There’s one scene in Drive that says it all. Our nameless and often silent hero, Driver (Ryan Gosling), is escorting his neighbor Irene (Carey Mulligan) downstairs in their apartment building’s elevator, when suddenly the Driver notices that the elevator’s third passenger is carrying a gun. This man is there to hurt them, and the Driver is most certainly willing to try and hurt him too, faster and harder if it means saving Irene. But the Driver also knows that by dispatching this assailant, and effectively saving the life of the woman he loves, he will also be forced to do horrible, brutal things in front of Irene that will cause her to never want to see him again. So – in one fluid motion – the Driver turns around and embraces Irene in a one last kiss, a gesture so unexpectedly tender and passionate that the elevator lighting changes, and time seems to literally slow to a crawl around them. And just when we’ve been hypnotized by this moment of abrupt beauty, thinking it may well last forever, time starts again, and the Driver swings around, almost instantly and brutally pulverizing the attacker’s head into a bloody mess. That’s Drive.

On the surface, the plot of Drive may resemble that of a generic Reagan-era action picture – boy meets girl, boy meets girl’s ex-con husband fresh out of prison, boy agrees to heist to ensure that the mob doesn’t touch ex-con’s family, and all hell breaks loose accordingly. Yet both Drive and director Nicolas Winding Refn are acutely aware of this, and take that genre familiarity as a chance to both subvert expectations, and reflect on Hollywood mythos. Our getaway driver of a protagonist is also a big screen stuntman, filling in for the hero by day, while becoming the hero himself (with no small thanks to his own pseudo-superhero uniform – comprised of driving gloves and a white satin jacket with a scorpion on the back) at night. Irene’s criminal husband (Oscar Isaac) may be a sleazy low-level thug, but he never becomes abusive, contrary to what the audience might expect from such an archetype. Even the heavy, the ornery but pragmatic gangster Bernie Rose (Albert Brooks), is also a failed movie producer who helped make a couple of action flicks back in the 1980s. “Some critics even called [my movies] European. They were shit,” Rose reflects, in a moment that seems to preemptively give voice to the film’s detractors.

Those same detractors (who I am most certainly not one of) must at least concede that Drive is an immaculately crafted film, as well it is. Newton Thomas Siegel’s lens captures every seedy pocket and beautiful alcove of Los Angeles with alternating alien glow and warm gloss, and the effect is stunning, perhaps even rivaling his excellent work in 1999’s Three Kings. Cliff Martinez’ foreboding, excellent synth-heavy score provides a powerful counterpoint the soundtrack’s perfectly utilized pop music, which transcends a similar level of 80s kitsch to become something remarkable. The songs that Refn blares during carefully chosen points of the film act like a Greek chorus, with the lyrics emphasizing all of the feelings our characters choose to leave unsaid. This music isn’t manipulating the audience emotionally, but it’s a vessel for the characters’ emotions, and that’s an important distinction.

There are a number of cinematic signifiers which can be found in the framework of Drive – the calculated coldness of a Kubrick effort, the character-driven eccentricity of a Coen Brothers film, the constant atmospheric unease of a David Lynch picture, and of course, the detached machismo of a Michael Mann production, just off the top of my head. Gosling has called the film a “John Hughes movie with a head smashing.” Yet it is a testament to Refn’s assured, utterly precise direction that the film utilizes and name-checks all of these influences, while feeling as unique as it does. In many ways, Refn’s control behind the camera resembles the ultimate rampage of the Driver himself: both men act in a manner which is swift, confident, appropriately brutal, and not without a taste for the ostentatious, when called upon. The effect is intoxicating, as Refn turns rundown locations like a crappy strip mall pizza joint and a over-lit strip club dressing room into mythic plateaus of vengeance, while never losing sight of their ironic luster. While the conclusion may be old news to fans of Refn’s earlier films – the Pusher trilogy, Bronson, Valhalla Rising – the man has one hell of an eye, if nothing else.

But he knows how to cast a movie too, and this is where Drive really roars to life. There’s not a bad performance on screen, and the film is spilling open with colorful, delightfully bizarre supporting turns, from Ron Perlman as the shortsighted Jewish goomba who dreams of being Italian, to Bryan Cranston as the luckless, motor-mouthed cripple who serves as the Driver’s surrogate father figure. All of these turns revolve around Gosling’s largely non-verbal performance, where he hints at years of burning, inarticulate fury with a single unblinking stare. We never are given any idea as to how the Driver arrived in this world, or how he became so well equipped as a killer when the moment requires it. With Gosling’s performance, we don’t ever need it. The Driver simply is, and Gosling’s trembling, hammer-clenched fist tells us all we need to know about the man in the moment.

Carey Mulligan also does some fine work as the Driver’s neighbor and love interest, and with the possible exception of An Education, no one has ever used her inherent innocence as well as Refn does here to tragic effect. Yet special attention must be paid to Brooks – yes, that Albert Brooks – who turns in an utterly terrifying performance that makes you wonder how you’ll ever watch Defending Your Life the same way again. His Bernie Rose is the definition of a mundane monster, an evil man who doesn’t seem to particularly relish violence, yet will nonetheless never hesitate to spill blood. He’ll slash your wrist with a straight razor without batting an eye, but comfort you in his arms while you bleed out, reminding you that the worst part is over. Brooks milks years of frustration, rage, and weariness out of this reluctant boogieman, and as a huge fan of his directorial efforts, it’s the sort of performance that makes you reevaluate his entire career. He’s that good here.

