Reviews

Had a big-screen adaptation been made sooner, I think it would have fared better. Devout followers of the show, I must warn you: this is hardly an A-Team movie. Instead, it's a superficial, modernized revamp that substitutes the archaic '80s cheese of the show with the more risible cheese of our generation – one of loud, erratic decadence. It's a bit of a sad commentary that The A-Team can only truly function in the ADHD age as shallow action schlock. Thankfully, there's no shortage on invention, director Joe Carnahan managing at least to encapsulate the dubiously slapdash dexterity of the team. Highlights include a rescue from an armored van, a smuggling of a tanning booth and, of course, a certain flying tank (no, not Baracus). It's these moments that could only be achieved by today's visual effects standards that actually benefit by evoking gleeful exhilaration, and get the blood pumping the same way the show did.

But while the antics of the motley crew are spiritually akin to that of their television counterparts, proceedings aren't quite as faithful. It's not quite a prequel (like this year's bemusingly unnecessary Robin Hood), but a more comprehensive elongation of the origin explained in... the opening theme. Although this time the team's military position prior to the fateful miscarriage of justice that befalls them has been relocated from Vietnam to Iraq (present-day relevance being the movie's top priority, clearly). But as sort of an origin to the origin, the first fifteen minutes introduces us to the four characters, and sees them introduced to each other. The A-Team's sagacious leader John "Hannibal" Smith (Liam Neeson, once-again happily ignoring his Irish growl) has been captured by dastardly Mexican officers, who intend to... well, it's never really specified what they intend to do, or why they wish to do it. For argument's sake, let's assume Hannibal raped one of their daughters. Meanwhile, lewd lothario Templeton "Faceman" Peck (Bradley Cooper) is also being held captive somewhere across a vast Mexican desert. Bosco "B. A." Baracus (mixed martial artist Quinton "Rampage" Jackson, or, as I like to call him, Not Mr. T) has just obtained his patented van and is coursing through the very same desert in which Hannibal and Face find themselves. They collide in incomprehensible ways, but Hannibal reverently addresses it as "a plan coming together", a rationale confirmed by a wonderful action beat. Enter H.M. "Howling Mad" Murdock (Sharlto Copley), and you've got yourself a cinematic chaos theory handled quite masterfully.

This opening is just glorious. Quick-paced, irreverent, and deliriously entertaining. What will become the greatest faction of soldiers at the military's disposal is established in mere minutes, which is mostly a testament to the electric repartee between the co-stars. Like the show, chemistry between the eponymous team is essential, and the four actors pull it off effortlessly. The quickfire back-and-forth banter between them has a brotherly sense of long-existing camaraderie, and without it the movie would fall flat on its face. None of them attempts to one-up the other, each performance complimentary of another.

Individually, however, quality of showmanship fluctuates. Liam Neeson's Hannibal is wily, affable, but far from benign; in the face of danger, he simply flashes a devilish grin and you know he's got a "plan". It's the amalgamation of stateliness but warm introversion that Neeson has walked circles around in the past (Schindler's List, Kinsey, Star Wars, Rob Roy, etc.), which makes this a fun but unremarkable performance on his behalf. Bradley Cooper, The Hangover's underrated, foul-mouthed answer to Ryan Reynolds, is well-cast, but doesn't quite go above and beyond. After all, he's got the most uninteresting role here (Face adheres too closely to his televised brethren and is stuck with a tedious romantic subplot). "Rampage" Jackson's got the paramount physique of Baracus, but his delivery and expressions are a wooden iteration of Mr T's mannerisms, and his moments of happiness oddly infantile. Sharlto Copley, rapidly becoming a favorite of mine with this and his outstanding debut in last year's District 9, gives both the film's best performance and most faithful interpretation of the character he inherits, despite slight accent malfunctions due to his South-African proclivity. His Murdock is a capricious sprite of maniacal whimsy and hilarious wise-asides, and the one thing about the movie that consistently enthralls. And yet, a wasted Jessica Biel delivers the movie's best line (you'll know when you hear it).

The movie's main weaknesses lie outside the stunning group dynamic. The action goes from amusingly cursory to completely ridiculous, but on an infuriatingly small scale. At one point, a plan is nearly foiled (God forbid) due to an inexplicably stupid decision by Hannibal, that leaves him in certain peril that even I could foresee. It seems these plans go awry only when not colloquially explained beforehand, a gimmick that ablates all suspense. Except, that is, when outlined as obliquely as the movie's disappointing climax. The alienating dénouement tries to justify its own contrivance with a three-part trick, but this isn't The Prestige; Carnahan loses all sense of coherence and covers up the failings of his weak deus ex machina under a shroud of darkness. There's a genuinely brutal fist fight that's a little too realistic for this movie, but seeing a character as annoying as the villainous Lynch (an awful Patrick Wilson) getting his face pummeled is reason enough not to complain.

