Lust, Caution & Michael Clayton
I have noticed that among some people, there’s an expectation that many of the films shown in festivals are drenched in sex. While it’s true that the ratings doled out by the MPAA are irrelevant within a festival atmosphere (even if that festival is within U.S. boundaries - the only part of the world in which anyone cares what the MPAA has to say), not every festival entry features copious amounts of naked flesh and simulated or non-simulated coupling. Ideally, the criterion by which a movie is selected for screening during a festival is simple: it meets a certain level of artistic excellence (or at least what the programmers believe to be artistic excellence). The number of bare breasts doesn’t factor into it.
Having said that, however, it also means that filmmakers providing festival fare are often unencumbered by ratings issues, so they can be free to show pretty much whatever they want. Every year, Toronto has a few movies that the mainstream media would label as “hardcore” porn and about twice as many that would fall into the “softcore” category. From my perspective, such a liberal selection makes for a more diverse festival. There’s something for everyone. Toronto even has a small selection of carefully chosen “family films” where children are encouraged to attend.

Ang Lee’s follow-up to Brokeback Mountain is Lust, Caution. The film’s receipt of an NC-17 by the MPAA was dutifully noted by the mainstream media, as was the distributor’s (Focus Features) decision not to appeal the rating. NC-17 movies aren’t released often and, when they are, they rarely make an impression at the box office - some mainstream multiplex chains refuse to show them and some newspapers will not advertise them. This has earned the NC-17 the nickname of the “kiss of death.” (Or, as it has been more graphically referred to: “the blowjob of death.”) So, before discussing the merits of Lust, Caution, I’ll first answer a question I know at least a few readers are interested in understanding: Why the NC-17? What is there about this movie that makes it cross the border from the ever-widening realm of the R?

The answer: the sex is really hot. Not hardcore pornographic but pretty close. Of course, for those thinking this might be a fun way to mix art and sex, keep in mind that the movie is about 160 minutes long. Of the 160 minutes, maybe 10 feature sex and/or nudity. Not a good ratio if that’s all you’re after. The sex scenes are so intense and so explicit (showing pretty much everything except a penis and penetration) that someone asked Lee in a recent press conference if the acts are real or simulated. His response: “You’ve seen the movie.” One is tempted to say that passion that raw can’t be faked, but we’re dealing with good actors. I don’t think Lust, Caution is following in the footsteps of Boxcar Bertha and Wild Orchid.

Lust, Caution features a slow seduction of one character by another and the audience by the director. The buildup is long and lingering - some might argue too long. There are times during the first two hours when the pacing lags. To a large degree, that’s compensated for by a wrenching final act when morality gets turned upside down and consequences abound. In every way, this is an atypical thriller. It’s beautiful to look at (the period detail is superb) and sexy as hell, but it sometimes feels like it’s never going to get to the finish line. Nevertheless, I stayed awake and engrossed through the whole thing (not always easy in the midst of a festival) and couldn’t get it out of my head after exiting.

Curiously, the movie shares some plot similarities to Paul Verhoeven’s Black Book. Both are World War II stories that transpire in occupied territories. Both feature female protagonists working for the local resistance. And both of those women have affairs with highly placed enemy officials, then become conflicted as a result of unexpected feelings they develop for those men. There are two huge differences, however. The first relates to location. Black Book unfolds in Nazi territory while Lust, Caution splits time between Shanghai and Hong Kong. More importantly, the way in which the stories are told are in sharp contrast. Verhoeven’s in-your-face action approach is 180 degrees away from Lee’s languorous style.

The film takes us to the years between 1938 and 1942. Wang (Tang Wei in a stunning performance) is a traditional Chinese “good girl” who has become a war orphan (her mother is dead, her father is “trapped” in England). As a result of a crush on a dashing young activist, she joins a patriotic theater troupe. The group eventually graduates from putting on shows to taking a more active role in resistance activities, including assassinations. Wang is set up to become the mistress of the highly placed collaborator Mr. Yee (Tony Leung Chiu Wai) as part of a plot to kill him, but before the relationship can be consummated, Yee is recalled from Hong Kong to Shanghai. It’s three years before Wang can follow and resume her charade. This time, things are in earnest. Yee is now the head of the secret service and is a ripe target for elmination. But when Wang becomes his lover, complications in the form of unwanted emotional entanglements threaten the operation.