Drive is many things: a gore-laden romance, a swooning revenge thriller, a noirish 80s throwback, an urban fairy tale, and possibly even a masterpiece. Like the aforementioned elevator scene, Drive is not for everyone, and the tonal contrast between tenderness and brutality that defines the film can be jarring to say the least. Yet for a willing and ready audience member, Nicolas Winding Refn’s latest film is a cinematic kick-to-the-head – a film that throws you into familiar genre territory before tossing cliché out the window, and taking a demented, heavily stylized look at the existential implications of action cinema, the very idea of chivalric heroism, and the repulsive yet radiant beauty of a love story coated with blood. That, and it’s just a ton of fun to watch. Drive is crazy. Drive is strange. Drive is the reason I love movies. Want a toothpick?

Maybe it’s just me, but there’s something distinctly cozy about Woody Allen movies. The white-on-black opening credits, almost always scored to a classic jazz cut; the neurotic, self-defeating protagonist; and the urban (traditionally Manhattan) setting serve as formal signifiers, allowing the audience to relax into the world of the movie like a comfortable old pair of shoes. Allen’s movies never quite feel contemporary. They always seem to exist in some state of prior longing, where music and literature never quite picked up again after the great depression. Of course, this longing exists for a world few (if any) audience members recognize or could recall. The emotional texture of a Woody Allen film is similar to that of a romantic’s voyage through the past, where it doesn’t matter how much better things really were then, but rather, just that they haunt us now. Think about Martin Landau reflecting on his religious upbringing in Crimes and Misdemeanors. Or Allen himself opining on the life-affirming pleasures of a Marx brothers film in Hannah and Her Sisters. Hell, even Allen’s most famous film, Annie Hall, is a memory piece.

Which is why in hindsight, I’m somewhat surprised it took the guy this long to make a movie outright about nostalgia — though perhaps hardcore Stardust Memories partisans may argue that he’s been down this road before. Midnight in Paris, Allen’s latest film, and perhaps his loveliest in at least a decade, tackles this topic more explicitly than anything else the man has done before. Of course the protagonist/pseudo-Woody-surrogate Gil (an effectively, charmingly mannered Owen Wilson) is writing a sure-to-be under-appreciated book about a man who owns a nostalgia shop. Of course Gil has to literally go back in time (in a nifty feat of magical realism) before he can recognize the ostensibly desirable yet ultimately corrosive effects of living in the past. And of course, like all Allen creations, there characters go on at erudite lengths about their own personal philosophies regarding the film’s main thesis. Obvious? Sure. But no matter.

Allen’s script is all the more effective because it outwardly establishes the themes, creates the world in question (which I do not intend to spoil fully in this review), and allows everything to play out accordingly. It is a considerably more frothy and gentle affair than much of Allen’s later work (notably the misanthropic You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger), yet this is welcome considering the film cultivates an atmosphere most similar to spending an afternoon at the beach with an old friend who happens to be well versed in his Fitzgerald. Of course, it goes without saying that the film is quite funny too. It’s a perfect summer movie for the New Yorker crowd.

We live in a world where nostalgia is omnipresent, especially at the cinema. Our multiplexes are littered with incarnations of comic book heroes, board game adaptations, and most troublingly perhaps, reboots of reboots of great movies past. Even the lone original blockbuster thus far this summer, J.J. Abrams’ Super 8, owes considerably to Amblin classics of thirty years previous, with that central wistfulness being a vital part of its appeal. Whenever a heralded auteur releases a new film, discussion immediately centers around how said production fits into the context of said director’s body of work. However, Midnight in Paris, a film undoubtedly subject to the lattermost critical impulse, dares to buck the trend in this sense. Here is a movie which captures the ephemeral appeal of nostalgia, while illustrating the danger of it becoming anything more. It’s a simple little cinematic hat trick, but a powerful one, more delicate than it appears.

Living in the past may be inherently immature — but it sure is a nice place to visit every once in a while. Based on his thoroughly entertaining new film, evidently the Woodman feels the same way about the tricky emotional quicksand that is nostalgia. Like that comfortable old pair of shoes, there’s something just cozy about it, but it’s a coziness that is dangerous to mistake for home.

As unique of a cinematic journey as it is, a few films come to mind when reflecting on Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life: the boyhood loss of innocence found in Stand by Me; the grand, universal majesty depicted in 2001; and the natural, visual poetry of Malick’s previous films. However, I couldn’t get one comparison out of my head upon leaving the theatre, and it wasn’t the movie I was expecting. For whatever reason, I kept coming back to Apocalypse Now. Pretentious as it may sound, it feels silly to dub something as formally audacious and intellectually sprawling as Coppola’s masterpiece a mere movie. In fact, you don’t even watch it the way you do most movies. You experience it.

At least Coppola had the good decency of crouching his meditation on man’s descent into violence and animalism within the confines of a “man-on-a-mission” war movie. There’s nothing close to a traditional narrative in Malick’s picture; rather, he treats the audience to a collection of scenes and ideas, images and exchanges, all with the purpose of creating an ultimate illustration of what it means to transition between childhood and adulthood. Yes, there are even dinosaurs in it too, if only for a minute. (Even if the finished film leaves you cold, you have to give the guy points for ambition.)

That’s just the thing when it comes to The Tree of Life – it’s a film of dichotomies. Youth and maturity. Birth and death. Nature, the state of competitive, Shakespearean vaulting ambition; and grace, the state of passive, almost divine tolerance. The film may well be one of the most comprehensive cinematic character study ever made, but it also functions as a uniquely personal experience, provided you’re willing to give yourself over to it.

I didn’t grow up in Waco, Texas in the 1950s. I didn’t have the parents depicted in this film, played here wonderfully by Brad Pitt and Jessica Chastain. And I can easily say that as an eleven-year-old, I did not do many of the things that the character of Jack (Hunter McCracken, delivering perhaps the film’s best performance of all) does in defiance of his strict upbringing. But I know the emotions that Malick is conveying through these moments. I can recall the endless joy and possibility that an innocent mind finds in the mundane. I know how easily, as a child, wonder can turn into fear. I understand the disorienting notion of recognizing that your parents are not infallible deities, but just as flawed as you. Like the film in question, the emotions on display can be intensely personal, but remain wholly universal.