The A-Team is a perfect example of what Hollywood can get right and what it can get wrong. There's nothing wrong with being incredulous (flying tanks), but demarcation is needed to avoid excess (the movie's climax). Sometimes having a cast that work well together and a concept worth exploring is more than enough. Next time, just have the guys save a millionaire's daughter, or something, okay?

Reading Iron Man 2's plot summary, things sound bleak for our characters. But not at all. This is a breezy, light-hearted, inoffensive affair that saunters at a magnetic pace, with emotional discomfiting a far thought. Which is pretty refreshing, to say the least. In fact, Iron Man 2 is the complete of antithesis of recent comic book movies. For one, it certainly isn't darker than its predecessor, absent its slow-burning first half and latched-on social commentary. It also gives itself the poetic license to stretch credulity. This is a movie about a man who flies around in metal suit, blasting away multicolored-haired Russians with electric whips. Realism simply doesn't apply, and thankfully director Jon Favreau and writer Justin Theroux take affectionate liberty with the bonds of belief. Yes, Ivan Vanko can secretly build super technology unbeknownst to his suppliers. And yes, the only way to incapacitate a drunken Tony is to beat the crap out of him in a Iron Man suit. No complaints here!

Iron Man 2 is also very much Iron Man's superior, although partly by default. The first movie was stuck with a pedantic origin story. However, the sequel had no shortage of possible paths to take. Which did it choose? The way you should always go; the road of characterization. Rather than tediously expand upon its universe, Iron Man 2 simply reprises its dramatis personae and sticks them into situations graver than before, upping the ante but reiterating the overall heart and spirit of its predecessor. The characters are well-etched, each snappy exchange rendered with a mature pathos that contrasts with the spurious scenarios that they feature in between of. Iron Man 2 could easily be called a comedy, but the naturalism of the comedy is seamless; you get the sense that it would be impossible to write this movie without having these vibrant characters joke and jeer.

To bring the clever screenplay to life is the phenomenal cast. Robert Downey, Jr., as always, is effortlessly captivating. Charisma defined and an scandalously unsung master of versatility (he's not just playing himself, people!), it's no breaking news that he's still one of the most watchable actors ever. He is the perfect Tony Stark, and a more-than-worthy representative of the thinking man's action star. His chemistry with Gwyneth Paltrow as the pragmatic Pepper Pots is electric, and she too turns in a fine performance. Wistful, but by no means a damsel in distress, she is probably the realest character.

The baddies, just as essential as the hero, don't disappoint either. Another wrong from last time round successfully remedied is the lack of genuinely menacing villains. Jeff Bridges honored us with his always-welcome presence in Iron Man, but his warm affability was anything but menacing. This time, however, Mickey Rourke and Sam Rockwell (oddly, both novices to blockbuster attention) are on duty, offering more than enough bang for your villainy buck. Rourke as Anton Vanko/"Whiplash", supplements a composite of the unintentionally hokey showman, supercilious mastermind, and the seemingly unstoppable behemoth. This effectively fends off one-noteness, and Rourke perfectly embodies the duality of Vanko's deceptively boorish visage and surprisingly vast intellect, while still indulging in the welcome irreverence that comes with the comic book villain (his Russian drawl is humorous but gives him an otherworldly conviction).

Rockwell, on the other hand, is flat-out comic relief as Stark's weaselly rival – though not necessarily a threatening one – Justin Hammer. He is excellent in the part; an absolute delight to watch, whether irascibly mugging in a loss for words with his insubordinate partner Vanko or, in one of the movie's best moments, shamelessly accolading his own (faulty) inventions with juvenile zeal.

Unfortunately, with all these characters butting heads for screen time, co-stars Don Cheadle and Scarlett Johansson as Tony's pal Colonel James "Rhodey" Rhodes and eventual partner War Machine and alluring temptress of a new assistant Natalie Rushman, respectively, are given the short straw. Both are more than able of carrying a scene, but while the script lavishes Tony with many moments in which to brood his way into some fine character development, and to convey Pepper's many grievances, neither supporting character is as lucky. Cheadle's moments of potential are all obstructed by the War Machine suit, and everything otherwise requires him to lucidly voice reason as a foil to the devil may care Tony. Johansson is a non-event, her Natalie Rushman an amoral nothing role, and her Black Widow guise is not so much daring femme fatale as listless sex symbol. She acts as merely a vessel for fan service, be it in her skintight suit for the general audience or that she represents another stepping stone to an Avengers movie for esoteric comic book fans.

