The Ladykillers.  Dir: Joel Coen. 

Coen fans left despairing by Intolerable Cruelty may find themselves breathing easier in the first few minutes of The Ladykillers, a loose remake of the Alec Guiness caper classic; unlike their last dud, this looks and feels like a Coen brothers film, flush with their usual impeccable visual wit and eye for colorful casting.  And the higher profile studio involvement has brought them Tom Hanks, who has fun with his very Southern, very pretentious blowhard; the Coens have written for him with relish, and one pities waitresses at Denny's who will need to put up with hipster orders for "waffles, forewith" until the end of time.  Unfortunately, Marlon Wayans seems to be writing his own script, which is symptomatic of the failings of The Ladykillers: too broad, too laborious, too low (a running gag about irritable bowel syndrome?  really?). B-

Lady in the Water.  Dir: M Night Shyamalan.

“There’s no original thought left in the world,” declares a petulant film critic (is there any other kind?) in Shyamalan’s sure-to-flop fantasy, and though it’s easy to ridicule the self-absorbed pop auteur, his film at least strives to prove the opposite.  What other blockbuster wannabe in this despondent summer season can make that claim?  In fact, Lady in the Water is about original thought; the lead mermaid—err, “Narf”—is named Story, the aforementioned, ill-fated critic satirizes plot convention, and the logic of stock character roles comes under fire.  If only the film were any good! I enjoyed Unbreakable, in which Shyamalan explored what it would be like—in the real world, not a comic book one—to discover you’re a superhero;  but the synthesis of realism and fairy tale tropes proves much less palatable. The silly business about narfs and scrunts and other mythical beasties never takes root, much as the script desperately tries to sell it; unlike Unbreakable and his other films, which benefit from a gradual unfolding of mystery, Shymalan has to explain everything as early and often as possible here, resorting to a cartoon prologue and even a Korean mother who continuously explains the plot.  Paul Giamatti is good as always, but Bryce Howard (her daddy directed Splash, that other narf—err, mermaid—movie) doesn’t have much to do but speak like a zombie and look wet and stricken.  The rest of the large cast features some talented players—including Bill Irwin, Geoffrey Wright, and Bob Balaban—but as written they are an assembly of caricatures and racial stereotypes.  Enough has been said about Shyamalan’s own role as a genius writer in the making; he’s actually credible in the part, but the decision to cast himself was like throwing blood in the water before diving in.  He should probably refrain from casting himself as anything next time, but I’d love for him to write another good part for Mississippi Masala’s great, under-used Sarita Choudhury, who excels as the writer’s spunky, sarcastic sister. C

Lady Vengeance.  Dir: Chan-Wook Park. 

Chan-Wook Park’s stylish and gory follow-up to revenge fable OldBoy is as alternately mesmerizing and off-putting as its predecessor.    A long stint in prison has come to a close for Geum-Ja Lee (the amazing Yeong-ae Lee), where she became known as “kind-hearted Geum-Ja,” thanks to her ceaseless service and good nature while behind bars.  But it’s all artifice; she’s been scheming for revenge all the while, and she’s formulated an elaborate plan.  The complicated, non-linear narrative in the early going is something of a mcguffin, and her plan isn’t as exotic as Park leads you to believe; but that's not his true focus anyway.  The narrative takes a surprise detour late in the game, building to a gut-churning climax that explores the cost of revenge--and not just for Tarantinoesque anti-heroes.  As with Oldboy, I'm still not sure what we get out of these exercises in human deprivation, but I suppose a reminder that fruits of revenge are never sweet carries some weight in this climate. B+

Lantana.  Dir: Ray Lawrence. 

Ambitious if low-key mosaic of troubled marriages, as an adulterous detective suffering a midlife crisis (and recurring chest pains) finds himself investigating the disappearance of his wife's therapist.  That’s only the beginning of a series of bizarre coincidences, some revelatory, others contrived (with a self-congratulatory cleverness that grates against the otherwise mature, patient unfolding of Andrew Bovell's script).  Measured direction and good performances by the ensemble cast (it’s especially fun to hear Anthony LaPaglia's accent for a change) make this an interesting companion piece to 1999's far more adventurous, if arguably more pretentious, Magnolia. B

Last Days.  Dir: Gus Van Sant. 

Let me start by reminding any potential readers (I'm not kidding myself) of my fondness for both of Van Sant's 2003 films, Gerry and Elephant, which were both slow-moving (poetic to some and infuriating to others) and short on dialogue.  So no quips about ADD or unsophisticated taste when I state my frustration with his new feature, a thinly veiled (really, it's not veiled at all)  look at the period leading up Nirvana lead singer Kurt Cobain's tragic end (tragic for him and his family, but also for rock fans everywhere forced to endure a subsequent age of boy bands, slutty teen pop, and gangsta rap).  The film consists mainly of emotionless Michael Pitt mumbling, wandering through the woods, occasionally fiddling with his guitar, or watching TV, while a few faceless supporting characters flitter about the edges of what passes for his awareness.  Harris Savides' incandescent cinematography, alternately roving and committed, was the key to the power of the two previous films, but here the images are mundane, probably by design.  Certain critics will project all sorts of meanings onto this blank canvass, but actually Van Sant has nothing useful to say about Cobain's talent, torment, or legacy, and that's a shame.  One of the year's defining wasted opportunities. C-

The Last King of Scotland.  Dir: Kevin Macdonald.