Tree of Life begins with a prologue of loss (complete with a quote from the Book of Job), followed by a history of the universe itself (dinosaurs!), an extended reflection of Jack’s Texas childhood, and ultimately, a decidedly ambiguous climax loaded with both apocalyptic and religious imagery. Most viewers will probably find this finale most baffling, or at least I know I did. However, do not let this section of the film lead you to believe that Tree of Life is impenetrable. It is not a puzzle to be figured out. Yet if you allow yourself to be taken hold of by Malick’s assured and stunningly gorgeous filmmaking, this film will viscerally impact you like few others can. After all, how many movies can you say that about?

Now this is what I’m talking about.

I read the first in Stieg Larsson’s increasingly ubiquitous Millenium Trilogy last summer, and I quite enjoyed it. Granted, it was silly, over-the-top, and more often than not a little self-serious, but it was a fun pulpy ride. And, more importantly, one that could easily lend itself to a great movie. Something the inexplicably acclaimed Swedish version assuredly wasn’t. The Swedish film was a fine (and slavishly faithful) adaptation, sure, but it was more interesting in slogging through every plot beat rather than telling an interesting or involving story. Frankly, it played like a TV movie, and that’s what happens when you literally adapt Stieg Larsson.

But David Fincher isn’t the kinda guy who will go and do something silly like that. Even though this is a true teaser trailer in every sense of the word — one that shows a lot while showing very little, it’s already convinced me that we’re gonna see a better film version of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo this Christmas. Not a better adaptation (that’s still up in the air), but a better film. As movies like L.A. Confidential and The Godfather have shown, sometimes that’s the right call when making material cinematic. The latter film took a lousy book and made it a seminal classic. I’m not holding Fincher to those expectations, but it’s important to note. In any case, this looks angry, and propulsive, and punk rock, and like that perfectly Fincher-esque amalgamation of gloss and grime. Needless to say, I dig it.

Hold on a sec though; can we take a second to acknowledge that tagline? Or that amazing remix of “Immigrant Song” that keeps this trailer moving, courtesy of Karen O and Trent Reznor? Awesome.

I’ll update this when a glossy, Quicktime version of this is out, but you know when to look for the “feel bad movie of Christmas” in theaters. Just try not to judge Fincher by the book.

There’s a lot of people who are going to tell you that The Hangover Part 2 doesn’t work as a movie because it is just too similar to the original. And they’re both right and wrong.

They’re right in that The Hangover Part 2 is a structurally identical film. Literally. Not just in the basic rhythms — the idea of the group waking up in a foreign locale, missing someone days before a wedding. Rather, a number of the plot beats here are repeated, to the extent that I’m genuinely curious what you’d see if you played the two films side-by-side. In fact, if they didn’t reference the events of the original so many times, you could practically call this a remake.

And yet… I’m okay with this. The Hangover Part 2 did not leave me cold because of its similarities to the original. Rather, it left me unsatisfied (as a big fan of the original, I might add) because it does the one thing I feel the original avoided: it becomes conventional.

There’s something really mean-spirited and nasty about much of Todd Phillips’ work that I genuinely appreciate. It’s easy to forget, but Phillips cut his teeth on documentaries like Hated and Frat House, which refuse to shy away from frequently ugly subject matter. Old School still holds up today not just because of the chemistry of the core group of guys, but because Phillips is willing to take every joke just a little bit farther (resulting in one main character having their life destroyed by the end of the film, and three others dead). The Hangover worked for me because it appropriated this darkness on two levels: the main trio was left without a straight man to tone down its douchebaggery, and resultantly, they spent the majority of the film getting punished for their actions. And Due Date, a film that I don’t think completely works as a cohesive whole, is most intriguing in this sense, because it subverts the typical road movie dynamic by making the lead (Robert Downey Jr.) a huge tool. While I don’t think the film’s tonal shifts were executed successfully, I admired how it was willing to try and extract laughs from having Downey punch a small child in the stomach. There’s no burying the lead in a Todd Phillips picture, or at least an R-rated one.

This is why, from the beginning of The Hangover Part 2, I thought I might enjoy it more than the first. The opening credits are scored to a great new Glenn Danzig song (and kudos to music supervisors George Drakoulias and Randall Poster, as well as Phillips, for scoring that), as cinematographer Lawrence Sher captures Bangkok in all its grungy, grimy glory. The first was one of the most well shot comedies I’ve ever seen, and this one ups the ante in that respect. The first few scenes play well, as the main group of guys have clearly settled into their roles, and are allowed to ease the audience back into the world of The Hangover. Then they wake up in Bangkok, and it seems like the stakes are higher than those of the first film. This time there isn’t just a tiger and a baby in their room — now there’s a severed finger and a drug-peddling monkey to contend with. The bachelor party antics of the first film seem to have been elevated closer to something closer to Peter Berg’s deliciously disturbed Very Bad Things.

But then… well, I myself am not exactly sure where the problem is. Because there are a number of great dark payoffs to these jokes throughout the bulk of the film, as they try and solve the mystery of the night before (the majority of which involving Ed Helms’ poor character, Stu). However, by the time Stu’s arc is completed and he makes his big speech and so on and so forth, I felt like I was in something closer to an Adam Sandler movie, in contrast to the subtly transgressive vibe of the rest of the film. Maybe that’s partly the fault of the structure — that some of the shenanigans which felt fresh the first time feel stale this go-round. In the first film, the structure felt secondary to the gags and the characters. Here, those two things feel secondary to fulfilling the structural beats of the first film. As a result, there’s a lot of aimless wandering around Bangkok this time (albeit well shot wandering, props to Sher again) without much of a comedic payoff.