The movie is inter cut between the scenes of terse characterization and octane action. The latter is a dizzying combination of rapid vicissitudes and toe-to-toe skirmishes, high on CGI, low on genuine peril. In fact, Iron Man 2 could quite possibly have been a masterpiece of the genre had it lived up to its first forty minutes of exuberance and intrigue. But once the clumsy pugilism of Iron Man and Whiplash takes place, the movie falls flat. The power play is nonexistent, because it's hard to believe anyone could stand a chance against ol' Shellhead. And if no sense of alarm can be conveyed when Iron Man is caught in an unusually melee showdown, the flight sequences leave no impression. Yes, the special effects are astounding, but it's all for nothing if there's no dramatic undercurrent.

Otherwise, please, don't mistake my raving for fanboy hyperbole; Iron Man 2 is great. It's well-written, well-acted, and simultaneously a loving throwback to comic book norm and a break from recent tradition. It's a rare occurrence to be thankful for, because God knows if this follows the superhero trilogy formula, the third one will suck. Which would tragically make this movie's thrilling departure from cliché null and void.

If there's one filmmaker working today whose style is utterly unmistakable, it's Tim Burton. Since his debut, he's proudly and consistently upheld his many visual and metaphysical tropes with TLC. These tenets include: ostentatious design and execution of the delectably twisted and dark kind, saccharine sentimentality (with perhaps the exception of Sweeney Todd), and a dramatis personae of irascible characters both one with his darkness and yet completely unaware of it. But Burton's self-aware devotion to this Formula* has palliated his once-fresh perspective, familiarity subsequently turning odd and unconventional into a recycled bore and, thus, the complete opposite. The biggest offender of this cumbersome rehashing is the director's latest, a highly ambitious undertaking: a live-action adaptation of the Lewis Carroll classic, Alice in Wonderland.

We start off with the mandatory flashback to the youth of our heroine, the eponymous Alice. Her ambitious father (Marton Csokas) gallantly interrupts an important meeting to tend to his post-nightmare daughter. She proceeds to describe her bad dream, foreshadowing her coming adventures in Wonderland, and questions her own sanity. Her father replies (and I'm paraphrasing): "Yes, you're mad. But the best people are." It's a nice sentiment, and one that fittingly pertains with the status quo evident here. It's almost distraction enough from the hilariously bad performance given by the ever-mugging Csokas. It's a brief turn, which makes the efficacy of his awfulness all the more surprising.

Years later, Alice (listless newcomer Mia Wasikowska) is nineteen and doomed to an arranged marriage to a complete stiff. The ensuing events are banalities sparse in consequence, necessary to increase the wonder of Wonderland by contrast, but dull nonetheless. Ironically, the title setting is surprisingly unimaginative. Burton's Wonderland is one of generic outlandishness; large, colorful flora, discolored skies of a dismal murk, and vast landscapes defined by one prominent topographical feature. The visual effects are embarrassingly unconvincing, and the 3-D does little to help; as always, the newfound cinematic dimension is merely a gimmick, a nicety, and here it once again proves that we still have quite a long way to go before the technique effects an audience viscerally. Obvious and absent the awe and immersion that it's director presence suggests and should guarantee, Wonderland's uninspired design is another victim of the extenuation of the Burton Formula, and the movie's disappointing lack of scope and half-realization.

Tonally, Alice in Wonderland is dead. It's neither comedic nor dramatic, due to an absence of intentional humor and urgency, respectively, and with the pacing of a snail, this renders the whole experience quite drab. Now, I'm sure the acidic eccentricities of Carroll and Burton sounds a treat, yes? Sadly, Burton and screenwriter Linda Woolverton only inherit the concept and characters of Carroll's legendarium, opting instead to incorporate their own story. What follows is a predictable hybrid of the established Wonderland scribes, absent the warmth and wit. Alice arrives in the mystical world, her "destiny" (and the movie's climax) is hastily affirmed, and thus everything beforehand feels like filler. Impending peril is intended to grip the story (what with the omnipresent tyranny of Helena Bonham Carter's Red Queen), but last-minute and inconceivable resolutions whenever danger arises dissipates the drama.

The cast lend some help in the way of salvaging things. Hathaway is underused, but nails the delicate-nature of the White Queen. There's also an abundance of British character actors at the movie's disposal. Like Harry Potter, it's a roll-call of workaday thespians: Stephen Fry (Cheshire Cat, actually acting, not just reading lines), Michael Sheen (White Rabbit, his voice unrecognizable, as usual), Christopher Lee (Jabberwocky, two lines of utter captivation), Timothy Spall (the Bloodhound, slowly becoming a Burton affiliate), Alan Rickman (Caterpillar, simply perfect), etc. Each could have literally phoned in their performances, but no doubt the gravity and beloved stature of Carroll's work was enough to compel faithfulness. They're what keeps proceedings afloat and only they encapsulate the spirit of the material.

