It may be a delusional assertion, but I’ve never been so underwhelmed by the buildup to a theatrical release (well, excluding Sex and the City, but that was no shock. I had genuine faith in this Burton/Disney collaboration). Alice in Wonderland, whether in 3D or not, was a dim reminder of Tim Burton’s abilities. I did like Bayard the talking bloodhound though. In fact, I don’t think people realize it, but that might be why a great many moviegoers are coerced into being so taken by this film: Everyone’s a pushover for the wide-eyed look of a dog that can speak English, not to mention the added bonus of Johnny Depp in drag.

The Mad Hatter and the Red Queen: Residents of a Wonderland I care not to visit

Writer Linda Woolverton can be credited with most of the originality of the film in her take on Lewis Carroll’s storybook version of Alice in Wonderland, called “What Alice Found There,” combining it with some of the premises of Disney’s 1951 animated version. But even a decent script can fall by the wayside if all of the emphasis is on the visual; this makes what sparse dialogue there is highly vulnerable to judgment. I think the only non-banal line that was delivered came from the mouth of Crispin Glover (who else could be trusted with such a purpose?) when he said to Alice in giant form, “I like your largeness.”

Crispin Glover as the Knave of Hearts

Even though the audience knows going in that this is going to be Tim Burton’s rendering of a time-honored, classic story, it is heinously lacking some of the best elements, one of them being the white rabbit screaming, “I’m late, I’m late for a very important date!” or the Queen of Hearts pitching a fit about someone painting her roses red. Or even the walrus and his clam family. Everything is merely a subtle reference or an inconsequential nod to the precendents set by the original story (though the inclusion of the jabberwocky was a pretty badass move). Not to say that Lewis Caroll’s psychedelic ranting is worthy of bible-level reverence, but there should be some amount of more highly attuned compliance to this dearly departed, drug-addled literary figure.

Anne Hathaway in her unblemished portrayal of the White Queen

Another item to consider is the timing of this film’s release. The entire plot is centered around ending the reign of an evil and depraved ruler. It would have been nice if this could have coincided with the Bush years. Obama hasn’t quite yet reached this level of odium yet. At least not until after the final resolution for health care. It just would have given the movie a layer of depth that is appreciably missing underneath the five hundred coats of makeup on the combined faces of Johnny Depp, Helena Bonham Carter, and Anne Hathaway. There’s also the contradictory message of saying “All the best people are mad” and then turning around and condemning the Red Queen for her diabolical eccentricity. Why Tim, are you a secret advocate of Mahmoud Ahmadinejad?

There is a trend among people who rise to the top too quickly: Their metaphorical wick tends to burn out faster and with a slightly more pathetic than usual flicker. Whether it’s because of the constant pressure to produce material or the unrealistic expectations of managers, studios, and fans, the “stars” and “auteurs” who achieve success from the get-go do not appear as determined to hang on to their integrity. My case in point is one, Tim Burton, who, with his unquestionable creativity and inventiveness during the infancy of his career, drew the attention of notable names like Griffin Dunne and Paul Reubens in the early eighties with his offbeat projects, Vincent and Frankenweenie.

Burton: Maestro of the Macabre

After directing Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure, the door to Hollywood was wide open to Burton and he barreled through without ever looking back to the imagination of his former self, the aspiring demiurge who attended Cal Arts and passed the dull days in Burbank by concocting demented visions in his mind. His imaginitiveness remained intact for his next two film projects, Beetlejuice and Batman, even if it was the inception of Burton’s perverse pattern of remakes and rip-offs. But then, in 1990, it looked as though the original Burton was making a comeback with what is, in my opinion, the zenith of his work, Edward Scissorhands.

