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.

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.

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.

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?”).

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.

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).

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.

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.

There are countless experiences in life that can be categorized in the surreal column of living, but nothing can really compare to the incongruousness of aging, decaying, essentially rotting from the inside. However, in Harry Brown, Michael Caine proves, once again, that age ain’t nothin’ but a number. Unsoftened by the ravages of time, Caine as Brown navigates through the gang-riddled streets in the Elephant and Castle district of South London.

In an area that makes Orwell’s vision of the future seem tame, youths of Harry Brown’s dilapidated neighborhood reign over the territory with overt minacity, killing anyone who gets in the way of their good time, usually involving random acts of violence and property destruction. Director Gary Young interweaves the contrasting lifestyles of an elderly man with the fast-paced, nightmarish escapades of South London teenagers. The opening sequence is one of the most skillful in this regard. Beginning with an unsteady, Handycam-like view of the average daily events on the estate, we see, from a skewed, frantic perspective, a woman walking her baby in a stroller get shot at a number of times before a bullet finally makes contact as the gang members speed away from the scene. This is followed by the stagnant quietness of Harry Brown waking up in his bedroom, lying there for a spell before coming to terms with the idea of getting out of bed.

Brown goes to visit his vegetative wife in the hospital after a stark breakfast of tea and toast and staring at the ominous streets outside his window, not aware that this will be the last time he sees her before she passes on. From there, the day lulls along, the most exciting event being a chat in the pub with Brown’s longtime friend, Leonard, another pensioner who makes vocal his feelings about the pugnacious youth that hangs around outside his apartment in the nearby pedestrian subway. Len even goes so far as to show Harry the old military sword he carries in the side of his coat, prepared to attack anyone who gives him shit. Harry discourages Len from using it, insisting that he should go to the police instead. But Len is disgruntled by Harry’s naivete, saying he already has. With that, Len leaves the pub, the last time Harry will see him before he is murdered in the pedestrian subway.

Enter Detective Inspector Alice Frampton (Emily Mortimer) to investigate the heinous crime. She and her partner zero in on a group of well-known miscreants within the community, all of whom deny any connection to the incident. Brown watches all of this from the sidelines, realizing that justice will not be administered through legal means. Taking matters into his own arthritic hands, Brown, returning to his background as a former marine, single-handedly picks off anyone interfering with or leading to information about who killed his friend. The sole person suspicious of Brown as a suspect in the crimes is Inspector Frampton, allowing Brown to get away with most of his vigilanteism.

Though one would like to believe there is a sort of prescience to the film, the reality is that the world is already like this. It’s already a battle between young and old, strong and weak, powerful and powerless. The conclusion of Harry Brown accents the latent concept that the world truly is better without certain people in it.

“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 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.

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 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?

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.

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.

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 first thing you notice when watching Transformers Revenge of the Fallen is the amazing amount of action and special effects. Michael Bay would respectfully ask you not to notice anything further such as the poor acting, weak plot, and racism. Yes that’s right Michael Bay and the three writers that vomited this story for Steven Spielberg threw in horribly racist robots for free.

Everyone returns for this summer’s blockbuster hit, except John Voit and Anthony Anderson. They maybe the smartest or dumbest actors in Hollywood for it, I don’t really know. Our story begins with our hero, Sam (Shia Labeouf), going off to college. He discovers a part of the Allspark which was “destroyed” in the last film. Then there is a whole drama with Sam saying I love you to his girlfriend, Makala (Megan Fox), and meeting his roommate who just happens to be into conspiracies. Boring where are the big robots?

You can run, you can hide, but Michael Bay will keep making poor films

Soon we find out the Decepticons are craftier than we previously thought. The Fallen was the first one to land on Earth way back when the calendar read BC. He was stopped from harvesting our sun for power by the Primes. They died out and he has been hiding near Saturn. The Decepticons attack the only other piece of the Allspark stealing it while resurrecting Megatron.  They kill Optimus Prime because he is the only one who can kill The Fallen. Then they hunt Sam because in his brain is the location of the piece that will start the machine that will harvest the sun. I know who cares about all that?

The visual effects in this film are beyond amazing. Go see this film in theaters or IMAX or whatever big screen you can find. The final battle between the Autobots and the Decepticons was ridiculous. Michael Bay knows how to shoot action and most importantly he knows what crazy stunts will make the audience’s jaw drop. Bumblebee, Sam’s car, rips the spine out of a lion looking Decepticon in slow motion. I could watch that scene over and over again. Another great visual part is the assembly of the giant Decepticon that rips apart the pyramid. The shear size is breathtaking even if it was the first transformer with testicles.

Why?...How?...I...forget it

So what is the downside of this film? Well everything that isn’t a robot transforming and fighting is the worst part of this film. Megan Fox still can’t act her way out of a shopping bag but she looks pretty for the camera. The dumb emotional theme about growing up and letting go was laughable and overplayed.  Don’t even get me started on the twins. Bay should get his head examined along with Spielberg. How these two characters got passed the MPAA in 2009 is beyond me.

Overall go see this film if you are bored, lonely, lazy, have kids, know the Transformers, liked the last one for the action, or like stereotypical black people. Yet another summer blockbuster that left its plot in its rear view mirror.

Do not see this movie. Please.

The trailer will have you believe this movie is worth watching. Time, The New York Times, and Rolling Stone will also have you believe this movie is worth watching. But listen to the voice of reason (i.e.: me), and avoid this at all costs. It runs a little over two hours, but it felt twice as long, and will certainly ruin your evening with the potential of giving you a headache. Basically, if you decide to see The Hurt Locker, after reading this review, then you deserve to waste your money.

The Hurt Locker Movie Poster

The film follows a three-man bomb squad in the Iraqi war (circa 2004), with several scenes of how the unit disarms various bombs. Or, if you want to look at it another way: it’s basically a video game that you have no control over. Staff Sergeant William James (played by Jeremy Renner) is the wild renegade in charge of this unit, who doesn’t like to play by the rules; they make it painfully obvious that he gets a rush out of disarming bombs. Sergeant JT Sanborn (played by Anthony Mackie) is sick of duty, and does his best to stay alive so he can get back home, while Specialist Owen Eldridge (played by Brian Geraghty) is a giant pussy that should have never been a soldier.

Even though these three are the main characters, we learn virtually nothing about them, and there are only two scenes of “bonding” between the three soldiers, who we are supposed to feel for. Aside from the scenes that are inconsequential tangents which the Staff Sergeant creates, the bomb scenes were genuinely cool and suspenseful. But even those started wearing on me, since it was just more of the same, with slightly different variables. You never really get a handle on what drives the Staff Sergeant to do what he does, or to think what he thinks, which creates a giant bubble of confusion as the story progresses.

Explosion Scene from The Hurt Locker

I had no qualms with the acting, and the sets / visuals were very realistic; imagine Jarhead, but not entertaining. There were points where I felt like I was being tortured for continuing to watch – a really long sniper scene, and a sub-plot between the Staff Sergeant and an Iraqi boy. The whole theme was to explain that some soldiers (the Staff Sergeant) are driven to war for the adrenaline rush, and to avoid the mundane; even though the theme was conveyed, it didn’t keep you interested. Oh, and if you think “hey, it can’t be that bad with Guy Pearce and Ralph Fiennes” then you are in for a bad surprise, since they were each in the film for a total one scene each.

Really, I’d love to say something positive, but I just can’t. The story was as flat from beginning to end; you’d have more fun off pulling out your pubic hair, one by one. Please watch something else.