Needless to say, the show is stolen by Helena Bonham Carter. Thrusting herself wholeheartedly into the role of the Red Queen, she's clearly having a ball here. Bonham Carter invests in the part, going far and beyond the call of duty, turning a thin antagonist into a well-honed character; the Red Queen is greedy, selfish, nefarious, but also naive, and often comes across as someone burdened with long-existing insecurities (the writing conveys this, but Bonham Carter expands upon what is merely hinted at). Her childish totalitarianism makes for a diverting and inoffensive baddie, and also serves as the main source of the movie's genuine laughs.

That other staple of Burton cinema, Johnny Depp, is on hands here, donning a Carrot Top wig to play one of Carroll's most immortal and recognizable creations, the Mad Hatter. On the capricious and whimsical side of the Depp spectrum instead of stoic and near-comatose, this turn is another addition to the equally-wearing output of a man dubiously revered for versatility. I don't mean to sound irreverent, as Depp is a talented actor, but it's been seven years since his last truly impressive performance, and his need to play characters of substance-less recondite is a waste of his time. Here, he's not quite teeth-grating, but he's still not exactly as fun as he could be. Like Bonham Carter, he attempts obliqueness, here by gauging the Hatter's glee on a trippy meter of eccentric and downright maniacal depending on the situation at hand. It's a minor victory for character depth, but it's a shame Depp insists on delivering a large portion of his lines in an unintelligible Scottish accent.

Alice in Wonderland is bad. In fact, I'm shocked at just how much I dislike it. I hate to condemn a movie for primarily this alone, but my biggest problem with it is that it's boring. Burton will undoubtedly benefit from immediately distancing himself from adaptations and the Formula.

I was adamant on the belief that Avatar's hype and the megalomania of Cameron's shameless "masterpiece" allegations were both far too great for it to be a success. The endless posturing was turning it into a phenomenon, and, no matter how good it turned out to be, nothing could amount to that level of expectation.

But stripped of all preempt bias, Avatar is a handsome effort. Not only is it reasonably accessible sci fi, it's admirably old-school entertainment – engaging and visually stimulating. And if there's one thing that has been truthfully sugar-coated here, it's the special effects; Avatar is simply stunning. Retaining his talent for effortlessly handling large budgets, Cameron manages to satisfy the timeless cinema patron request of escapism by creating a world that is, thanks to a staggering attention to detail, outlandishness at it's most realistic. It's all so wonderfully realized, and what's best is that the soporific first and middle acts are tinged with a near-palpable stillness, with allows for much-recommended scrutiny, whether it be of the inner sanctum of the forest or the cliff's wide panoramas. Not even the bizarre and sometimes laughable topographical features (ground that lights up when you walk on it, mountains that float, etc.) deter from the overall majesty of this breathtaking creation. The bar has been raised once again, and it's been raised once again by James Cameron.

He sure does know how to justify eye-candy (the largely uneventful middle part of the movie contains some of the most glorious filler ever subjected to film), but while Cameron's strengths shine through, Avatar is also a checklist of his weaknesses. For one, the story is utter pants. For a movie twelve years in the making, the plot is unapologetically derivative; there are immediate parallels with Dances with Wolves, The Last Samurai, Pocahontas, and even Fern Gully, and that doesn't even partially explain just how ham-fisted Avatar is. Subtlety has never been Cameron's forte, but this is just insulting; the basis of the movie's plot is that the big bad industrialists want to level the home of Pandora's indigenous natives, the Na'vi, in order to obtain a rare and lucrative matter known as Unobtainium – that's right, Unobtainium. I'll let the ingenuity of that little grace note sink in. So basically, it's a junior infant's allegory for both environmental negligence and the treatment of the Native Americans, and it's such embarrassingly rudiment plot depth that the audience is practically getting beaten over the head by it.

But our hero, Jake Sully (played by a solid Sam Worthington, the year's breakout star), a man untroubled with the burden of a personality, all swears, unfunny wisecracks and cheesy American interjections, has been transferred into an Avatar (a neat concept that is explained within the first five minutes thanks to the movie's swift pacing) to learn the Na'vi's ways, and he discovers in the process that they're actually not that bad. They've got feelings. Oh, he also falls in love with Neytiri, the – you guessed it – tribe leader's daughter. She's played by Zoe Saldaña, who turns in a heartfelt performance magnificently well-suited to the material.

But do the baddies care? Not in the less-dimensional-than-the-format-the-movie's-presented-in world of Cameron Villains. Stephen Lang's craps-nails Colonel Quaritch is a droll creation, hilariously characterized only by just how much of a relentless douchebag he is. Here's a man so bada** he doesn't need to wear an oxygen mask while exposed to the toxic air on Pandora, he likes to nonchalantly sip coffee while murdering hundreds of innocents, and his heavy artillery-equipped personal robot is at its most effective when armed with a big knife. Then there's Giovanni Ribisi's Parker, who serves as just another cardboard cut-out representation of the archetypical avarice of America.