Tim Burton and his frequent muse, Johnny Depp

The film was an incontrovertible triumph for Burton, who was able to secure his childhood obsession, Vincent Price, in the role of the inventor. After the critical acclaim garnered by Edward Scissorhands, Warner Brothers, now somewhat more trusting of Burton’s abilities, granted him total control of the sequel to Batman, Batman Returns. Perhaps innovative by nineties standards, Christopher Nolan later proved himself to be the best director of the Batman series. Once Burton had cashed in on Batman, he returned (maybe guiltily) to his smaller scale roots with The Nightmare Before Christmas, his very last totally original effort. Following the animated phantasmagoria of Nightmare, Burton churned out adaptations and derivations consistently, including Ed Wood, James and the Giant Peach, Mars Attacks!, Sleepy Hollow, Planet of the Apes, Big Fish, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, and imminently, Alice in Wonderland. The sole work out of the past seventeen years created by Burton being Corpse Bride, a mere imitation of The Nightmare Before Christmas.

Farewell to the singular mind: Burton's last truly original work was 1993's The Nightmare Before Christmans

All of this begs the question: Where the hell has Burton’s sense of ingenuity disappeared to? Was the last of it stolen by the ghost of Lewis Carroll or is Burton simply contented with the money he gets out of being Hollywood’s go-to director for “weird” movies? While Burton’s body of work is still something to be proud of regardless of being utterly devoid of his own ideas, I’m not sure there is any hope of him ever returning to the purely unprecedented and unconventional nature of his early films.

I can’t tell if I liked this movie because I have ovaries and I’m supposed to relish the empty frothiness of romantic comedies or because it’s just one of those goddamn feel good movies you can’t stop yourself from liking. Garry Marshall has always been adept at inflicting this sentiment on the viewing public (see Overboard, Pretty Woman, Runaway Bride, and The Princess Diaries for evidence) and I must say that I’m a little astonished no one thought to make a movie called Valentine’s Day prior to now. The profits, present and future, are going to be immeasurable (at least to someone like me who never has to worry about counting any higher than $30,000.00 dollars).

Slap some stars together and you've got yourself a movie

I think that’s why so many B-list names flocked to the project: This movie will be shown on some medium of entertainment every year on Valentine’s Day from this point forward. The royalties will be extremely satisfactory, at least enough for another plastic surgery operation or an additional wing in someone’s Beverly Hills home. The only true A-lister (as opposed to rising B-lister) in the movie is Julia Roberts, whose best scene got axed in favor of turning in into an outtake shown as the credits roll. The outtake displays, yet again, her comfortableness with being self-referential as a key source of comedic timing and tacit knowingness between her and the audience (a gimmick that first began in Ocean’s Twelve). Her stardom was almost matched by the combination of Jennifer Garner, Patrick Dempsey, Jessica Biel, Jamie Foxx, Topher Grace, Anne Hathaway, Eric Dane, Bradley Cooper, Ashton Kutcher, and Jessica Alba. And let’s not forget the Queen, Latifah.

Holden (Bradley Cooper) and Kate (Julia Roberts) share a plane ride to L.A.

The stories of the aforementioned’s characters intertwine throughout Valentine’s Day in Los Angeles, the worst possible setting for Marshall to choose if he had wanted to have any bearing on reality, but I get it, it’s easier to film in L.A. The first couple we meet is Reed (Ashton Kutcher) and Morley (Jessica Alba, who should spend less time at the hair salon/in the tanning bed and more time at acting class). Reed’s flower shop, Siena Bouquet, is the uniting force between the events of the day. For instance, it’s how Reed finds out that smooth-talking doctor Harrison Copeland (Patrick Dempsey) is married even though he’s supposed to be banging Julia (Jennifer Garner), Reed’s best friend, exclusively. P.S. Patrick, get a new role to play besides the dashing doctor. Grey’s Anatomy has to end sometime.

Julia (Jennifer Garner) is at first the only attendee of Kara's (Jessica Biel) annual I Hate Valentine's Day party

Now let me sidebar here to say that the only reason I disagreed with Kanye West’s impromptu attack of Taylor Swift in defense of Beyonce winning the Grammy is because at least Taylor Swift had spared us any attempts at acting. I rescind all sympathies to her from that night. And I think I might rescind my earlier statement about liking this movie. Because it’s wrong, just plain wrong, to like a movie with Taylor Swift in it, no matter how minor the role.