There are some payoffs though, and good ones. Stu takes the brunt of the abuse in the journey this time, with Phil (Bradley Cooper) getting off easy in context with a mere gunshot to the arm. Even now as I write this, I’m chuckling at some of the surprises from the film, and wondering why they left me feeling largely unsatisfied by the end. I don’t know if it’s the fault of the derivative structure or not, but maybe that’s the point. In a movie like this, the plot machinations should be secondary to the characters and the jokes. And in the first one, the plot twists were the jokes. Here… I don’t know. But you can’t call the creators of The Hangover mad though. Because they did almost the same thing twice, to fairly different results.

I stopped doing script reviews a while ago (and the motives behind that decision are a different argument all together), though I still do read scripts regularly. However, every once in a while, I read something so cool, or interesting, or unique, that I wanna talk about it in some form. Consider this a venue for that. Last night I came across the 168-page script for Quentin Tarantino’s upcoming “southern” (read: spaghetti western by way of the deep south), and after tearing through it over the course of a few hours, I’ve put together a few thoughts I’d like to share.

It is and is not what you’re expecting.

There’s a point about a quarter through the Django Unchained script where Tarantino specifies that a title card must come up one letter at a time, ala Rocky, and I started realizing where he was going with all this madness. You see, much like Inglourious Basterds, Django Unchained reads as a big, sprawling meal of a film — a genre-hopping social issue picture by way of the grindhouse. There are at least a dozen major roles (see my casting picks below), but unlike any other Tarantino picture, this is not an ensemble piece all the way through.

You see, the first act of Django Unchained is a good ol’ buddy picture, with German bounty hunter/ex-dentist Dr. King Schultz teaching freed slave Django how to quick draw a pistol, hunt men down, stay in character (think Pulp Fiction), and collect a bounty. Schultz and Django rarely stay in one place for more than a few pages, and there are a ton of montages in there at that; yet nevertheless, this section of the script strikes me as one of the most intimate things Tarantino’s ever written. Think The Bride and Pai Mei, only… loopier. The Rocky influence is there though.

And then QT goes all Inglourious on you, as the second act turns into a tension-fraught men-on-a-mission flick, as Schultz and Django infiltrate the compound housing Django’s slave bride, Broomhilda. There’s a dinner table sequence in here that rivals the already-famous tavern scene from Basterds in terms of skillful escalation, all conveyed through dialogue.

But then… well I don’t wanna spoil anything, but Tarantino definitely reveals his inner romantic in the final third of this fairly epic story.

So it’s a revenge movie, a buddy movie, a thriller, a romance, and above all, a spaghetti western (complete with specified spaghetti western style flashbacks). Structurally it’s a lot more basic than Basterds, but tonally the films should make great companion pieces.

Is it self-indulgent? Absolutely. But will that be a problem? I doubt it.

Let me reiterate – this script runs 168 pages. Yet Basterds ran significantly longer on the page, and was less than two-and-a-half-hours when it finally hit theaters. Tarantino scripts are notoriously verbose and dense with prose, and while that’s not a bad thing (for me, it makes the script feel like a separate product to be enjoyed), it throws the traditional one-minute equals one-page ratio wildly out of whack.

Regardless of length though, is there stuff here that could be cut? Maybe. As I said before, this is a sprawling take on a fairly simple story, rich with great character moments and some terrific exchanges. I thought Basterds felt borderline lean at 180-odd pages though, so what do I know?

It’s not as uncommercial as the hype would lead you to believe.

A tonally eccentric neo-spaghetti western about the slave trade in the Antebellum South does not sound like it’s gonna break box office records. But neither did a tonally eccentric WW2 movie that played fast and loose with history and had about two-thirds of its dialogue subtitled. This concept is gonna be easier to digest for the moviegoing public than Grindhouse because (like Kill Bill and Basterds) for all the meta-shenanigans of Tarantino world, there’s a very primal and human component to the storytelling which I can see resonating.

Will the race material be controversial? Absolutely. Slave-owners are depicted similarly to the Nazis in Basterds here, and while you’d think this wouldn’t be a problem, I can almost guarantee it will be. As awful as Tarantino makes the slave trade look, Spike Lee will have a problem with the deliberately exploitive nature of the flashbacks to Django’s abuse as a slave, and Bill O’Reilly is gonna have a field day with lines where Django professes the joy he takes in killing white men (albeit ones who are slave-owners).

Tarantino might take a tongue-lashing in the media over this, but that’s never stopped him before. And I highly doubt the Weinsteins will pass on this, considering QT is the goose that laid their golden egg almost seventeen years ago. Besides, Harvey and Bob aren’t exactly ones to shy away from controversy.

A Couple Guesses/Ideas Regarding Casting

Django - A freed slave, a blossoming bounty hunter and a man who just wants to find the woman he loves

Who Do I See: This one may be decided already, as The Hollywood Reporter claims that QT is already courting Will Smith for the role. As genuinely interested as I would be in seeing that happen (so long as Will doesn’t shoehorn in a role for Jaden), my first thought was that I really want to see Anthony Mackie here. However, I’d bet money that Will Smith winds up headlining this movie.

Dr. King Schultz – A verbose German dentist-turned-bounty hunter with a flair for the dramatic, who teaches Django the nuances of the latter profession

Who Do I See: Come on. There’s nothing to add here. It’s Christoph Waltz. The part reads as though it was written for Christoph Waltz (right down to his trademark line – “Wunderbar!”). I’ve heard Christoph Waltz’s name around this project from the beginning. And when he inevitably takes it, Christoph Waltz is gonna knock this role outta the park. Variety claims that the part was written for Leonardo DiCaprio, and as much as I’d love to see that director/star pairing, I doubt this will be the film where they pair up. (If you recall, Tarantino also originally wanted DiCaprio to play Hans Landa in Basterds way back when.)