In a way, there is something appealing about the artifice among the non-blue portion of the cast. Quaritch is a fun character, and there's nothing a well-delivered monologue can't do to make you appreciate a villain. And if anything, the humans' one-note characterization improves upon the much more-developed Na'vi. Sully, though himself a huge victim of the poor screenplay, is an endearing protagonist, and watching him gradually rise from his despondency through the teachings of the tribe is a nice transition, and there's elegance to the culture of the Na'vi (particularly the natural "connection" aspect). Their way of life is an understandably attractive alternative, particularly when compared to the clinical institutionalism of Avatar's futuristic setting. The Sully-Neytiri romance is also how quite tender, albeit a tad rushed.

It's worth remembering that Avatar is brought to us by the man behind Titanic; a slow-burner that paid off immensely in its final act with a superlative climax. And that's always what Cameron has excelled at. He can work a money shot, but he can also intertwine it with deep undercurrents of raw emotion, and that's where he hits his stride, and this is no exception. He's upped his game, and that sinking ship doesn't come close to replicating what has to be one of the most emotionally stirring and most powerful moments in any of his movies, if not any movie made this decade; there's a moment in Avatar that occurs prior to the movie's action-packed finale, and it's a truly unforgettable sequence, that goes straight for the heart. And said "action-packed finale" is an extraordinary example of how it's done. Epic and grandiose is what Cameron promised, and that's what at least his action chops deliver.

Though Avatar has been hampered by the counterproductivity of James Cameron's ego, it still managed to make worthy cinema. It's a sterling effort, and one that, at the very least, deserves endless appraise for its imagery, its acting (no matter how intentionally hokey it might have been), and that, despite its many faults, it's a cinematic experience not worth passing up, especially when you take into consideration that you'd be missing out on seeing the most ambitious movie ever made.

The intelligent comedy is a dying breed. Gone are the days of the Marx Brothers and good Woody Allen movies; here are the days of Meet the Spartans, farting and cameos from Carmen Electra. It's relieving, than, that in this current dark period of desperate cinematic comedy, great movies like The Hangover are still being made.

The Hangover proves that there is still genius to be derived from the unsophisticated: this isn't routine slacker/bromance fodder; this doesn't sacrifice all its integrity for a flurry of puke-awful penis jokes. It carries itself with the wit of a sitcom and the flare of the big screen, resulting in the funniest mainstream comedy of the year thus far (I said mainstream, In the Loop, so don't worry).

Todd Phillips has outdone himself this time, because The Hangover is his best film to date. Though, given his last outing was School for Scoundrels, that mightn't be saying much in terms of personal vigour, but his latest trumps a lot of America's recent comedic output.

It's become a recent fad in cinema to compare almost every American comedy to the work of Judd Apatow, a more mature (but not quite as legendary) Kevin Smith. Following his rise to fame, his movies have conquered the hearts of cinema-goers, pleasing both the box office and critics. So, how do comparisons with The Hangover hold up? Well, if Apatow is an auteur for finding hilarity in the mundane, or deadly serious (unplanned pregnancy, heartbreak, etc.), than Phillips is the master for creating comic genius from the completely insane.

In fact, the only thing that's even remotely similar to Apatow's frame of work is the layered character observations, because what's significantly exceptional about The Hangover, and that indefinable quality that made and didn't break it, is that it's very taken with its characters. Rather than constantly busy itself with an excessive drive of punchlines, it's very involved in the surprisingly acute development of our illustrious trio's relationship, and frequently reaches breakthroughs in terms of simpatico. An oddball (Zach Galifianakis' Alan), a lothario (Bradley Cooper's Phil), and a neurotic (Ed Helms' Stu) they may be, these characters are still very investible and very believable, and given the ludicrous events that transpire during the movie's runtime, that's pretty impressive.

Though that doesn't mean it doesn't yield many a punchline; in fact, the gag rate is unfathomable, and, on average, there's a joke every few seconds. Even more impressively, for every joke that misfires, there are two that hit home, to hilarious effect.

But going back to characterization, it brings me nicely to the performances; what's refreshing about The Hangover is it's neither the first comedic outing for a major actor, nor does it's cast consist of the usual humdrum SNL affiliates. While the primary trio are seasoned, it's great to see some different faces appose to the norm. And, boy, you wouldn't want this cast any other way.

Bradley Cooper as Phil is cocksure charisma winningly applied to an everyman the average schmo can both like, empathize with and, similar to Galifianakis' Alan, somewhat idolize. He's slick, he's suave, and he's no slouch when it comes to punchlines, and, thanks to his leading man good looks, he's enough to bother Ryan Reynolds, and just as talented. Given that he's never really given a definable moment to shine, his insanity, compared to his co-stars, is admirably low-key, but, sadly, he is upstaged by both Helms and Galifianakis.