Forest Whitaker's larger-than-life performance as the charming, expansive, and homicidal Idi Amin is getting deserving Oscar buzz, but I wish the film had more of a take on the blood-drenched dictator. I'm relieved that documentarian-turned-feature director Macdonald didn't elect for a run-of-the-mill biopic, but in focusing instead on a fictional Scottish physician he has converted a real world terror into a variant of Hannibal Lector, an attention-grabbing psychopath whose history and politics are largely left unexamined.  Fortunately, Macdonald has cast well; while Whitaker's uncharacteristically showy work has wooed reviewers, James McAvoy's smooth turn as the affable but naive doctor shows major star potential.  One could easily criticize The Last King of Scotland as another example of Hollywood viewing the third world through the eyes of a white would-be hero, but to the film's credit that impulse seems to be the object of satire; our protagonist is egotistical, shallow, lecherous, and ill-prepared, and does more harm than good.  That said, the film never strays from McAvoy's perspective on the Ugandans as child-like, sensual and bloodthirsty.  If such contradictions are never resolved, the film is still gripping drama, thanks to Macdonald's obvious knack for thriller dynamics (even if a few montages are over the top). B

The Last Samurai.  Dir: Edward Zwick. 

Whether due to the cost-saving advances of computer generated imagery or the success of Gladiator and The Lord of the Rings, Hollywood has rediscovered the epic form as both a source of Oscar glory and box-office bonanza.  With Master and Commander still in theatres, LOTR and Cold Mountain closing out the year, and The Alamo, Troy and Alexander on the way, we might as well be living in the 50's.  And there's nothing wrong with that; thanks to the brilliant technicians these costly enticements employ in droves, and The Last Samurai has one of the best in Braveheart and The Thin Red Line cinematographer John Toll, there's only so bad things can get.  The Last Samurai proves the point; the intense, gargantuan action sequences, the lavish costumes, and the exotic flavor of the film transport us at least sporadically, no matter that the story is warmed-over Dances with Wolves with sizable lifts from Braveheart and Gladiator to liven things up (scripter John Logan, who wrote the last of those best picture winners, apparently has no reservations about cribbing from himself).  It's a standard have-it-both-ways formula: our hero, war-haunted Nathan Algren, conveys a deep and deeply PC revulsion for America, especially in comparison to the purity of all the cultures we're out to exploit; at the same time, of course, he embodies the audience-pleasing American can-do spirit that can pick up samurai culture and martial arts in a matter of months, lead veteran warriors to victories they otherwise wouldn't win, and even garner a bow from opposing forces (ok, they aren't really bowing for him, but they might as well be).  Plus Tom Cruise is Tom Cruise, and he looks dazzling even in the midst of all that gory violence, when everyone else (even charismatic Ken Watanabe, who effortlessly acts him off the screen) looks like the marching dead.  No wonder he wins the heart of the widow he’s responsible for widowing; it's good that his enriching immersion into Japanese culture involves a submissive Asian lover.  Not that this ever strikes us as Japan; with the exception of some cheesy CGI backdrops, this is New Zealand, and looks like.... Middle Earth (Hans Zimmer's score, which features surprisingly few traces of Japanese flavor, doesn't help sell the surroundings).  Perhaps we wouldn't mind any of this if The Last Samurai taught us something about venerable Japanese culture beyond the fact that it is superior to ours, if equally dependent on  Tom Cruise.  C

Late Marriage.  Dir: Dover Kashashvili. 

Odd, deeply affecting and in many ways fearless study of family custom and pride; a handsome Israeli bachelor goes through the routine of parent-sanctioned courtship (in which much younger women are dangled as financial and social incentive), all the while harboring a secret affair with an older divorcee with a child.    The relationship of the lovers, played by Lior Ashkenazi and Ronit Elkabetz, has a realistic, shocking intimacy, both in terms of sexual explicitness and raw emotional honesty, that merges uncertainly with some more broad comedic moments involving his traditional Georgian Jewish parents, but this is far from an Israeli version of My Big Fat Greek Wedding; the cruelty of the family when the unsuitable affair comes to light is as shocking as it is believable.  Writer/director Kashashvili brings the film to a close in a manner that shrewdly manipulates audience expectation and prompts us to sift through what has come before to reassess character. A-

Layer Cake.  Dir: Matthew Vaughn. 

Delightfully heartless crime-sometimes-pays, sometimes-goes-horribly-wrong lark is being billed as from the producer of Snatch and Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, but Vaughn, on the basis of this thriller, is a filmmaker of a higher order, and more distinctive slant, than Guy Ritchie.  Where those films seemed overly reliant on Tarrantino-like monologues and stunt casting, and too enamored with visual tricks, Layer Cake is streamlined and cuts to the bone.  The nifty cast has the cadence and tone down pat; Daniel Craig is undeniably cool, and on occasion deadpan hilarious, as the high stakes cocaine dealer who needs to resort to new varieties of criminality when his highly organized and insulated program goes awry; always reliable character actors Michael Gambon and Colm Meaney likewise alternate between rib-tickling and nerve-wracking as criminal brethren on different levels of the pecking order (or layers of the cake, as the script's central metaphor dictates).   Vaughn--he's only my age, the bastard--would seem to be a potential rising star; he maintains his cold-as-ice approach until the very end. B+

Laurel Canyon.  Dir: Lisa Cholodenko. 