Broomhilda - Django’s wife, and the woman he spends the majority of his quest attempting to rescue from the evil clutches of Calvin Candie (but more on him momentarily)

Who Do I See: Broomhilda is not quite as well developed as The Bride or Shosanna, but I feel like there are enough notes under the surface in the script that the right actress could make this something interesting And I’m thinking that right actress is Kerry Washington, but I have no idea what direction Tarantino is gonna go with this one.

Calvin Candie - The owner of both The Cleopatra Club (a Mississipi hangout for white men and their slave girlfriends) and Broomhilda, a slave-wrestler trader, a Francophile, and an all around manipulative S.O.B.

Who Do I See: The script leaves the door open for Calvin to be anywhere from forty to sixty, but personally, I’d love to see Tarantino reunite with Death Proof star Kurt Russell. Jeff Bridges would also be great if they’re going older. If Candie is supposed to be younger, I’ve seen Josh Brolin’s name thrown around in a few places, and he’d be great here. Considering we’re talking about a character who names his estate “Candyland,” I’m sure all these guys would have a lot of fun making this character a really charmingly despicable heavy.

Spencer Bennett - The plantation owner who utilizes the three hillbillies that first sold Django into slavery, and the major antagonist of the first act

Who Do I See: I’m liking Coen Brothers favorite Stephen Root for this part, but as with Candie, the age gap is wide open.

Stephen - Calvin Candie’s longtime slave since he was a boy, and his second-in-command — as QT himself puts it, “The Basil Rathbone of house n*****s” (I told you this script would be controversial)

Who Do I See: Samuel L. Jackson. He’s old enough, mean enough, talented enough, and close enough with Tarantino. No contest.

Leo Moguy - Candie’s old boarding school buddy and lawyer, who opens negotiations between Candie and our heroes (who are posing as men interesting in purchasing slaves for bloodsport)

Who Do I See: It’s a small part, but I really wanna see Bryan Cranston in a Tarantino movie. Sue me.

Ace Woody - A slave appraiser, one of Candie’s goons, and a generally nasty human being (he’s only got two major scenes, but they’re both pretty great)

Who Do I See: Shea Whigham as a sadistic enforcer in a Tarantino picture? Be still my heart. Seriously though, get Whigham’s phone number from your buddy Robert Rodriguez, Quentin. Dude was crushing it on “Boardwalk Empire” last year as Eli.

Scotty Harmony - A chubby and awkward white boy in his mid-20s who gets Broomhilda as a gift from his father, before facing off against Candie in a poker game — probably the second most sympathetic white character in the script after Doc Schultz

Who Do I See: The Playlist offered a convincing and plausible explanation for why Jonah Hill should and probably will get the part, and upon reading the script, I definitely saw him fitting into this small but integral role. Besides, we all know how QT loves his wacky casting calls – he did get Ryan from “The Office” to play a badass Nazi killer…

Lara Lee Candie-Fitzwilly - Candie’s widowed sister, a strawberry blonde Southern belle in her forties

Who Do I See: There’s not a whole lot on the page for this one, but how about giving Michelle Pfeiffer a Pulp Fiction-esque comeback? Granted, it’s probably gonna go to Uma, but… still.

David Gordon Green is often rightly heralded for both his soft-spoken indie dramas (George Washington, All the Real Girls) and his Hollywood studio comedies (Pineapple Express, Your Highness, though the latter medieval stoner comedy was uniformly rejected by both critics and audiences. I guess America was never ready for a mainstream comedy where a major punchline involves the implications of a young James Franco getting molested by a Yoda-like puppet in any case.). However, the film which signaled his career transition between the two halves of his career, 2008’s lovely and haunting Snow Angels, has been unfairly ignored within the scope of his cinematic evolution as a filmmaker. A hit at the 2007 Sundance Film Festival, Snow Angels was quickly acquired by mini-major Warner Independent Pictures, and distributed a year later in the winter of 2008. However, opening weekend results in New York and Los Angeles were dismal, and the film didn’t expand as planned. Snow Angels was left to die a quick death on DVD six months later, and that summer, Warner Independent Pictures closed up shop.

Whether the film’s marketing campaign or the burst of the indie-film bubble were to blame for Snow Angels’ commercial failure remains ambiguous, though the film’s depressing content certainly didn’t help matters. Adapting a novel from Stewart O’Nan, Green centers the film around two couples: Glen (Sam Rockwell) and Annie (Kate Beckinsale) and Arthur (Michael Angarano) and Lila (Olivia Thirlby). The former pairing occupies the narrative terrain of the melodrama, as Glen (a former alcoholic who’s found Jesus), tries desperately and pathetically to work his way back into Annie’s life. Thankfully there is some levity in the film, the vast majority of which relates to the other romance, as Angarano deftly portrays a goofy band kid who falls for the charmingly nerdy new girl, Lila (It should also be noted that Thirlby is positively radiant in this turn, differentiating herself beautifully from a potentially similar role of hers in 2008’s similarly underseen teen dramedy The Wackness. That, and Green’s lens loves her.) And as if that wasn’t enough, there are two other couples in the mix: Nate (Nicky Katt) and Barb (Amy Sedaris), the latter of whom Annie buddies up with at her waitress job as she plays around in bed with the former on the side; and Don (Griffin Dunne) and Louise (Jeannetta Arnette), Arthur’s bickering, divorcing parents who cast a grim shade over his blossoming romance. There’s a whole spectrum of relationships on display, with the two major couplings (Arthur and Lila and Glen and Annie, respectively) signifying the beginning and end.

