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.

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.

On the heels of the Audrey Tautou biopic about Coco Chanel, Coco Chanel & Igor Stravinsky strives for a somewhat uncharted approach to tackling the career-oriented portion of Coco Chanel’s life. Based on the 2003 novel by Chris Greenhalgh, the film focuses so comprehensively on the affair between Chanel and Stravinsky that the nuances are almost unfathomable.

Promotional poster for Coco & Igor

The opening night to Stravinsky’s “Rite of Spring” in 1913 Paris is a categorical failure (and to be honest, I’d be a little belligerent too if I was one of the Parisians who had to suffer through its creepiness). One of the few members of the audience that can appreciate the esoteric nature of the work is Coco Chanel. At the time, Chanel was still deeply in love with Boy Capel, a well-known English polo player who met Chanel while she was still acting as the mistress for a wealthy Frenchman named Etienne Balsan. Thus, her brief attraction to Stravinsky is ignored until seven years later, when they meet again in the wake of Boy’s death.

The beginnings of a lurid affair

Coco, never one to mince words or desires, tells Igor he should bring his family (including an ailing wife and a fucking gaggle of children) with him to her villa and work for the summer. When you’re Russian, the choice is obviously: “Yeah, I think I will stay in France, what with Vladimir Lenin running my homeland right now.” And so Igor and his family set up camp in La Maison de Chanel, where their feelings are forced to boil to the surface in such close proximity to one another.

J'adore l'amour

It should be mentioned that the visual transitions and segues designed to reveal each new component of the plot are often times cunningly subtle, never flat out delivering a distinctive scene change (except for the almost pornographic sex scenes between Mads Mikkelsen and Anna Mouglalis). This well-crafted technique by director Jan Kounen mirrors just how covertly the affair between Coco and Igor began and persisted.

Coco & Igor stars striking a pose

Apart from being mildly tainted by the recent release of Coco Avant Chanel, Coco & Igor doesn’t really invite any comparisons to that particular biopic because its story tells a vastly different account of another period in Chanel’s life. And, in truth, the couturier probably needs about four separate movies to unravel the varied stages of her existence. More than anything, Coco & Igor is a visual triumph with a paucity of words. Its sole error in relying on what is observed by the eye is when, at the end of the film, Chris Greenhalgh (who managed to snag the role of screenwriter instead of being relegated to literary limbo) takes things in an extremely bathetic direction, flashing forward to when Coco and Igor are both one cigarette away from a collapsed lung; Igor holed up at the Essex House in New York (though, mind you, it is well-documented that he preferred Los Angeles and lived there for the majority of his latter years) and Coco rotting in one of her infamous Chanel suits in Paris. I think we all know they didn’t romanticize the affair half as much as the movie does.

There are secrets in a lot of people’s eyes, but the one thing that isn’t a secret in the eyes of the Academy members that select the Oscar winners is that they love maudlin shit. I went to see The Secret in Their Eyes with average expectations, unsure of how much I’ve trusted Argentina since Eva Peron kicked the bucket, but lately, it is a country that seems to be beating its chest, what with their World Cup dominance and winning an Academy Award for best foreign film. What I got in exchange for my neutral outlook was something vaguely resembling a telenovela. And if I wanted that, I could just watch Univision or Ugly Betty.

Promotional poster for El Secreto de sus Ojos

The story begins, like so many stories, in the present. Benjamin Esposito (Ricardo Darin) is a recently retired investigator for the court in Buenos Aires. With all of his newly acquired free time, he finds himself dwelling on a case that began in 1974, and never truly resolved itself. Plagued by what is referred to as the Morales case, Esposito decides to sit down and write a book about it. He finds himself unable to stick with an introduction until he talks with his old boss and the love of his life, Irene Hastings (Soledad Villamil). Writer-director Juan José Campanella weaves the present with the past rather effortlessly, and somehow makes the 1970s look like a fairly dynomite time to live in (in spite of the existence of catch phrases like dynomite and the whole stagflation thing taking the world by storm).