I guess this movie isn’t all that unlike the one-night stand a single person desperately searches for on Valentine’s Day: It seems alright at first glance, but when you examine it too closely, you realize the error of your ways in ever thinking it was acceptable. What Valentine’s Day seeks to confirm is that this is a “holiday” about the cursory good time of sex—not love—an assertion that is made in the film’s closing line: “Let’s get naked.” Please don’t let that include Shirley MacLaine or Hector Elizondo in your mental image.

“Kaboom!” “Whoosh!” “Bang!” “Motherfucker!” Those are the signature sounds of any action film, but add the fact that Luc Besson and John Travolta are involved in the project and you’ve got far more potential for the chief tenets of the CIA/shoot ‘em up genre to be grossly overused. To give you a sense of just how overused, let me run the gist of the story by you: James Reece (Jonathan Rhys-Meyers) is the prim, by the book pretty boy to the gruff, let’s get this shit done style of CIA operative Charlie Wax (John Travolta). Reece, accustomed to the clean and controlled side of governmental affairs (he is the chief aide to the foreign ambassador), thinks he is truly ready for the covert ops side of life. An unnamed higher power heeds Reece’s pleadings and assigns him to a mission with loose cannon Charlie Wax (if this sounds somewhat familiar, it’s because it’s already happened in movies like Breach, Rush Hour, Crash, Point Break, Hot Fuzz, et. al.). Based on this synopsis alone, it’s probably safe to say that Luc Besson, discernibly, has lost his flare for the offbeat storylines of early nineties favorites The Professional and Nikita.

The most original aspect of From Paris With Love is its promotional poster

The only problem standing in the way of Reece totally embracing the erratic nature of the case he has been thrown into with Wax (a case with imprecisions galore that never really get clarified, but you know it somehow pertains to cocaine, terrorism, and Africa) is his fiancée Caroline. When Reece tells her he has to meet his partner at the airport, she is forced by the extremely corny writing to say, “Just don’t forget who your real partner is.” But then again, she did owe him retribution for an earlier line he delivered that took place while they were kissing, prompting him to say (gag), “Why don’t we skip dinner and go straight to dessert?” I couldn’t believe that was seriously deemed an acceptable line in the final rewrite of the script.

Reece, at Wax's behest, goes through various parts of Paris carrying a vase of cocaine

The dialogue would be forgivable if there was at least something memorable or unique about the plot, but quelle surprise, there is nothing shocking whatsoever about the film’s denouement. Caroline, who Reece trusted implicitly, turns out to be the villain and Reece, although reluctant to come to grips with her betrayal, pulls himself together in time to pop her one in the forehead at the Embassy meeting. Like I said, quelle surprise. And after sitting through all of that, there weren’t even any remarkable shots of Paris other than the Eiffel Tower. 

The standard odd couple pairing that occurs in most action films is no exception in From Paris With Love

The only worthwhile reason to see From Paris With Love is to hear John Travolta say “Royale with cheese” again, though it didn’t really seem like anyone in the theater was privy to the allusion. In case you’re one such ignorant filmgoer, it’s a Pulp Fiction reference.

Theoretically, Guy Ritchie had quite a bit at stake with the latest rendition of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s ceaselessly popular (or rather ceaselessly profitable and easy to remake) Sherlock Holmes. After all, his last two films, Revolver and RocknRolla, did not attract very much in the way of attention or revenue (is it something to do with titling his films with words that begin with “R?”). And yet, somehow, even with three consecutive “flops” (don’t forget, Swept Away came before Revolver and RocknRolla), Guy’s career never seemed to want for a resuscitation. Even a powerhouse producer like Joel Silver wasn’t hindered by the obvious gamble involved in the financing of RocknRolla. But still, why, with all of the evidence proving Guy as anything but a director of box office successes, would he be selected as the one to remake a star-studded, action-infused, studio-helmed film?