In the impressive High Art, neophyte director Cholodenko displayed a gift for portraying credibly unstable characters, thanks to an astute sense of the foibles of creative people.  She also coached a terrific, mold-shattering performance from Ally Sheedy.  Laurel Canyon contains a terrific performance from Frances McDormand, but that's hardly unexpected; it also features tediously unstable characters and a shallow take on the foibles of creative people.  Cholodenko has an impressive cast for her story of an uptight young professional couple (Christian Bale and Kate Beckinsale) who are forced to acknowledge their lustier sides when they move in with his mother, McDormand, a flamboyant record producer whose romantic inclinations often lead to disaster.  McDormand gets to cut loose, Bale has a sturdy, believable presence, and Allesandro Nivola is charismatic as a libertine rock star; but the narrative, setting conservative son against way-out mother, is deathly obvious.  Most obvious of all is the "flowering" of Beckinsale's dissertation-writing, tightly-wound bride-to-be; the actress never really has a chance.  Cholodenko, who also scripted, is clever enough to avoid perfect closure, but that restraint can't redeem all the sledgehammer-subtle machinations that came before. C+

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.  Dir: Stephen Norrington. 

There are many dark supernatural occurrences in The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, including invisibility, vampirism and beastly transformation, but the most horrific involves ghosts: HG Wells, Robert Louis Stevenson, H. Rider Haggard, Mark Twain, Oscar Wilde, Bram Stoker and Jules Verne, all spinning in their graves.  The problem isn't the idea of mixing together their most famous, fantastical characters - Allan Quatermain, The Invisible Man, Tom Sawyer, Captain Nemo, Jeckyll and Hyde, etc.; the set-up of LXG (as execs at Fox, reeking of flop sweat, would have us call it) actually promises quite a lark.   One by one the oddballs arrive, summoned together to battle warmongering evil, and each captures our attention, despite the strange disinterest Norrington seems to have for their characters (he keeps the camera far back, or cuts away from his actors at odd times).  The casting seems dead-on:  Connery would be a great Quatermain, if he could just corral his blustering; Stuart Townsend has the right indolent sensuality for Dorian Gray; Peta Wilson is appropriately frosty as vampire hunter Mina Harker, now a blood-sucker herself.  Only Naseeruddin Shah is a wash from the start; it's great that Nemo is Indian, as he was in the novel, but Shah looks like a cut-out from the illustrated edition, all costume and makeup without a trace of human animation.  But no matter; the incoherent plot, about a criminal mastermind looking to profit from weapons of mass destruction, quickly lets them all down.  I haven't read the graphic novel, but I'm sure Alan Moore couched the adventure in a sense of moody futility - our heroes might stave off world war in 1899, but we know it will still come, twice, in the next half century.  The film seems to have no sense of this irony, and devotes more and more time to incoherent action, a tiring series of explosions, and many demonstrations of that peculiar new strain of special effects work that seems incredibly cheesy and unbelievably expensive at the same time.  D

Legally Blonde.  Dir: Robert Luketic. 

Reese Witherspoon continues to prove herself one of the most likable and distinguished of the newest generation of Hollywood actresses; that this flimsy construct about a spoiled, fashion-savvy valley girl who finds her calling in Law School is bearable at all is entirely attributable to her unforced charm and sparkling intelligence.  That said, there is nothing to this by-the-numbers, occasionally clumsy fluff to warrant her contribution (save a chance to inhabit a star vehicle), and the film's pro-girl, pro-brains message has its own inconsistencies - if we are to be impressed with the intellect of Witherspoon's Elle Woods despite her flashy clothes, over-managed hair and outward ditziness, why does her defining courtroom challenge revolve around her knowledge of hairstyles and fashion?   C

Legally Blonde 2: Red, White, and Blonde.  Dir: Charles Herman-Wurmfeld. 

The sweet tale of the original Legally Blonde - ditzy sorority girl Elle Woods wakes up and realizes she has both a brain and a voice - was so nice that the producers decided to replay it again, even though this means that Elle has to forget everything she learned the first time around.  She is remarkably naive for someone who has apparently been succeeding quite nicely in the legal world; in fact, she’s downright annoying, both in her obliviousness and her ruthless insistence that everyone else in the universe care about her hair, her shoes, and the outfits for her damn Chihuahua (there are many on display here).  Witherspoon's skills remain unquestioned, but she needs to pick better projects, and surround herself with better behind-the-scenes talent, if she is interested in career longevity.  Certainly Herman-Wurmfeld, who helmed the fairly promising Kissing Jessica Stein, isn't the ticket; not only does he erode his star's heretofore irresistible charm, but he manages to surround her with people who are even more grating than the re-dumbed Elle.  Sally Field, once herself a young star with oodles of infectious verve, should have been the perfect complement to Witherspoon; but her character, a fickle senator, is merely a contrivance to yank the plot from point A to point B.   Poor Bob Newhart has it worse; stranded in an underwritten role as a doorman who knows the lay of the land in Washington, he embarrasses himself with hip hop lingo (blame Bringing Down the House).  Many would argue that the film's advocacy of  political involvement is a positive that far outweighs the dearth of artistry.  But a whole generation of young girls could be in for crushing disappointment if they come away from Legally Blonde 2 thinking that all it will take to change Capitol Hill are phone calls to sororities, rambling speeches about hair styles, and a few tugs at the heartstrings by way of a homosexual dog (that's not a misprint).  Certainly Witherspoon's Tracey Flick character from Election, who had all of Elle's outward pluck but a much more calculating nature beneath, would run Miss Woods out of town in minutes, much as straight men dragged to see Legally Blonde 2 might be forced to flee next door to catch the end of Terminator 3, The Hulk, or, heck, even Rugrats.   F

Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events.  Dir: Brad Silberling. 