Another notable element in Lust, Caution is the amount of nonverbal communication that occurs. This is especially evident during the mahjong game that opens the film. The four women around the table hold a banal conversation while their glances and gestures hint that there’s more going on beneath the surface. There are numerous scenes where more information is conveyed by reading how the characters act and move than by listening to what they say. It’s easier to lie with words than glances.

Lust, Caution is one of those films that requires patience. Like cold water brought to a boil, it takes a long time but once the bubbles start appearing, the roiling is impossible to stop. Lee, who has never been one to stand pat or rest in a particular genre (this is, after all, a filmmaker who has been responsible for Crouching Tiger, Hulk, and Brokeback Mountain) moves fluidly into new territory and conquers it with an ease that is almost breathless. Aided by the nuanced, forceful performances of his two leads, he has made Lust, Caution something to be seen and savored.

Sex and nudity may be important elements of Lust, Caution, but they’re far from the front burner of Michael Clayton, one of this year’s other big world premieres. The Tony Gilroy/George Clooney motion picture has also escaped any MPAA controversy. It carries a safe R-rating, earned because of profanity.

When it comes to motion pictures, there are essentially two kinds of thrillers: visceral thrillers, which rely on action to generate tension and excitement, and intellectual thrillers, which burn more slowly but are often more satisfying in the end. Michael Clayton, the directorial debut of screenwriter Tony Gilroy, belongs in the latter category. The movie unfolds at its own pace and makes few concessions to impatient viewers or those who don't pay attention. The narrative is dense and presented in a manner that may cause initial confusion (a wrap-around framing device is used).

Michael Clayton (George Clooney) is an in-house "fixer" at the law firm of Kenner, Bach & Ledeen - a man who can come into almost any situation, no matter how unpleasant, and find a way to clean it up. Although he is by trade a lawyer, he refers to himself as "a janitor" and, like any effective cleaner, he often finds himself up to his armpits in dirt. He is well-paid for his job but he hates it. He wants out. His boss, Marty Bach (Sydney Pollack), doesn't understand his position. Michael has found a niche where he's at the top of his field - why seek to change things? But right now, life is being unkind to Michael. He's $75,000 in debt as a result of a business venture that went belly-up. His relationship with his son isn't rock-solid (the kid lives with Michael's ex-wife, but sees his dad a couple times a week). And his friend and co-janitor, Arthur (Tom Wilkinson), has gone off the deep end. Trouble looms when Arthur decides to blow the lid off a major class-action suit by coming out with damning evidence against one of Kenner, Bach & Ledeen's biggest clients, U/North. U/North corporate lawyer Karen Crowder (Tilda Swinton) takes steps to stop Arthur, irrespective of the cost. And Marty orders Michael in no uncertain terms to clean up this mess or face potentially dire financial consequences.

Michael Clayton is about characters who inhabit the gray area between morality and immorality, where everyone has a different definition of what constitutes ethics. As in real life, these people are not "good" or "evil" - they are the end product of choices, some right and some wrong. Marty knows that many of his biggest clients are hiding things, but representing them brings in big bucks and keeps the firm afloat in black ink. Michael's job as a fixer means he must often turn a blind eye to ugly situations. Karen Crowder is willing to do just about anything to cover up the misdeeds of her company. Arthur's crisis of conscience is what prompts this showdown of ethics and morality. He can no longer ignore things happening around him when he has become part of a machine that protects a company that's causing people to die of cancer. Michael becomes trapped in the middle - caught between his own underdeveloped sense of right and wrong and his need for financial stability.

Michael Clayton builds to a fitting conclusion and doesn't need surprise twists or cheap theatrics to get to that point. If there's a weakness to the storyline, it's that Michael's motivations sometimes seem determined by the needs of the plot. The film develops gradually and stays rooted in the real world rather than the quasi-familiar realm in which many thrillers unspool. The movie makes a damning statement about the profit-above-all business practices of major corporations, but there's nothing new in that. What's worthwhile here is the way in which the story provides us with unique characters in interesting situations and follows them as they pass through the eye of the storm. When it reaches beyond the adulation accorded to it within the limited confines of a film festival, Michael Clayton is unlikely to strike box office gold but, as evidenced by films like The Constant Gardener, there is an audience out there for slower, more intellectual thrillers. This is a motion picture for them to discover.