Forbidden love and shit

Esposito essentially falls in love with Irene the moment he sees her, and his affection for her is only partially deterred when a homicide/rape case crops up involving a woman named Liliana Colotto (Carla Quevedo). When Esposito informs her husband, Ricardo Morales (Pablo Rago), of what befell his wife, it is as though they have an immediate personal connection, Esposito all too aware of being consumed by love for a woman who has been taken from him. Unfortunately, in what is the norm for South American justice, the police are more concerned with pinning the crime on anyone rather than actually solving it. This leads Esposito to enlist the help of his alcoholic and, accordingly, ribald friend, Pablo Sandoval (Guillermo Francella).

From left: Bottle, Ricardo Darin as Esposito, and Guillermo Francella as Pablo Sandoval, getting crunk with it.

After some highly precise detective work that involves poring through most of Morales’ photo albums, Esposito notices one man in particular that keeps giving Liliana a “rape face” (you know, staring, wide eyes, tongue sticking out, that type of thing. Walk down Crenshaw in booty shorts if you can’t picture it). The man in question, Isidoro Gomez (Javier Godino) is actually apprehended within a year, but then released early instead of carrying out his life sentence due to the handiwork of a nemesis of Esposito’s seeking retaliation. The plot sort of drags on from there, detailing the power and energizing effects of avengement and unfulfilled desire. I’ll leave it at this though: The ending has the same eeriness of discovering Norman Bates’ dead mother rotting in the basement at the conclusion of Psycho.

The screen fades in and a drop of blood splatters onto the cement. For a moment, I think I might have accidentally gone to see Twilight, but then the moody riffs of “Roxy Roller” begin as Cherie Currie (Dakota Fanning) and her sister Marie realize that Cherie has just gotten her period outside of the Pup n’ Fries. It is the first in a series of instances of Cherie losing her innocence in the timeline of being a Runaway, and, for the symbolism alone, the best possible way to open a film about The Runaways.

The Runaways' style and sound was like nothing that had ever been heard before

The pacing of the script moves rapidly from there, another way in which it mirrors The Runaways’ lifestyle, cutting between Joan Jett’s (Kristen Stewart) struggle with finding anyone who will take her quest to start an all-girl rock band seriously and Cherie’s denial about her broken family (she has a dad who “just likes to drink,” a mother who relocates to Indonesia with her new husband, and a sister whose jealousies of Cherie are made clear through her constant discouragements).

Once Joan Jett meets producer Kim Fowley, a fixture of the L.A. club scene, all of the chips seem to fall into place as he directs her to Sandy West, who he had met previously in the parking lot of the Rainbow Bar & Grill (though it does not happen this way in the movie) and who was possibly the only decent female drummer in town. Kim Fowley’s “wacky” presence is of course nothing close to the truth about his behavior, but when you need someone to sign a paper relinquishing his life rights, it’s probably best to promise a sunny portrayal.

As the movie indicates, Rodney Bingenheimer, the renowned L.A. DJ, is the man unwittingly responsible for getting Cherie into The Runaways act. Fowley, apparently looking for his group’s eye candy, found her at Rodney Bingenheimer’s English Disco, where Cherie gravitated because of her Bowie obsession. And by the way, let’s thank Bowie for essentially every band that ever succeeded him because there really doesn’t seem to be anyone who was not influenced by his music (see Control for further evidence).

Promotional poster for The Runaways

After several abusive rehearsals, the girls are ready to play at house parties and, soon after, Japan. I told you things moved fast. Sigismondi’s background in the tempo of music videos makes her rather adept at timing and knowing the importance of images. At one point, as The Runaways are about to explode, like the tagline says, candy-coated fonts and headlines flash across the screen marking their speedy rise to recognition.

Smugly gazing at L.A. from the view of the Hollywood sign

What the biopic fails to do, however, is acknowledge any too unpleasant realities mentioned in Cherie Currie’s autobiography Neon Angel, on which the film is loosely based. Its other somewhat irksome quality is having Stewart and Fanning sing. But, just as it is the case with music, it is doubtful that anyone is going to see The Runaways for Stewart and Fanning’s acting, let alone their vocal talents.

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.

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 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.