The film takes a major turn midway through which I won’t spoil here, but suffice it to say, Snow Angels walks a tonal tightrope in its second half, delicately balancing the tender romance of Arthur and Lila with the violent fallout of Glen’s emotional breakdown. To its credit though, the film never feels choppy, as the adolescent debauchery of the teenagers provides a nice palate cleanser following the weighty theatrics of the adults. And Green’s loose, heavily improvised style brings a much needed levity to the proceedings in unexpected moments, such as a scene in a mattress store where the evangelical Glen tries uncomfortably to use Christ’s teachings while pitching to a pair of lesbians. Green’s studio comedies are made unique by their unusual rhythms – Pineapple Express wouldn’t be the same without its oddball narrative detours, like when a chubby little girl in a bathing suit watches with curiosity as James Franco weeps over a cheeseburger on a park swing-set. Generally, people attribute Malick as a major influence on Green’s films (the two are indeed friends), but these directorial flourishes are more reminiscent of the style of Robert Altman, as the film takes relish in exploring the world around its characters.

Yet the world of Snow Angels, for all that levity, is often a dark and unsettling one, much to the credit of Rockwell’s phenomenal performance. His Glen is, in short, a loser, and a character the audience instinctively takes pity on from the first time we see him forget to bring a teddy bear to his daughter during a weekend visit. However, Rockwell takes that pity and makes it magnetic, as he drags the viewer through his twisted downward spiral, leaving audience members unsure whether to chuckle or be afraid. Consider the scene where Glen, unable to communicate with his wife, head-butts away at the tree in front of her house until his forehead goes bloody. It’s undoubtedly a somewhat goofy moment, and Green and Rockwell both know it. For all of the malformed love, anger, and violence inside Glen, he’s about as emotionally sophisticated as a kid banging his head in a tantrum. But that violence still festers inside of him, and his inability to articulate it in any manner that doesn’t involve a bottle renders devastating consequences in the film’s finale.

And of that finale, which seems to be something of a sticking point for those watching the film, consider how Green works in a fifth, previously tangential couple into those closing moments. In the final montage, one of the couples in the film is in romantic bliss, two are uneasily trying to work things out (to varying degrees of success), and one has been torn apart by violence and tragedy. Yet while the town celebrates during a high school football game, leaving the tragedy of past events behind them, Glen’s parents shout into the abyss, searching for his loyal dog Bomber. Is this them refusing to let go of the past, moving on by attempting to maintain the status quo, or some combination of the two? Regardless, all work towards the thesis of Green and O’Nan: if you don’t bring the past home, make peace with it, and move on, it’ll always be out there, waiting in the woods for you to dredge it back out.

If you haven’t seen the film, or you couldn’t tell already, Snow Angels is something of an odd bird. As previously mentioned, its serio-comedic tone and big name cast mark a transition in Green’s career, from indie lyricist to Hollywood stoner comedy guru. All the same, I don’t think Green’s auteur status is in question. All of his films balance the human with the whimsical, the blisteringly real and mundane with the poetic (though in Pineapple Express, this humanism is filtered through writers Evan Goldberg and Seth Rogen’s understanding of male friendship). If Pineapple Express were a mere stoner comedy, would it have a lengthy montage of Rogen and James Franco frolicking in the woods, pretending to sword fight with tree branches and blowing smoke at caterpillars? If All the Real Girls was a straight up indie love story, would it feature Danny McBride complaining to Zooey Deschanel that restaurants that serve waffles and french toast are too fancy? The answer to both questions is of course no, and that’s what makes Snow Angels such an interesting watermark in his career. Nowhere else are Green’s cinematic intentions as clearly deliberated, as he takes a little bit of everything – romance, teen comedy, tragedy, melodrama, coming-of-age angst – and does his own thing with it. If one filmmaker can pull that off one minute, and then decide to make a stoner comedy homage to Krull the next, then that’s a voice to pay attention to in my book.

I still remember my first Sidney Lumet film.

I was in seventh grade, and for whatever reason that September Sunday afternoon, I felt compelled to rent 12 Angry Men from my local video store. Maybe I just felt like a courtroom drama, or maybe I had become so vaguely familiar with the film’s formula after years of sitcom parodies that I was just interested in seeing the real thing. However, even though the DVD was kind of scratched, and the disc made a strange noise in my player for the entirety of the film, I knew immediately I was watching something great. The performances were all just so good. The script was just so tight and involving. However, it was all just held together with such craftsmanship, by a director who knew the story he was telling and how to tell it without missing a single beat.

From there I hit all the usual points in his filmography – Dog Day Afternoon, The Verdict, Serpico (a movie I wasn’t sure if I could take seriously, due to its association to Wes Anderson’s Rushmore, but was also eventually blown away by) – while also finding a couple minor gems in there along the way – most notably 1982’s Deathtrap. I can’t say I have seen The Wiz, but no matter. The man directed almost a movie a year from the mid-60s to the mid-90s, at least half-a-dozen of which are stone-cold classics. He was allowed a couple clunkers.

And then of course there was Network, my personal favorite Lumet film. I got Network in a box-set along with Dog Day Afternoon and All the President’s Men for my birthday about five months after seeing 12 Angry Men, and on first viewing, I didn’t quite get it. I knew what I was watching was great cinema – and everything in the film from Peter Finch to Chayefsky’s script was haunting, hilarious, and increasingly relevant in one fell swoop. But I just wasn’t processing it I suppose. Then about two years later, I caught it again at a screening at New York’s Film Forum, and it was like everything came together. It remains a favorite of mine to this day.

You’d be hard-pressed to call Lumet an auteur. You couldn’t recognize a Lumet film just by watching it, as you could a Scorsese picture or an Altman movie. But that doesn’t make him any less of a great director. He was a born storyteller, and one who knew just how to elevate great material with strong casting, location-work, and shot selection. Lumet was the kind of director who didn’t rely on his own style, but rather focused on getting the best out of all those around him.

Yet, there were little touches that can be recognized from Lumet film to Lumet film. I’m thinking of that great slow tracking shot 12 Angry Men when Henry Fonda gives his final speech, and how it mirrors the opening of The Verdict, as Paul Newman plugs away on the pinball machine in that dingy little Boston bar. Even between films, his style reflected the material as appropriate. The former shot reflects the quiet humanity that represents man at his best. The latter aches the pain of a once great man who has since neglected all hope and virtue. As always, Lumet’s direction was there to serve the story and the characters.