The unfortunate events are, alas, unfortunately paced, but the production values of this big-budget adaptation of Daniel Handler's best-selling books are staggering--elaborately creepy sets by frequent Burton designer Rick Heinrichs, gothic, character-defining costumes from Colleen Atwood and a pleasing score from Thomas Newman.  The spunky Baudelaire orphans are well-cast, and I didn't mind Jim Carrey's habitual mugging as their scheming relative Count Olaf; he at provides some manic menace for an outing that otherwise seems more dim than dark.  Eschewing the faithful, long-winded approach of the Potter films, Silberling and scripter Robert Gordon struggle to condense several books into one cohesive narrative; the rushing, and the lost opportunities for character definition, are obvious, if not quite disastrous.  The film's best feature comes after the narrative ends--a delightfully macabre Gorey-like animated credit sequence that would have been much better positioned at the beginning. B-

Liberty Heights. Dir: Barry Levinson.

Levinson, back on the Baltimore home turf that suits him best, presents the story of a 1950’s Jewish family whose boys risk relationships venturing into two forbidden poles– the aristocratic world of upper-crust (and blonde) goyim, and the liberated world of African-American soul music and uncensored humor. As in Diner or Avalon, Levinson is at his most witty and perceptive when far removed from mainstream studio fare (this is the same director as Sphere?). It is a shame, though, that he didn’t devote more time developing the two boys; a subplot about their loving but criminal father (Joe Mantegna), whose numbers racket goes awry, never works as more than a distraction. B

L.I.E.  Dir: Michael Cuesta.

Disturbing coming-of-age pic begins in very familiar territory - well-off teens, distanced from their business-obsessed parents, carrying out acts of putatively shocking criminality, latent suicidal tendencies, and sexual deviance (including incest).  But before the film establishes itself as a retread of the Larry Clark or Todd Stolondtz oeuvre, the novelty factor kicks in: the emerging sexuality of fifteen-year-old Howie Blitzer, reasonably well-played by Paul Franklin Dano, takes homosexual form, and the scenes of his gradual awakening are convincingly done; then there is the compelling, not-quite-over-the-top performance by  Paul Cox as Big John, a  garrulous ex-marine, cultured man-about-town, surrogate father.... and pedophile.   Such inventiveness  (which includes the title) goes a long way, but does result in an uneven tone as the humor drifts from incisive to juvenile and back again.  Unfortunately, the conclusion, built up to in an almost obligatory manner, fails to move us, or even surprise us.  Still, a very promising feature debut from Cuesta, who demonstrates grace and shrewdness in mounting the complicated dynamic between Blitzer and John, in which the former is frightened, aghast, but clearly empowered by his influence over the latter. B-

The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou.  Dir: Wes Anderson. 

Anderson's stylish, funny but minor follow-up to the sublime The Royal Tenenbaums features another charmingly deadpan turn by Bill Murray, impressively whimsical production design (especially the cross section of oceanographer Steve's ship) and an arsenal of nifty one-liners.  The undeniably creative but undisciplined script, about a sometimes clueless Cousteau out to revenge his friend's death by shark consumption, is all over the map--and when it leaves the map, for a surprisingly violent run-in with pirates, it stumbles-- but the engaging supporting bits by Owen Wilson, Cate Blanchett, Angelica Houston and Jeff Goldblum, plus the sheer unpredictability of the proceedings, keep this one just barely above water. B

Life as a House.  Dir: Irwin Winkler. 

Winkler's latest Oscar bid demonstrates once again why he is a much better producer (Raging Bull, The Right Stuff, Goodfellas) than director (Guilty by Suspicion, Night and the City, The Net): his dying-curmudgeon-comes-to-grips-with-estranged-family melodrama is impeccably cast, with Kevin Kline in good form as the peevish architect and Vader-to-be Hayden Christensen effectively moody (if more presence than performance) as the Marilyn Manson look-alike son, but the staging is painfully creaky and predictable (how many shots of sunsets or choppy seas does any one film need)?  Scripter Mark Andrus, best known for the ludicrously over-praised As Good As It Gets, hits all the same notes this time out, with sitcom-level nastiness giving way to goopy sentimentalist.  Cluttered, digressive subplots with Kline's wacky neighbors don't help  matters any. C

Life or Something Like It.  Dir: Stephen Herek. 

It sure is tough being a woman with a career, ambition, etc.  You make sacrifices (men who want the bulk of your attention, kids), and your life is inevitably shallow, bitter (you no doubt traffic in sarcastic banter) and vain (you look just like Angelina Jolie, and yet you have to work out all the time, breathing heavily and bouncing gratuitously on exercise machines).  If only a loony homeless prophet would foresee your death, forcing you to re-assess your priorities, especially where an ideal potential hubby and proven doting father like Ed Burns is involved (even if you don't really have any chemistry with him).  Then you would understand that you have to live every minute, or something like that.  Ah, Hollywood.  Oh, and when you want to show everyone that you are lightning up, burst into song (something vintage and overused, like the Stones's Satisfaction).  Don't worry, everyone else will start singing too. C

Lilja 4-Ever.  Dir: Lukas Moodysson. 