From left: Guy Ritchie, some tart that's supposed to replace Madonna, Robert Downey Jr., Rachel McAdams, and Mark Strong

The answer is twofold: The first, and most overt, being he is British. And Sherlock Holmes is a quintessentially British story, never mind that Robert Downey Jr. plays the lead. The second is that his directorial techniques are mutable. While he may be known for his fast cutting, gangster sympathies, and music taste that creates a soundtrack far superior to any other in recent years, it is unquestionable that Warner Brothers saw in him the trait of malleability, someone willing to make concessions if asked, perhaps both because of his personality and his desire to claw his way back into the mainstream of film consciousness.

Robert Downey Jr. playing Guy Ritchie's charmingly eccentric version of Sherlock Holmes

Apart from the why of how Guy Ritchie landed such a coveted film, the other important query is: Does the film live up to the expectations it has been leavened with? I say, yes. And it is definitely better than the standard fare one finds in the cinema. Audiences seemed to agree as Holmes stayed at the top for two weeks before being bumped by Avatar (ugh, a shallow triumph by James Cameron. Sorry, but I really don’t give three fucks about the advancement of special effects. For fuck’s sake, Dali made better films with the rudimentary tools at his disposal).

The follow up to that aforementioned query, however, is: Does the film measure up against Ritchie’s prior films? The answer to that is, sadly, no. Try as Ritchie might to inoculate the movie with traces of himself (e.g. the prominent display of The Punch Bowl, a pub he owns in the posh Mayfair section of London, and Lord Blackwood’s creepy utterance of The Book of Revelations, which I maintain is a a discrete show of affection for Madonna’s “The Beast Within”), Sherlock Holmes loses Ritchie’s typical panache to the talent heavy cast, the slick editing, and a script that he did not write. Even though the cleverness of the dialogue is there to remind you that the sceenplay is in the vain of Ritchie’s trademark wry humor, I think people assume that it could have been written any Brit, since the perception is that they’re all born with the wit of Shakespeare and the magnetism of the royal family.

The real life rogues themselves at an after party for the film's premiere

Ritchie’s chance to return to the more ruffian ways illustrated in Lock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels and Snatch does not seem to be on the horizon either. His next two projects are an adaptation of his own graphic novel The Gamekeeper and a sequel to Sherlock Holmes.

The dystopic private world of George Falconer is evident on the film's promotional poster

George Falconer (Colin Firth) is just that man, unable to overcome the emotional upheaval wrought by losing his boyfriend of sixteen years, Jim (Matthew Goode), to a car accident. George’s sorrow is visually displayed through the filmically eloquent visual renderings of the manifoldly talented Tom Ford, who even makes a scene in which Colin Firth takes a shit seem compelling.

The acting abilities of Julianne Moore suffuses the ordinarily small role of Charlotte with a larger than life air

The presence of the prehistoric version of a fag hag is played with the aplomb and 1960s glamour that only Julianne Moore could give the role. As George’s friend Charlotte, Moore exemplifies so well why there are a great many women apt to fall in love with a gay man even though they know better, even though they know there’s just no hope of ever turning them on to women.

Nicholas Hoult (of About a Boy fame) plays the enamored, unsure of himself gay student in Professor Falconer's English class

Although the narrative includes numerous flashbacks, the entire story takes place in one day, the day that George goes about the menial tasks of settling one’s affairs before killing himself. He goes to the college where he teaches, discovering from one of the office secretaries that a student asked for his address and she gave it to him (oh, the trust between humans in early 1960s California). That student, we learn, is Kenny, new to the gay scene and looking to George for some sort of guidance that he feels no one else can impart. In fact, George seems to draw quite a bit of attention to himself on the day of his planned suicide, winning the unexpected affections of Carlos (a Spanish hustler from Madrid) outside of a liquor store and Jennifer, the blonde pigtailed daughter of George’s neighbor (referred to above).