He was a great storyteller. He was a great New York filmmaker (for my money, he’s up there with Marty and Woody in terms of directors whose work serves as an extended ode to the city). And he will undoubtedly be missed, by those he was close to, and by those who love cinema. Rest in peace Mr. Lumet.

“None of the kids are saying anything,” noted my companion midway through Rango, the first feature-length animated film from famed effects house Industrial Light and Magic, in reference to the audience of initially unruly children before us. That same group of kids which screamed their heads off and ran up the aisles during the trailers for such condescending cinematic confections as The Smurfs and Hoodwinked Too: Hood vs. Evil, suddenly found themselves silent as the feature attraction unspooled. I’m not certain regarding how much of the film they understood — especially given the film is principally a post-modern homage to Chinatown and a multitude of Westerns that deconstructs the basic hero’s journey — but I am sure of one thing: none of it talked down to them. And that is a very good thing.

Of course, this is all potentially void since it is very much debatable if the film is for families, though the argument can be made that it’s a film for adults that might be up the alley of certain kids. If the traditional Pixar model is “make a film for everyone,” Rango is giddy to subvert that too. The humor is more based in the verbal dexterity and visual wit that’d mark a Coen brothers film, and the unabashedly meta layer of writer John Logan’s script might be a pleasure reserved for the few Charlie Kaufman fans in the audience. Even the film’s undeniably gorgeous animation draws a hard line in the sand — all of the characters, beautifully rendered as they may be, are rather ugly things. Yes, Rango is perfectly content being a film that is most definitely not for everyone, though the mystery remains: who is this film for? I couldn’t tell you, though I could tell you that I loved every second of Rango.

And in some ways, that’s part of the movie’s charm. Rango is many things, but it’s not a film that was made by committee. No one was talking about quadrants or demographics when this thing was getting made, though I’m sure the individual at Paramount responsible for the greenlight was hoping the presence of Johnny Depp would split the difference in that respect. No no, this is strange, uncompromising, and oddly personal filmmaking on a huge scale, and it’s animated no less.

Yet for all my talk of the film’s scale, the machinations of Rango‘s plot feel incidental, on a level that very much feels refreshingly deliberate. The story is, as alluded to before, cribbed liberally from Chinatown, including a tortoise in a wheelchair voiced by Ned Beatty, who is clearly a surrogate for John Huston. A viscerally thrilling chase sequence midway through the film nods its head to both Apocalypse Now and Star Wars in a single moment. Yet this doesn’t follow the Dreamworks template of pop culture sampling where it feels like pandering — everything has a purpose here. The entire arc of the titular character is very much about finding a place for fantasy and fictions in life, harsh realities be damned. It makes complete sense then that the thrust of the film’s narrative is a self-conscious riff on Joseph Campbell’s hero’s journey. Even perhaps the film’s most brilliant gag, involving Timothy Olyphant’s brilliant impersonation of a Western icon (I shall spoil no more), has a purpose within Rango’s existentialist journey — no man can walk out on his own story.

I love Pixar films (though the upcoming Cars 2 may be the exception that proves the rule), but I’m just as glad something as strange and uncompromising and deliriously entertaining as Rango occupies a place in the marketplace as well. A film that deserves space on a shelf somewhere next to Wes Anderson’s own similarly iconoclastic effort, Fantastic Mr. Fox, Rango is a movie that refuses to conform to the expectations of its audience, big or small. And there’s a part of me that thinks that kind of boldness just might work in the movie’s favor. After all, look at the kids. They might not know what’s going on, or why it’s funny when “Ride of the Valkyries” starts playing, but that lizard sure looks weird, and like nothing else, and there’s something cool about that. Sadly, it’s true that no one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public. However, I’m glad that Rango exists, and in its own surreal way, represents the artistic inverse of that sentiment. Give your audience’s intelligence some respect, and the kind of audience you want might just stop talking long enough to pay attention.

7:42 (E.S.T.) – Matthew McConaughey in the house. Is he here under the impression that A Time to Kill is getting some kind of classic tribute award?

7:43 – Warren Beatty looks lost. Jesus, Bullworth wasn’t that long ago. Wait…

7:47 – “I am on a drug, it’s called CHARLIE SHEEN.” I’m so sorry Martin.

7:50 – Marky Mark’s doing his part on the red carpet to publicize that obscure HBO show he produces, Entourage.

7:52 – Does anybody remember like ten years back when Joan Rivers asked Ving Rhames how it felt to be nominated for The Green Mile? Good times.

7:59 – A pertinent quote from Brick director Rian Johnson’s DP Steve Yedlin: ”You can predict the Oscars with 95% accuracy by replacing the word ‘best’ with ‘most.’”

8:05 – James Franco, as always delightfully eccentric/stoned/drunk/exhausted from completing half-a-dozen Master’s programs simultaneously.

8:15 – Because it’s always worth repeating:

8:22 – Ugh, Roberto Benigni.

8:26 – I really want this interviewer to ask Tom Hanks about Chet’s rap career.

8:30 – Reznor/Ross’ In the Hall of the Mountain King!

8:32 – Alec Baldwin, you scamp.

8:34 – “I don’t like being around this much negativity.” “I love you in Tron.” James Franco’s public persona has become his character from Pineapple Express and I love it.

8:37 – This’d be a great time to work in Bill Hader’s impression of Alan Alda doing Biff from Back to the Future. Just saying.

8:40 – Tom Hooper looking visibly uncomfortable during the intro of grandma Franco.

8:42 – My friend Becky: “Is James Franco endearingly awkward or completely shitfaced?”

8:43 – Boooooo, Gone with the Wind.

8:44 – Ugh, Alice in Wonderland has an Oscar now? Don’t reward Tim Burton, Academy, for just doing the same thing again and again.