Moodysson's latest and certainly bleakest will invite comparisons to the eternally dreary work of Lars Van Trier; both filmmakers are of the cinematic school, clearly European in character, that holds up the relentless expose' of real-life hardship and injustice as an ideal - as the ideal.  Lilja 4-Ever is about a young Russian girl, deserted by her mother, who turns to prostitution to survive and quickly finds herself trapped in the most horrific ways; Moodysson, working from the true tragedy of a Lithuanian teen, chronicles rampant poverty and exploitation in Eastern Europe with an unsparing eye.   The social importance of such filmmaking often tends to overshadow severe storytelling liabilities - the claustrophobic obviousness of every despair-inducing event that is about to transpire.  What makes Lilja more than simply an exercise in bad feeling is the sensitivity and authenticity with which Moodysson observes the early, intimate scenes, many quite funny, between the film's leads, charming 16-year-old Lilja and her younger, steadfast friend Volodya (Oksana Akinshina and Artyom Bogucharsky, both outstanding).  Our involvement in the pair beyond their role as victims elevates the film above the over-praised miasma of Van Trier's work, though an unexpected stylistic touch late in the film (think Wings of Desire) threatens to open the horrors to parody. B

Lilo and Stitch.  Dir: Dean DeBlois and Chris Sanders. 

Disney's latest, about a misbehaving alien who finds himself harbored by plucky Hawaiian orphan girls, resembles E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial, or perhaps the more recent The Iron Giant, at its core, but the pace, mood and style are charmingly frenetic, even seemingly undisciplined - a marked departure from those kid-flick staples, and certainly from the Disney norm.   As a result, this is easily the Mouse House's best animated effort since The Lion King; perhaps old-style hand-drawn animation is more free of  technical considerations, or perhaps animation heads decided some kind of shakeup was necessary after the dismal Atlantis.  In any case, Lilo is a delight, mainly thanks to Lilo herself, pleasingly voiced by Daveigh Chase - a sincere enough gal, but not afraid to beat up on bullies, talk trash with her older sister,  belt out Elvis tunes, or, of course, adopt what seems to be a mutant koala as her pet.  The characters are refreshingly human (and her sister, while attractive, is neither emaciated or huge-breasted), and the action manic, enough so that the story's lack of heft is barely noticeable.  The obligatory pro-family mantra is a bit creepy, though; "no one gets left behind" inadvertently recalls the rallying cry from Black Hawk Down... B

Limbo. Dir: John Sayles.

Precise performances by Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio and David Strathairn bolster this latest addition to the Sayles cannon, which, while by no means ranking with his best work, serves in some ways as the summation of his ideal of independent film: a quiet, mannered study of character and locale (an Alaska on the brink of exploitation but still profoundly isolated) that nevertheless celebrates the unpredictability of life by pitching a curveball or two, most dramatically with an ending that somehow manages to be at once both richly fitting and a cheap trick. B

The Limey. Dir: Steven Soderbergh.

Continuing in Out of Sight mode, Soderbergh gives us another taunt, old-fashioned crime thriller, even more bare-bones this time, about a British con (a fully-in-control Terrence Stamp), fresh out of prison, who heads to America to avenge the murder of his daughter at the hands of a slimy record producer still living off the fruits of the sixties (Peter Fonda, cleverly playing off his own sixties landmark status). Stutter-start editing impressively captures the drifting of Stamp’s memories while still propelling the gritty action to its inevitable resolution. Well-written, cast and executed, but too bare-bones; there isn’t much of a story here – in the end, it’s nothing more than an exercise, if a brilliantly-done exercise, in old-fashioned thrillerdom. B

Little Black Book.  Dir: Nick Hurran. 

Although Little Black Book is every bit as terrible as we expected it be, at least it’s terrible in ways we didn't anticipate.  Not content to be just another romantic farce that asks us to root for a deceitful heroine increasingly enmeshed in a dilemma she could easily get out of by telling the truth (see Maid in Manhattan, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, and countless other disposable comedies) Hurran's presumed career-ender  takes some surprisingly mean-spirited, decidedly unromantic turns.  One assumes it was this against-type strangeness that appealed to Oscar-winners Holly Hunter and Kathy Bates; surely they wouldn't have signed on to work with tediously off-kilter Brittany Murphy, who really needs help picking scripts.   Kudos to Diane Sawyer for not making a cameo (Murphy's TV journalist wannabe idolizes her); Carly Simon, whose songs feature prominently, was not so wise or so lucky.  D

Little Children.  Dir: Todd Field.