Finally, considering the topic of the day - sex films - it’s impossible to go forward without mentioning one other title. I can’t provide a discussion of it because circumstances have not allowed me to see it. But the name says quite a bit: Young People Fucking. Now I wonder what that could be about?

No Country for Old Men, Rendition, The Assassination of Jesse James...
First, let me say it’s great to see Roger Ebert back at the festival this year. There was a gaping hole in the press corps last year as a result of Roger’s absence. While Roger still hasn’t regained his ability to speak, there’s no question that his “voice” is back. He has returned to full reviewing status and his website is once again alive with new writings and musings. His public appearance in April at his Overlooked Film Festival was the first step in his coming back into the public eye. His arrival in Toronto marks another, major move forward. Regardless of how often you agree or disagree with him, there’s no denying that he has been the most influential film critic in the past two decades. Plus, he’s a genuinely nice, down-to-Earth human being. (I still remember walking the streets of Toronto with him ten years ago; he would stop and sign every autograph requested.) No matter what else goes wrong or right at this year’s festival, Roger’s return will remain one of the highlights.
Today’s three films have generated a lot of attention and drawn huge crowds. Two possess a Western flavor and the third hops on the bandwagon of a growing number of films that use current U.S. foreign policy as a springboard for a thriller. (For an example of this sort of thing being done well, see The Kingdom, which is not playing at the festival but opens on September 28.) The only real connective tissue among these films is that all were highly anticipated, well attended, and generated sharply divided opinions about their merit.

Expecting normalcy from a Coen Brothers production is a pointless endeavor, but anticipating brilliance isn’t outlandish. Their latest feature, which has about zero box office potential, provides moments of the latter and a little of the former. It’s mostly a quirky road trip that accomplishes what the Coens do best - seamlessly merging drama, violence, and quirky humor into a whole. However, following their own off-road trail, Joel and Ethan decides that just because a story is worth telling, it doesn’t demand a clean ending. This is a decision that will infuriate some members of the audience. Done right, I have always believed open ended conclusions can be assets, and I think that’s the case here. Nevertheless, those who hissed at John Sayles Limbo or declared the finale of The Sopranos to be a tease will not be pleased by how No Country for Old Men elects to wrap up its diverse storylines.

The movie essentially follows three characters whose paths are destined to cross. Anton Chigurh (Javier Bardem) is a heartless killer who - as we see early in the proceedings - is dangerous even when handcuffed and under police guard. He wanders the plains of Texas, killing pretty much everyone he encounters except those lucky enough to win a coin toss in his presence. Moss (Josh Brolin channeling Nick Nolte) is an ex-welder who, while on a hunting trip, stumbles across a drug deal gone bad. There are a lot of bodies, a truck full of “Mexican brown,” and a suitcase of cash. Moss takes the latter but eventually wishes he hadn’t since the surviving owners want it back. Meanwhile, local sheriff Ed Tom Bell (Tommy Lee Jones) is drawn into all of this because Chigurh escapes from one of his deputies and the drug deal massacre happens in his territory.

The Coens - brothers Ethan and Joel, who are working from the source material of Cormac McCarthy’s novel, know how a thing or two about pacing, and it’s relentless here. The story is full of unexpected twists and switchbacks. Like Alfred Hitchcock with Psycho, the filmmakers don’t want viewers to become too comfortable with any of the characters - they might not be around for long. This is not a comedy (at least not in the sense that Raising Arizona and Intolerable Cruelty are), but that doesn’t keep the Coens from inserting little moments of dry, dark humor, many of which are the result of Tommy Lee Jones’ laconic wit.

The leads all do tremendous jobs. Javier Bardem is unforgettable with his shoulder length mane of dark hair, his remorseless expression, and his ever-present high-pressure air gun. Chigurh is the kind of guy you wouldn’t want to meet in the middle of nowhere, let alone in a dark alley. Terms like “mercy” have no meaning for him - he neither asks for nor gives quarter. Tommy Lee Jones is his usual reliable self; it’s hard to ask for someone to be more comfortable in these boots. And Josh Brolin is unrecognizable as the beleaguered Moss. Kelly Macdonald (as Moss’ wife) and Woody Harrelson (as a cock-sure bounty hunter) provide effective supporting turns.