Ed Helms, one of the most underrated and scandalously underused comedic actors to recently come about, fits the role of Stu perfectly, which is a pleasant surprise; fans of his will probably be more acquainted with the many self-serving, idiotic assholes that have shaped his frame of work so far. Hats off to Phillips for giving him the attention and limelight he deserves, because it was definitely worth it; watch Helms throughout, and you'll see how his increasingly-frustrated Stu begins to squirm. The character's outbursts mightn't come as quite a surprise as a result, but you'll still be able to watch a maverick subtly begin to take centre stage. If, however, you don't have the tolerance to do so, than simply laugh your ass off at his piano/voice solo midway through the movie, and particularly his rib-tickling fermata.

And, finally, Zach Galifianakis... It's not difficult to identify which aspect steals the show; Galifianakis as Alan turns in a comedy tour du force; thanks to Galifianakis' undivided dedication to manic vivaciousness, and the innocent, dumb grace he inhibits the character with, Alan is the unfaltering focus of a very devoted audience, all of whom should be waiting for his next hilarious pratfall or observation (you can't masturbate on a plane because of 9/11, apparently). He is endlessly funny, and just never wears thin.

Unfortunately, not everything is as steady; there's a hammy Ken Jeong, who, after one funny moment, just becomes plain irritating. Also, the film fancies itself both a comedy and a mystery movie, but the characters' sleuthing grows a little monotonous as things proceed. Every twist is very predictable, and while some scenes do offer legitimate pathos (the scene in the impound lot, for example), others just deter from the general interest. Thankfully, the movie is deliriously fast-paced and doesn't fret too much therein.

And you yourself should not fret, because there's more than enough here to entertain and enthrall: three supporting players finally getting a stab at lead; a wonderful high concept used to its fullest potential, not to mention a great depiction of the title ailment; such unprecedented delights as a taser gun demonstration with two over-enthusiastic cops, a winking Rain Man spoof with a great and well-publicized use of the song "Joker & the Thief", and a rooftop speech from Alan that had me in stitches long after the movie was over.

Suffering the double whammy of being directed by Terry Gilliam (forever the attracter of on-set misfortune – Don Quixote, anyone?) and the untimely death of its star, Heath Ledger, halfway through shooting, The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus has had a troubled upbringing. But with the actor's tragic passing, its unremarkable place on 2009's cinema calendar was upped by being Ledger's second posthumous and final movie, unfairly burdening the film with the anticipation of it being something great.

It's not great. But it is a good movie, and probably Gilliam's best in over a decade. Also, bittersweet though it may be, Ledger's inability to complete his work is remedied in an incredibly inventive manner that arguably improves what would have been; the multiple facets of Ledger's mysterious Tony in the Imaginarium is a great inflection, and Gilliam deserves credit for this creative retooling, and for the fact that the haste in which it was applied is not at all noticeable. Johnny Depp, Jude Law and Colin Farrell (who all donated their wages to his daughter, Matilda) honorably step in to play the alternates, paying poignant tribute to their friend. All are good (though Farrell's Irish accent is far too thick to flatten), Depp probably being the best, but its all mimicry; Ledger is the one who does all the work. His Tony, performed with a flawless English accent, is a great part for him, possessing all the characteristics of vintage Ledger – charismatic, droll, physically erratic, etc. It's not on par with his work in Brokeback Mountain or The Dark Knight, but seeing how much fun he must have been having, seeing that wily smile, makes it a none the more fitting goodbye to the man.

The multi-personas also, despite sounding like classically contrived Gilliam, actually turn out to be the most credible part of the movie; they represent the most fascinating of the film's many mediations on reality (Gilliam is always at best when toying with reality, and this is no exception) - different parallels of the human psyche (or at least Tony's) are all challenged, and make for genuinely thought-provoking stuff. The rest of the film, however, is a bit of a patchwork; provocative but hopelessly overwrought. As always with the Brazil director, you can't fault his ambition, but he's always been patently unable to neatly combine all of his ideas into a satisfying whole.

His biggest mistake is going contemporary. Gilliam's sense of humor, being that of a Python affiliate's, has always been well-authenticated by a theatrical and undeniably British zaniness. But here, we get modern social satire in the form of Tony's revamped version of the group's travelling act, and we get conversational verbosity (particularly in the poor improvisation of a pointless Verne Troyer), and it simply doesn't suit. Better are the moments where a group of "violence-loving" coppers dance about in skirts or in the inebriated ramblings of Doctor Parnassus.

