finest musical contributions, The Ronettes

Regardless of Spector’s inner turmoil, he has always been able to turn his pain into solid pop gold, as he did with The Righteous Brothers’ classic “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’” (immortalized in cheesy goodness by Top Gun). “Imagine” and “God,” two of his finest John Lennon songs, are also indicative of a very despairing, yet hopeful person. That tinge of hope would ultimately be obliterated in the decade that followed John Lennon’s murder. Additionally, the death of his son, Phil Spector Jr., in 1991 didn’t fortify his faith in spirituality. He notes that it merely reiterated to him that there is no god, but there must be a devil.

John Lennon's message of peace is slightly saturated with Spector's cynical air

The purpose of this documentary is not to create a bias about the guilt of Phil Spector in the murder of Lana Clarkson (although I have difficulty believing that someone with such a tremulous, unsteady hand could aim a gun that well), but to give an honest portrait of a man who has lost everything in spite of giving so much to the world of music, and, resultantly, to the world as a whole.

There is something Inception has vaguely in common with an obscure, little known short film that they only make you watch in film school. It’s called Wavelength and it is illustrious for having a forty-five minute zoom-in shot. That’s about the amount of time each scene takes to culminate in Inception, of particular note when a white van falls backwards off of a bridge in slow motion at the pace of a cripple descending the subway steps. We get it, they’re in layer one of dream time, enough crosscutting for fuck’s sake. Needless to say, I didn’t much care for Wavelength and I don’t much care for Inception, though I can see the merit in both.

Half the fun of making a movie is posing for still shots and proving you're attractive enough to be in one

I realize this is going to be one of those movies that everyone is on board to love. It’s “thought-provoking” and “riveting” and a number of other Variety-esque quotes. Plus, Christopher Nolan wrote and directed it, automatically denoting an expected reverence for the man who gave us Batman Begins, The Dark Knight, and The Prestige (all of which are better than Inception). Still, there isn’t anything notably exceptional about the film apart from the visual effects and that Cillian Murphy loves to be in movies where he’s on a plane. One of the chief annoyances is that, as a viewer, you know more of the premise and backstory from reading the plotline in advance than you do from actually seeing the movie. Let’s take, I don’t know, that this dream invading thing has to do with corporate espionage and that it’s presumably sometime in the future, to name some examples. At least other dystopian narratives like Children of Men have the decency to specify when in the future it takes place.

Oh yeah, and no one enunciates anything. The whole time I thought Leonardo DiCaprio’s name was either Tom or Don, but I guess it’s Dom. No one is named that except Italian villains in badly written gangster movies, so you can understand that wasn’t my first guess. And Ken Watanabe as Saito should really invest in a more savvy dialect coach. But it isn’t even just these small details that left me unsatisfied. It is the overall presumption that directorial style and cinematography are enough to carry a film.

For all of my aversions, there are subtleties in the film that can still be appreciated in spite of other shortcomings. Like the use of Edith Piaf’s “Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien” as the song Dom’s team uses to come out of a dream, correlating with Marion Cotillard, who plays femme fatale Mal (not a very discrete symbolic name, is it?) and who also played Edith Piaf in La Vie En Rose.

Considering its billing as an action-packed sort of movie, for the most part, when buildings aren’t crumbling and cities aren’t folding in half, there are quite a few dull moments. I was almost hoping Ellen Page would just break into her Juno schtick and say, “I’d like to procure a hasty abortion.” The end of the film is what seems to be most impressive to audiences, begging the question: Was it all real or imagined? You can also view American Psycho, Donnie Darko, Memento (Christopher Nolan’s ultimate in studied neurosis), and Fight Club to “incept” a similar question within your mind. What can you do? Psychosis is a common theme in Hollywood. Mainly because it’s a common characteristic in people who run Hollywood.