Field's sporadically sensational but ultimately underwhelming follow-up to In the Bedroom is yet another smug volley in the Hollywood assault on suburbia that we've seen in films like American Beauty, Happiness and, well, what seems to be the majority of American indies these days; even this devoted urbanite is starting to tire of the monotony.  The characters are all emotionally arrested, whether the quasi-academic housewife (Kate Winslet) who fears becoming a braindead soccer mom, or the handsome lawyer-to-be (Patrick Wilson) tormented by the responsibilities of fatherhood, career, and marriage to a beautiful wife (Jennifer Connelly).  Much of the film centers on their desperate affair, but the satire is ramped up by the inclusion of more daring material, particularly the return of a convicted pedophile to the neighborhood (Jackie Earle Haley, certainly well cast).  The thematic links between the narrative threads are obvious; the children are not only the toddlers to whom Haley is drawn and by whom Winslet and Wilson are chained, but all the presumed "adults" in this unlikable milieu.  Nevertheless, the film still seems schizoid, half inclined to dark satire, half to menacing drama; and we sit somewhat numbed, waiting for the story to force the inevitable bleak character intersection.  The copious narration is where the film has the most bite; and while the inclusion is a bold and often rewarding move on Field's part, the ultimate effect is to make us wonder whether we shouldn't just read the book, which sounds like nasty fun.  The saving grace of Little Children is the casting; Winslet gives us another fully-realized character in her lineup of strong but problematic women (she's probably a bit too attractive for the part, but I'm not complaining), and chisel-faced Haley elicits sympathy, but not too much, for his tormented ex-con.  Plus, I'll admit that I would happily pay to watch Winslet and Connelly (who is underused here) read phonebooks onscreen; it's fair to note that those more inclined toward men get plenty of eye candy here from Wilson, whose physical gifts are frequently dwelt on by Field and cinematographer Antonio Calvache. C+

Little Miss Sunshine.  Dir: Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris

This year's most talked-about Sundance sensation is this hiply cast but disappointingly rote dark comedy about a dysfunctional family--in the indie world, is  there any other kind?--lagging behind in the American rat race (there are a few shots of Bush just to remind us this is social commentary).   The characters are familiar enough eccentrics-- a suicidal gay academic (The Office's Steve Carrell), a disenfranchised teen who refuses to speak (inexpressive indie it boy Paul Dano, star of L.I.E. and The King), a hapless father committed to his own self-help program (Greg Kinnear), a long-suffering mother (Toni Collette), a no-holds-barred, sexually provocative grandad (Alan Arkin, of course), and an idealistic young girl (Abigail Breslin).  Crazy, yes, but familiar, no?  All set out in a beat-up old van (the van, gear-challenged and horn-happy, gets the funniest material) to escort cute and pudgy Olive to the miss sunshine pageant in sunshine-rich California, and the insane and unsavory contest, as well as Kinnear's blowhardy nine step self-improvement program, are the well-worn satiric targets of choice.  Carrell is impressively reserved, disdaining any sitcom preening, and Collette, fine as always, adds gravity where the script provides little; poor Kinnear, on the other hand, can't rise above his undeveloped role--he's an object of smug scorn, not a person.   There are a few inspired comedic moments--including the uproarious, if squirm-inspiring, climax, and also some nicely underplayed sweetness; I just wish the script weren't so broad and mechanical, the characterizations so sketchy. B-

Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. Dir: Guy Ritchie.

Entertaining crime film, about a bumbling group of friends who turn to theft after falling in debt to a card sharp, is chock full of double-crosses, colorful characters, and kinetic camera movements, but can't shake a sense of familiarity in the wake of Pulp Fiction and its many imitators. Director prefers comparisons with Alec Guinness crime capers of old, but one look at his Afro-wearing, fast-talking Samuel Jackson clone and you'll beg to differ. C+

Lonesome Jim.  Dir: Steve Buscemi. 

Buscemi's latest effort behind the camera is a slow, small ensemble piece along the lines of his (better) debut Trees Lounge, although he himself doesn't join the ensemble this time around, leaving the lead to Casey Affleck as a disaffected loner, a failure in his bid to join big city life, who slinks home to his incredibly dysfunctional family to put his life back together.  To the credit of Buscemi and his cast, which includes Mary Kaye Place as the overbearingly cheerful mom and Liv Tyler as the obligatory too-good-to-be-true, life-changing love interest, there is no effort to make characters likable, and no sense of rushing the intimate story to its no-big-shakes conclusion; the mood of midwestern smalltown life, the emotional flatness of the upcoming generation, is the real interest here.  Probably too reserved to score with the Napoleon Dynamite audience and too cinematically bare-bones to engage Garden State aficionados, Lonesome Jim is the epitome of indie festival filmmaking.  C+

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring.  Dir: Peter Jackson. 

Superb, audacious adaptation of the first part of J.R.R. Tolkien's epic fantasy trilogy, brought to life with lavish imagination, attention to detail, and technological prowess - not to mention heart.   The establishing chapters translate somewhat unevenly to the screen; no doubt uncertain about how the quaintness of Tolkien's guileless, rustic hobbits might sit with today's jaded audience, New Zealander Jackson cuts away most of the kind-hearted fluff and resorts instead to his horror film roots, dwelling more on the nightmarish apparitions in fevered pursuit of our heroes than on the heroes themselves.   In doing so, he provides breathless thrills but risks losing track of the simple-minded, pure-hearted nature of the hobbits so essential to Tolkien - uncommon courage from common people.  But the film somehow finds and hammers this note home amid the frenzied action, special effects and carnage of its dazzling series of climaxes - in fleeting moments of complicated humanity amid the bluster and jaw-dropping eye candy; in Elijah Wood's innocent stare.    As a result, Jackson elevates the film beyond the kinetic hollowness of most blockbusters and achieves a mythic resonance akin to that of the original Star Wars trilogy. A-

The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King.  Dir: Peter Jackson. 