60s chic: Ideal for the fashion sensibilities of Tom Ford

All of the seemingly humdrum events and interactions of the day interrupt George’s bout of abjection, leading to a not so coincidental encounter with Kenny at the bar where George first met Jim. The two share an obvious connection as they wax on about the strange absurdity of life. But, based on this new beginning, the ending is not what one would have imagined, and yet, it possesses the perfect tinge of irony. 

Matthew Goode as Jim

For Tom Ford, a debut film such as this firmly establishes him as a credible filmmaker, with the benefits of a predilection for costume design and color accentuation. The only dilemma for Ford now is, how the fuck is he going to top himself?

The story behind how a movie finally gets made is rarely of any interest to someone who isn’t propelled forward by the notion that film rejection can one day triumph over those who did the rejecting. The effort put in to making Up In The Air can almost be likened to ten million metaphorical sky miles (when you see the movie, you’ll understand what the fuck I’m referencing). Walter Kirn’s novel of the same name came out in 2001 and Reitman soon after began working on its adaptation in 2002. This was after Kirn’s option at an unnamed studio was not renewed in the wake of September 11th reverence and paranoia. Also, Book Soup, magical place that it is, should really be thanked in the credits (maybe it is; I never sit through that shit) as that is where Jason Reitman’s eye was drawn to a copy of Up In The Air.

Promotional poster for Up In The Air (trite tagline included)

The character of Ryan Bingham is not as special as we are supposed to believe. In fact, the characters in Reitman’s previous films, Nick Naylor in Thank You For Smoking and Juno in Juno, are very similar to Bingham in terms of surliness and a general distaste for others who cannot see their world view.

Bingham imposes his packing methods on his protege

Bingham’s zeal for a life uncomplicated by relationships, commitments, or an obligation to ever buy groceries (considering he’s absent from his apartment nearly 350 days a year) is so devout that he even develops an entire philosophy around it called “What’s In Your Backpack?” This misanthropy is charming for a large portion of the film, until he meets Alex Goran (Vera Farmiga), a like-minded woman who has no desire for attachment to another human being. 

he look of regret that can only come from severe doubts about one's life choices

Suddenly, Bingham, at the urgings of his reluctant disciple Natalie (played uber annoyingly by Anna Kendrick), is willing to renege on all of his former beliefs for the slim prospect of having a girlfriend. What a fucking sellout. And that is when the movie becomes another victim of the dreaded film school formula. “The character has to change,” “The character has to be capable of love,” “The character has to go through at least three major obstacles.” Blah fucking blah. This is not to insult the abilities of Jason Reitman. He isn’t responsible for the source material and he is actually one of the better directors out there in the sea of repetitious and hackneyed storytellers. But it would have been nice to see Bingham voluntarily return to his convictions instead of being forced to by default. If nothing else, at least there is a snapshot of real American life in the present climate. Its non-conciliatory grimness about employment today was an unexpected confrontation with filmic honesty.

It doesn’t matter what Spain does or, more accurately, doesn’t do. Its unapologetic economic languishment is irrelevant as long as they’ve still got a filmically productive Pedro Almodovar. With the auteur’s most recent emotionally wrought effort, Broken Embraces, the country’s state of atrophy is more than forgivable. Employing his muse for the fourth time, Penelope Cruz stars as the tragic character of Lena, an aspiring actress who occasionally falls victim to the monetary temptations of hooking, but generally works as a secretary for a Spanish mogul named Ernesto Martel.

Promotional poster for Los Abrazos Rotos

Although Lena is determined to live honestly in her quest to make it as an actress, her father is unexpectedly diagnosed with stomach cancer and her family cannot afford the medical expenses of a sympathetic doctor. Enter an eager Ernesto, just waiting to pounce on the opportunity to make Lena feel indebted. At first she tries to go back to the bordello (under the pseudonym Severine), but Ernesto already knows about her alternate occupation and calls her as soon as she reenlists. This foils her plans completely, forcing her to ask Ernesto for the money as a secretary, not a prostitute.