8:46 – This guy looks like he’s about to get sick on stage. Has Burton got a guy pointing a sniper rifle at him from the balcony. In any case the paleness and sweating is not promising.

8:47 – DEAKINS!!!

8:47 – Still, good to see Inception get some love.

8:48 – And then Chris Nolan was all like, “I’m too cool for your award show.”

8:53 – Okay, here comes the first potential upset of the evening…

8:54 – Animal Kingdom! At least this movie got acknowledged for Weaver’s phenomenal performance, so good.

8:55 – I love that a movie about a near-incestuous Massachusetts family of crackheads and drunks got nominated for a ton of Oscars. It was also about boxing, so I guess that’s why.

8:56 – OPEN THE ENVELOPE KIRK.

8:57 – Okay this is starting to become obnoxious.

8:59 – Very glad to see Melissa Leo not leave empty-handed. Also, swearing like a sailor.

9:00 – “It is about RESPECTING MOTION PICTURES!” Melissa Leo talking trash at her haters. This is getting hilariously uncomfortable.

9:03 – Damn, I’m 1 for 4 at this point. A bunch of surprises in minor categories.

9:06 – Patton Oswalt: “Kirk Douglas = Charlie Sheen in 3 weeks.”

9:13 – Javier Bardem and Josh Brolin just got a movie greenlit where they’re playing the Smothers Brothers.

9:14 – Bring it home Sorkin.

9:18 – Another Year, Inception, and The Fighter were all better scripts than The King’s Speech, but this guy is endearing enough that I’ll let it slide.

9:23 – Delayed reaction, but wasn’t it fantastic how Sorkin refused to acknowledge the exit music playing behind him?

9:24 – Cut to James Franco toking off a Coke can bong backstage during this musical interlude.

9:25 – Our first Charlie Sheen joke of the night and it’s an hour in? Admirable restraint Academy.

9:28 – Russell Brand presenting the foreign language Oscar just seems… crass. Like the Academy is being openly dismissive of the category.

9:30 – I would in no way be surprised if Christian Bale smoked crack to prepare for The Fighter.

9:31 – You the man Jeremy Renner.

9:31 – You the man Mark Ruffalo.

9:31 – You the man Geoffrey Rush.

9:32 – You the Oscar winner Christian Bale. (Okay, I’m done.)

9:33 – Dicky and Micky!

9:39 – I keep waiting for this guy to say “Go to the mattresses.”

9:40 – They always act so surprised when these things run long, and yet…

9:42 – Man, I reeeaalllyy wanna see Trent Reznor win an Oscar right now.

9:43 – Nine Inch Nails classing up the joint.

9:44 – “David Fincher… David Fincher.”

9:46 – Matthew spent the night in a broken tanning bed. He’s really counting on the success of The Lincoln Lawyer.

9:49 – That’s the Academy Award nominated Unstoppable to you, peasant.

9:55 – Oh, the quiet indignities of the untelevised technical Oscars.

9:57 - So, to reiterate,
The Wolfman: 1
Black Swan: 0

9:59 - Once more,
Alice in Wonderland: 2
Blue Valentine: 0

10:02 – No, I’m not making any Kevin Spacey jokes. Too easy.

10:13 – A piece of advice when betting on Documentary Short Subject — do some research and find the movie that looks most depressing.

10:16 – The shaggy haired kid who just won best Live Action Short is adorable.

10:17 – Franco shoutin’ it out to NYU!

10:20 – Best part of the evening so far: Joel Coen picking something out of his ear, looking phenomenally bored during Oprah’s speech.

10:22 – Was hoping for a Banksy appearance, but Charles Ferguson sticking it to the bankers is a nice substitute.

10:27 – I’m laughing at Billy Crystal unironically and I don’t care how you feel about it.

10:32 – I’m glad Robert Downey Jr. has a sense of humor about himself after the Golden Globes.

10:35 – Let’s go Social Network!

10:35 – Eat it Harvey.

10:41 – “Winter’s Bone? Rabbit Hole? How to Train Your Dragon? That’s disgusting.”

10:46 – C’mon 127 Hours…

10:46 – Oh, Randy.

10:48 – They awkwardly cut Halle Berry into the end of the preview of the memorium montage, and I was all like, “Whaaaattt?”

10:57 – Womp womp.

11:01 – Looks like this is Best Director. FINCHER! FINCHER! FINCHER!

11:03 – Sigh.

11:04 – You seem like a nice man Mr. Hooper, but your speech is putting me to sleep. (Cute mother anecdote aside.)

11:11 – The brownies are kicking in James, we all know it.

11:12 – You gotta love Jeff Bridges. There’s just no alternative.

11:14 – I’m so psyched for this Portman acceptance speech.

11:17 – Yay! Natalie Portman bringing the house down. When she turns around to leave, we’ll see blood pooling on her dress.

11:21 – Bridges split in for the pot with Franco. That, or they’re both just like this.

11:23 – Damn, Social Network got robbed for supporting actor noms.

11:25 – The one award I will happily concede to The King’s Speech. Firth seems like a great guy.

11:32 – And it is about to get real…

11:32 – Thank you, Mr. Spielberg, for acknowledging that often great films DO NOT win Best Picture.

11:33 – Damn good year for movies this was.

11:33 – Over on Twitter, director Rian Johnson has literally predicted every category correctly. Almost more amusing than the show: http://twitter.com/rcjohnso

11:35 – Holy crap this is intense… SOCIAL NETWORK MAKE IT RAIN!

11:36 – Fail.

11:37 – The real winner tonight is Harvey Weinstein, who proved it is possible to buy a Best Picture Oscar, provided you’re clever.

11:40 – There’s something poetic about Franco forgetting the name of the Best Picture winner one minute later, and I think it’s an omen of how The King’s Speech will go down in history. On that note, good night everybody!