There's plenty of nitpicking to be done about The Return of the King, the relentlessly hyped, guaranteed billion-grossing third installment of Jackson's gargantuan Tolkien adaptation.  After pumping up the character of Arwen (Liv Tyler) in the first two installments, Jackson and co-scripters Fran Walsh and Phillippa Boyens relegate her to cameo status with a cheesy narrative ploy; unlike the disciplined The Fellowship of the Ring, Return relies so heavily on digitized effects that the tangibility and human impact of Tolkien's flights of fantasy sometimes seem minimized; with corrupt wizard Saruman (Christopher Lee) excised from this chapter, our main villain is a bulging fiery eye, whose menace is not always as potent as, say, the cowled horseman of the first installment (a problem Jackson & Co. inherited from Tolkien's novels, in which the evil often seemed more metaphorical than flesh-and-blood.)  But these are all nits scurrying amid the footsteps of orcs, trolls, armored mastodons, and thousands upon thousands of soldiers; The Return of the King is a spectacle without parallel, the point at which Jackson opened the floodgates of his imagination and dared his cast and technical crew to keep pace, which they do, more often than not.  His great achievement is that his humans (and elves, dwarves and hobbits) are not lost amid the carnage, the creatures, and the cartoon physics; what sets King ahead of all its competitors (and it works much better than the similarly all-climax, all-the-time Return of the Jedi) is that interpersonal relationships and tragedy remain potent throughout the long running time.  Indeed, the strength of this third installment is that the bravery and steadfastness of the earnest hobbits, so crucial to Tolkien but minimized in the derring do of The Two Towers, return to the forefront here (Billy Boyd, as the jovial Pippin, and Sean Astin, as loyal Sam, give two of the film's best performances).  I suppose that the debate about the trilogy's legacy will hinge on the question of whether the fantasy outstrips the reality, rendering this a sublimely executed work for juveniles.  If nothing else, though, the extra-real setting allows us to dwell on issues of wartime courage and corruption without the distractions of inaccuracy and irresponsibility that crop up when filmmakers transform tumultuous historical situations into personal fantasy (Coppola's Apocalypse Now being an obvious test case). A-

The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers.  Dir: Peter Jackson. 

Staggeringly epic continuation of Jackson's ultra-ambitious Tolkien adaptation is worthy of its instant classic predecessor; indeed, viewers who found The Fellowship of the Ring overly laden with exposition or character asides may delight in this new chapter, which is so lit by a fiery storyline - a brewing battle between meager armies of men and an enormous mass of grotesque orcs - that the three hour running time seems negligible.   Indeed, the length is clearly inadequate - if the first film sometimes seemed rushed, this one seems positively sketchy, particularly where character development is concerned.  Jackson assumes that the characterizations in the first film (bolstered by the superior extended cut available on DVD) will provide the necessary groundwork for his elaborate action sequences here, but the film still lacks the emotional wallop of Fellowship ( more screen time for dignified veterans Ian McKellen and Christopher Lee might have helped).  Not that Jackson and company reduce our heroes to action figures - he digresses with a number of flashbacks and dream sequences to add weight to the Aragorn/Arwen romance, and provides a fascinating new character in the computer-animated Gollum - but the demands of introducing five or six major new players while rocketing the story along take their toll.   The overemphasis on computer animation, even though the work is of a very high order, also lessens the impact of individual sequences - even Gollum, so compelling in his psychotic soliloquies, sometimes proves distracting when set against human counterparts.  Yet despite these shortcomings, The Lord of the Rings, taken as a whole, seems destined to stand as an immortal achievement in adventure cinema, and this chapter's most potent images - immortal Arwen envisioning the death of her human lover, the apocalyptic siege of our heroes at the walled citadel of Helm's deep,  strangely graceful man-trees rising up against a wizard's fortress - are breathtaking. A-

Lost and Delirious.  Dir: Lea Pool. 

A young girl, mourning the death of her mother and cast off by her uncaring father and stepmother, finds herself at a picturesque boarding school for girls, rooming with two vivacious young women very much in love.   An angst-ridden, fable-like coming of age story, full of obvious symbolism (a wounded hawk; will it ever fly?) aspires to be a kind of lesbian A Separate Peace, though much of the time seems designed for viewers of either gender who get off gawking at young girls in uniforms and some sultry girl-on-girl lovemaking.  Still, the pretty cast is quite fine, with  Piper Perabo doing much more with her over-the-top, badly written heroine here than she did with her drab, badly written heroine in Coyote Ugly.  C

Lost in La Mancha.  Dir: Keith Fulton and Luis Pepe. 

Hilarious, heartbreaking account of Terry Gilliam's long-gestating but ultimately disastrous crusade to film the story of Don Quixote.  Fulton and Pepe previously directed an entertaining behind-the-scenes documentary on the making of 12 Monkeys, but they could not have imagined what a fertile subject their new project was to become, as one fiasco after another derailed the making of The Man That Killed Don Quixote after just one week of shooting (if this was a fiction, we would certainly accuse the writers of going over-the-top with tragic happenstance).  Gilliam has always presented himself as a dueler of windmills in troubled, visionary productions like Brazil and The Adventures of Baron Munchausen, and he is extremely sympathetic here as self-presentation becomes self-fulfilling prophesy.  Lost in La Mancha leaves us wondering how films of such magnitude ever get made at all; one cannot help but be flabbergasted by the dichotomy between the true-life chaos of the shoot and the fantasy world impressively realized in the few snippets of actual footage shown here. B+

Lost in Translation.  Dir: Sofia Coppola. 