She works hard for the money: Lena becomes the mistress of the wealthy Ernesto Martel because, let's face it, having money is much better than not having money, regardless of having to let an old man lie on top of you

The other side of the coin in this story is writer-director Mateo Blanco, who we are introduced to as Harry Caine, a blind scriptwriter who picks up women that offer to help him cross the street. Initially, Almodovar does not weave the two plots together; in fact, it seems like each story could be its own separate film. Mateo’s agent, Judit (Volver’s Blanca Portillo), along with her son, Diego (Tamar Novas), often visit Mateo to make sure he’s okay and to collaborate with him on various film projects. It is not until Diego mixes MDMA with a bit of meth laced with Coke (the soda kind, just to be clear) that the entire story unfolds, including the reason for Mateo’s blindness. Diego’s curiosity about a man named Ray X who comes to Mateo with an idea for a movie irritates and unnerves his mother before she leaves to scout locations in Barcelona. After Diego recovers from his ill-fated journey into clubland narcotics, Mateo offers to tell him why Judit is so afraid of Ray X, a disturbed and newly open homosexual that just so happens to be the recently deceased Ernesto Martel’s son.

Evoking a Spanish Marilyn

At this point, the two disjointed stories merge into one and Almodovar settles into the visual aestheticism that is Penelope Cruz. Like any man who likes men, Almodovar knows what makes a woman beautiful. He is a master in the field of cultivating the most attractive features of his feminine inspiration. He centers entire scenes around Cruz’s elegance and allure, finding any excuse to dress her up garishly, as with the donning of a variety of wigs before Mateo shoots the film Girls and Suitcases and in the scene in which she puts on the most ostentatious gold necklace to be worn since the musical heyday of MGM.

Lena stars as the daffy heroine of a screwball comedy entitled "Girls and Suitcases"

Almodovar may have evolved his directorial tactics over the years, but the intensity of his scripts and the overall presence of a karmic balance remains evident in what is undoubtedly the best foreign film of 2009.

The buildup for the release of Fantastic Mr. Fox has been at its zenith in the last few months. After all, it has been two years since Wes Anderson’s last film, The Darjeeling Limited, was released. Now that Fantastic Mr. Fox is in theaters, it is safe to say that the wait for the undisputed premier auteur (sorry Quentin, your place and time as directorial god remains in the 90s) of the past decade’s  latest endeavor was not in vain. Anderson’s devotion to Roald Dahl’s somewhat underappreciated children’s story (Charlie and the Chocolate Factory just had to be plucked from non-obscurity by Tim Burton) is masterfully rendered in the stop motion animation method.

The voice of George Clooney as Mr. Fox adds a level of clever sophistication that perhaps no other actor could give him

The collaborative process carried out during the making of Fantastic Mr. Fox relies on two important pairings, the first being the writing duo of Noah Baumbach (best known for The Squid and the Whale and Margot at the Wedding) and Wes Anderson and the second being the film’s melding of minds for animation, which was initially started by Harry Selick (who left the project to work on Coraline) and completed by Mark Gustafson as the new animation director.

Fantastic Mr. Fox's stop motion animation enlivens each scene with astonishing detail

Anderson’s most notable and obvious trademark is his musical selection, a characteristic of his films that often stands out more than anything else. This time around though, Anderson does not unearth any truly thankless gems as he did with The Kinks in The Darjeeling Limited or Devo in The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou. Still, The Rolling Stones and The Bobby Fuller Four are used during some of the most memorable moments of the film (namely the tractor scene when Boggis, Bunce, and Bean try to dig Mr. Fox out of the hole he and his posse are hiding in).

The imperial Mr. Fox, the default leader in a mix of animals that include a badger, a rabbit, and an opossum

Most significantly in the music sector, however, is Jarvis Cocker as Petey, a stooge of Bean’s, the most vindictive farmer of the three. As Petey, Cocker sings the whimsical tune of “Fantastic Mr. Fox,” which Mr. Bean reams him for as Petey simply makes up the words and melody as he goes along (a latent urging on Anderson’s part to return to Pulp?).