Why Gilliam didn't stick to his personal brand of appealing outlandishness is a shame, and a mystery, considering his fine cast of comically-endowed Brits, with glorious thespian Christopher Plummer at its head as the titular Doc. Of all the actors on hand here, Plummer is the one who best excels with the material. Playing a man who has lived over one-thousand years, he manages to convincingly carry himself with the weight of that time, his sallow-skinned and ravaged face, heavy, sad eyes, and world-weary frown scarily naturalistic. He's a heart-breaking character, and Plummer makes him an uncompromising presence.

Also impressive are newcomers Andrew Garfield and Lily Cole, and Tom Waits as Mr Nick, the Devil himself. The notorious singer has never really had any good roles to work with in his career, and, in all fairness, his talents as an actor dictates just as much, but he's simply perfect here, his Machiavelli stealing all the scenes he wonderfully chews with his smarminess. It's not exactly a creation of noteworthy prowess (and neither is the character – the cavalier, smooth-talking, gentleman-like villain, who relishes fomenting, is very overdone), but he's just such a hoot and effortlessly magnetic. He's pretty much the best thing here, and worth the admission price.

Along with the cast, the visuals, a branch you can expect brilliance in with Gilliam, are a real saving grace. The special effects in the Imaginarium aren't extraordinary, but that's the point; it's an accentuated, animated reality – one's greatest dreams (and nightmares) aren't supposed to be realistic. And few images this year are more stirring than of a harrowed Parnassus wandering through a vast snow-plain, giving up his struggle at a crossroad sign that reads "High Road" or "Low Road".

It's a very entertaining movie, and thematically sound (it manages to make existentialism and solipsism accessible), and endearingly whimsical in tone and style. Unfortunately, it frequently degenerates into a muddle, the many ideas it juggles far too incoherently transcended. Thankfully, however, after the monotonous middle act, the movie picks up steam and the great Imaginarium sequences arrive to compel. And, in the end, it's a sheer miracle that the movie got made; the fact that Gilliam didn't give up, that he persevered and single-handedly defeated one of the worst production catastrophes, and that he gave Ledger his swansong, is something truly amazing. And it is for that reason that The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus will be remembered.

Ricky Gervais' latest is disappointing. The movie is about a man living in a world where everyone tells the truth. This man, however, tells the world's first lie. The movie's high concept grows stale after the first two minutes. It was an interesting idea, but it just can't satisfy an entire movie. A short sketch, perhaps, would have worked better. The jokes are all put-downs, so every joke is pretty much recycled. Did you know Gervais is fat and has a big nose? Well, by the end of this, you will...

It's full of contradictions. How can Edward Norton, in a cameo, be a corrupt cop when he can only tell the truth? How can gambling exist in an honest world? How would people bluff in card games? There's a pleasant surprise in it that Gervais is very good in a few emotional scenes, and he's genuinely moving. A few choice gags are there; a coke advertisement is pretty funny, and Rob Lowe is always dependable. But good moments are few and far between.

It's painfully unfunny for the majority of the time, and the plot really doesn't go anywhere. Jennifer Garner's character, even in a world where insults are accepted, is horribly unlikable character and an uninteresting love interest.

It's a shame, really, because Gervais has proved his comedic ingenuity in the past, so this embarrassing hiccup is very disappointing. I'd give it a miss. It's not a great experience.

Hugh Jackman's Logan (better known as "Wolverine") was easily one of the most endearing characters of the original X-Men trilogy, what with his gruff and occasionally witty candor, impetuous hot-headed disposition, yet ultimately caring tendencies. He had all the bad-ass of any iconic anti-hero, and we loved him. Plus, sterling casting sought to it that the perfect actor, Jackman, would embody him to his fullest potential, and since the trilogy was pretty much The Wolverine Show, all these aspects equaled a great success.

Basically, this spin off had a lot to live up to. Not only did it have to continue to capture the vivid appeal of the beloved character, it also had to redeem the franchise after the embarrassing hiccup of Brett Ratner's X-Men: The Last Stand, the last installment in the otherwise impressive trilogy. Was it successful in doing so? Sadly, unfortunately, tragically, X-Men Origins: Wolverine doesn't achieve either.

I'll admit that Gavin Hood's prequel is better than X-Men 3, but it's still a messy and gormless piece of eye candy-filter (much like The Last Stand was), that damn-near tarnishes the integrity of the Wolverine character.

Now, that's a lot of criticism for one sentence. But, in all honesty, Wolverine doesn't really deserve an in-depth analysis; it's straightforward action mediocrity. It's, very simply, a victim of the common ailment of unimaginative direction.

The main source of the problem is Wolverine's drastic mistreatment; the character is neutered, all of his integrity diluted, now only a milquetoast shadow of his old self; not once does he showcase the ass-kicking brilliance that is paramount to his iconic stature. It's a bit of a boyish peeve, but even the moody, gloomy Watchmen indulge their rough-housing sides in Zack Snyder's adaptation (which, for the record, though only genre-related, is a lot better, I might add). Even his surly parlance is softened, ne'er a memorable candid remark in sight.