When Wes Anderson cast Bill Murray in Rushmore, it was a sign that a generation of filmmakers who had grown up on Murray's laid-back irony were ready to embrace him as an elder statesman.  Sofia Coppola continues here what Anderson began, with tremendous results; Murray gives his finest overall performance in Lost in Translation, combining moments of graceful slapstick with a weathered cynicism.  His Bob Harris, a movie-star slumming by shooting commercials in Japan, is a funny man who nevertheless shows at every turn the cost of a long life of sardonic remove.  Relative fledgling Scarlett Johansson perfectly captures the same weary tone as a confused young woman more or less deserted by her photographer husband; the meshing of sympathies goes a long way toward erasing the 35 year age gap between the performers.  The casting was a masterstroke, because Lost in Translation is a small film, if in a good way, a touching study of two confused souls that eschews any moments of excess melodrama (or even plot momentum).  Coppola is clearly out to define a style that is worlds apart from the poetic grandeur of her father and the smug metafictional playfulness of her husband, Adaptation director Spike Jonze (Giovanni Ribisi seems to be doing a fairly cruel caricature of Jonze, which is not, one would think, a good sign of marital bliss).  If Coppola is channeling someone, it would seem to be Wong Kar-Wai, whose sexless romance In the Mood for Love strikes a similarly haunting and personal tone. There is quite a bit of artiness here, but it's effective; Coppola, cinematographer Lance Acord and editor Sarah Flack create a mood of perpetual jetlag through some murky visuals, slightly off-tempo cutting and muted sound (the most important piece of dialogue is deliberately inaudible).   A

Love Actually.  Dir: Richard Curtis. 

Curtis, an undisputed master of witty British romances, took no chances with his self-scripted directorial debut.  Why settle for one juicy romantic scenario, and one grandly romantic climax, when you can have, say, ten?  His mega-ensemble, love-is-all-around-us approach has a trade-off, of course, in that many of the strands seem tragically undeveloped, especially the few moderately unhappy ones necessary to stave off saccharine overload.  Some ungainly pacing and staging compound the problem; Curtis isn't as sharp a director as Mike Newell, helmer of Curtis's Four Weddings and a Funeral.  All this said, the superbly graceful cast, which includes Hugh Grant, Emma Thompson, Liam Neeson, Alan Rickman and Colin Firth, has such an easy time with the robust dialogue that this remains an undeniably appealing concoction, both sweet and sexy.  As an added bonus, and a much-needed change of pace, there is also Bill Nighy, as an aging, party-addled rock star so bored with the game that he doesn't bother to play by the rules anymore.  Another pleasingly unexpected highpoint is a spirited face-off between Grant's Prime Minister and the US president, played by Billy Bob Thornton as an unholy cross between Bush and Clinton; kudos to all involved for leaving in an obvious obstacle to stateside box office. B

Love and Basketball. Dir: Gina Prince

A better title might have been love or basketball, as that is the central choice of the characters in Prince’s debut feature, a chronicle of a young girl and boy growing up next door to each other in early 80’s LA and connecting through their love of the game amid the challenges of adolescence, college hoops, and finally careers. Peppered with solid insights and galvanized by Sanaa Lathan’s brash performance, the story entrances early, but eventually peters outs– much of  the material is routine, and Lathan overshadows Omar Epps to the point that his slice of the narrative inevitably drags. B-

Lovely and Amazing.  Dir: Nicole Holofcener. 

Trenchant character study of a mother and her three daughters, each of them unsettled and insecure in their self image and relationships with men (and each other).  Well-acted by Brenda Blethyn, Catherine Keener and Emily Mortimer (though Blethyn and Keener can play these respective variations of shrill and biting on auto-pilot by this point), Holofcener's touching and funny character study thrives in its small, non-theatrical moments, not in the more outlandish developments of the later chapters, which reek of indie mordancy.   The fact that matters don't come to a definitive conclusion is certainly a good thing, however, a tonic to the self-help contrivance of Hollywood "women's films" like Ya-Ya. B

Love’s Labours Lost. Dir: Kenneth Brenagh.

Henry V was one of the great directorial debuts of the last few decades, and Brenagh’s performance in the title role was no less compelling; smacking both of ambition and discipline beyond his years, he looked to be a tremendous force in filmmaking. However, while the ambition remained, the discipline waned, and both direction and performances have become increasingly smug and bombastic.  While Much Ado About Nothing and Hamlet were both strong despite their drawbacks, Love’s Labours Lost, re-envisioned as a 30’s musical, represents a precipitous decline. The fact that no one in the cast can sing except saving grace Nathan Lane  doesn’t seem to have troubled Brenagh at all; ditto the fact that Alicia Silverstone (following in the tradition of Much Ado’s Keanu Reeves and Hamlet’s Jack Lemmon and Robin Williams) is clearly inadequate to the demands of Shakespearean dialogue (indeed, she looks visibly frightened). The dancing numbers have kicks but no kick; the lavish costumes are more interesting than the actors.  Perhaps Brenagh should take note that his strongest performance of recent years was as Iago in Othello – which he didn’t direct. F

Other Grades:

Last Kiss (Italian) B

Last Kiss (US) C+

Lord of War C+

Lower City B-

Lucky Number Slevin C