Jarvis Cocker as Petey

Sometimes the likeability of the work of someone as larger than life as Wes Anderson is clouded by the automatically positive reception surrounding anything he does. Is Fantastic Mr. Fox a good movie? Absolutely. But it is not exactly as incredible as certain critical reviews have painted it to be. The primary factor in making it great is the constantly repeated motif that, even when people age, they cannot really let go of who they were or the ambitions they once envisioned achieving. What Fantastic Mr. Fox basically tells us is that it is impossible to let go of all traces of impetuosity and youthful idealism, no matter how much contrary evidence proves that we should.

“On the fourth Thursday in November, 84 million American families will gather together…and wonder why.” So goes the tag line for oft forgotten Thanksgiving film, Home For The Holidays. The year is 1995, a time when children in their twenties still traveled the country to get to their parents’ house for Thanksgiving, as opposed to now, when many are already living at home again because of a bereft job market. Still, in spite of the fourteen years that have gone by since the release of one of Jodie Foster’s few directorial efforts, the fundamental dysfunction brought to the forefront of familial relationships at Thanksgiving remains unchanged.

Portrait of an American family

For her second directing jaunt after Little Man Tate, Jodie Foster had at her disposal quite an arsenal of stars, namely Robert Downey Jr. before he went drug and gun crazy in the infamous arrest of 1996 when he was pulled over for speeding on Sunset and was found to be in possession of both of the aforementioned. Foster also had the previously undiscovered beauty of Dylan McDermott, who, until that point, really only had Steel Magnolias as a major film credit. Add Anne Bancroft as the wig-toting matriarch and Holly Hunter as the star and the guarantee for an arch study of neuroses is afoot.

Brother and sister in arms

The tinge of failure Claudia Larson (Holly Hunter) feels before embarking on her trip to her parents’ house is solidified when she is fired from her job and then tries to make out with her old, aged boss as possibly some sort of last-ditch attempt at preserving her post at the museum where she restores artwork. To heighten her sense of vulnerability, her daughter Kitt (Claire Danes doing her best to break ties with TV and establish herself as a film actress) announces that she will not be accompanying her mother to Thanksgiving. Instead, she opts to go to her boyfriend’s house, instilling the unneeded fear in Claudia that Kitt’s going to spend her entire Thanksgiving repeatedly losing her virginity. And so, with all of this excess baggage on her shoulders, Claudia goes to her parents’ house, also thinking that her brother and best friend Tommy (Robert Downey Jr.) won’t be there either.

Promotional poster for Home for the Holidays

Of course, the only other sibling she has is Joanne (Cynthia Stevenson), who she naturally shares no affinity with. Along with Joanne, there’s her two children and her husband Walter (Steve Guttenberg, briefly experiencing a mid-90s renaissance). Topping off the mix is Claudia’s father and her Aunt Glady, a senile woman prone to unexpected fits of gaseousness. Terrified of how events will play out if she’s left alone with these people long enough, Claudia is finally blessed with a stroke of good luck when Tommy shows up unexpectedly with his friend Leo Fish (Dylan McDermott), who Claudia initially assumes is Tommy’s boyfriend.

Leo Fish, sticking his neck out for Claudia

How events unfold from the miraculous appearance of Tommy is not exactly surprising. Old arguments ensue, unwanted truths are revealed, but all the same, it is a filmic journey worth taking for the sake of one’s own personal catharsis with his genealogical lot in life. The only dumbfounding element about the movie is that it was made in the first place. The nineties were a somewhat uncertain time for independent films of this nature. It did not have the ear-cutting excitement of Reservoir Dogs or the shoot ‘em up plot of The Boondock Saints. It was simply a film about the wear and tear associated with being an involved family member. Home For The Holidays was also unusual in that W.D. Richter, the writer of the screenplay, had previously been closely allied with the horror genre (i.e. Dracula and Invasion of the Body Snatchers). Then again, what could be more horrifying than being trapped at a table with your family for an entire day?