You'd assume such an immense fault in the movie would be its greatest flaw. But, oh no, Wolverine is far too risible for that. The movie's biggest crime is that the film is bereft of any distinguishable plot. The narrative is scatter-shot beyond coherence, with little or no continuity, the story following a very apparent and laughable format: Wolverine meets a character, fights briefly, than, following dialog usually a long the lines of "okay, listen, pal, you're gonna *insert task here*, or I'm gonna *insert threatening remark here*", he sets off with a new purpose, and repeats the same.

What's tragic is that the first fifteen to twenty minutes or so are very captivating, from the assaulting opening credits to the action-packed mission sequence. It's a movie that inevitably promises greatness, but has bitten off far more than it can chew.

Worse still, the inclusion of characters like Deadpool and Gambit is completely pointless, their screen time unmemorable and disappointingly fleeting, their crow-barred appearances nothing more than a ridiculous advertising scheme, it would seem. Which is a serious shame, because Ryan Reynolds mini-performance is pitch-perfect. Of course, I can't really say the same for Taylor Kitsch, who (and truer words have never been spoken) is undoubtedly not Cajun.

The acting on the villain's part is a lot more impressive: The movie's only concrete redeemable feature is Liev Schreiber's Sabretooth, who makes a diverting, albeit cliché, villain, his brooding presence a welcome contrast to Jackman's kitty Wolverine. Danny Huston, here playing the part of William Stryker, a role originally taken by national treasure Brian Cox (whom Huston looks nothing like!), is also on form, despite a script that serves him the cheesiest of dialog and most OTT of Machiavellian agendas.

But things don't stay positive for long; even the editing is hopeless. Each fight scene is probably jaw-dropping, but it's impossible to notice due to the horribly erratic editing. Should it not be bad enough that the CGI is painful (two words: "claws" and "bathroom")? To be honest, it's a wonderful depiction of self-parody. I mean, each moment is dripping with cheese, and each character seems to be recycled from other superhero movies (the old couple didn't give Wolverine their son's stuff; it was their nephew's, because he's probably freaking' Spider-Man!).

Okay, so I probably haven't been of very sound mind writing this review. The movie isn't the worst thing that's happened ever, but it's still pretty bad. It's baffling, really; how did it turn out so bad? Gavin Hood directed it, and he's got a reasonably adequate filmography. It had a simple story. It had a very simple demographic to pander to (action-loving jocks and fan-boys). So how? Who knows? All I know is that only a decent Deadpool spin off will revive this fan-boy's belief in a now near-dead franchise.

In conclusion: not unbearable, but definitely forgettable. 'Nuff said.

Misgivings aside, it has to be said: What Just Happened is Robert De Niro's glorious return to form. Though his performance isn't particularly classic, it's the back-to-basics effortless brilliance of Bobby that we've been recently starved of. The role of producer Ben is perfect for him, mixing hot-headed comedy with grouchy but nonetheless heart-warming sentimentality.

The film itself, however, is not quite as worthy a comeback we would have expected, but still garners some witty laughs and a realistically melancholy view of the bittersweet world of Hollywood. The opening scene is playfully familiar to cinema, particularly the eponymous taboo that horrifies the audience. It's a great scene, mainly because of De Niro's deadpan but wise monologue, which is the first thing to certify this as his return to form.

But despite an effective beginning, the rest of the movie seems scattershot; the narrative tries to skim its way through all the familiar faces of film making (director, studio exec, agent, screenwriter, pompous actor, etc.), while simultaneously trying to prominently develop the long-existing love-hate between Ben and his wife (an acceptable but grounded Robin Wright Penn). Turtorro and Wincott's performances are actually quite hilarious (each idiosyncratic moan delivered at perfect and rib-tickling time by Turtorro, and the outburst and subsequent fall from grace of Keith Richard-esquire Wincott is brilliant).

Even De Niro suffers sometimes; some of the foul-mouthed wit sounds odd and outlandish in the mouth of his reasonably straight-laced character, so some of the gags are lost, but this is more the fault of ill-conceived writing. The Bruce Willis subplot loses interest after Willis' only amusing scene; his enraged breakdown after being told to shave his beard, which, in itself, is helped by Ben's sarcastic but regretful outburst. There are some touching scenes that show Ben's tendency as a reactionary: the chair in his ex-wife's house, and his increasing annoyance at Willis, particularly his comments at a funeral.

The film works best on the good sportsmanship of the cast and their willingness to laugh at themselves, which, as the film tellingly shows, is universal in the cutthroat world of Hollywood.