If there’s one thing that can always be said of a Coen Brothers film, it’s that conventional rules and expectations can be jettisoned. That’s certainly the case here, with a Western that’s not a Western, a crime thriller that’s not a crime thriller, and a comedy that’s not a comedy. Like Fargo, the movie delights in making viewers scratch their heads. And, while the ending may be a sore point for some, it will have others chuckling and nodding their heads appreciatively (albeit perhaps after a brief “WTF?” when the end credits begin to roll). That’s what good cinema is expected to do.


* * *
Would that I could heap the same praise upon Gavin Hood’s Rendition, a political thriller with aspirations of being so much more that it is. The film treads into the minefield of debate that exists surrounding the question of Constitutional rights versus National Security. Some day, someone is going to make a very good movie about these issues - one that will take a hard look at the dangers inherent in not walking the fine tightrope that exists. Rendition, however, approaches the subject playing with a stacked anti-National Security deck and a script that is half-baked. Hood has staked out a position and defended it in a shockingly unsubtle way. Instead of experiencing a movie that’s seriously interested in getting into all of the pluses and minuses of the policy of “extreme rendition,” we get a simplistic storyline that’s more interested in sermonizing and demonizing than existing in the real world where things aren’t as clear-cut as the movie would like us to believe.

“Extreme rendition” refers to the American policy of shipping detainees to prisons not on U.S. soil so they are not subject to due process and can be tortured as a means of eliciting information. To say that this policy is controversial is to understate the matter. Proponents will argue that valuable intelligence has been gained from these interrogations, and lives have been saved. Opponents make the equally valid argument that the tactics are inhumane and they are at times being used on innocent victims. For a country that prides itself on a judicial motto “innocent until proven guilty,” this seems hypocritical. Hood and his screenwriter, Kelley Sane, obviously agree with those who believe rendition is a gross abuse of power.

The film introduces several threads of a storyline that will eventually be interwoven. In South Africa, Egyptian-American Anwar El-Ibrahimi (Omar Metwally) is getting on a plane to return to Chicago, where his pregnant wife, Isabella (Reese Witherspoon), and young son await him. In a nameless North African country, CIA analyst Douglas Freeman (Jake Gyllenhaal) is involved in investigations surrounding a terrorist bombing that killed his partner. In Washington, a senior CIA official (Meryl Streep) is provided with intelligence that El-Ibrahimi received a cell phone call from the terrorist claiming responsibility for the North African attack. She orders El-Ibrahimi subjected to rendition. He ends up in North Africa, where Freeman is commanded to observe his interrogation by local officials and report any information back to her. When Freeman voices concerns that El-Ibrahimi might be innocent, she informs him that his job description doesn’t include making such determinations. Meanwhile, an increasingly distraught Isabella goes to Washington, where she recruits help from an old flame (Peter Sarsgaard) who is the top aid to a U.S. Senator (Alan Arkin).

For a while, Rendition looks like it might be willing to enter the quagmire that exists around this issue, but it backs off at the last minute, taking the easy way out. Some might argue that uncertainty remains about El-Ibrahimi’s innocence, but Hood goes out of his way to indicate a lack of culpability even if he doesn’t provide clear evidence for exoneration. While Rendition cavalierly tosses out justifications for the title tactic (“because of this, there are 7000 people alive in London who would otherwise be dead”), it’s clear that all of the film’s passion lies on the other side of the fence. I have no problem with any movie making a political stance. What I object to is Rendition’s reduction of complex arguments into simplistic ones.

The acting varies from fine to superlative. Jake Gyllenhaal and Reese Witherspoon are a little flat. Both have done substantially better work in the past. Meryl Streep is okay in a role that’s laughably one-dimensional. On the other hand, Peter Sarsgaard is terrific as the Senator’s aid and Alan Arkin steals every scene he’s in. Igor Naor, who plays the North African interrogator, is also effective.

The script is weak, especially during the final act. Several things that happen in the closing 15 minutes stretch credulity past the breaking point. Something clever is done regarding the chronology of one subplot; it’s too bad that aspect of the film isn’t more compelling. For director Hood, whose previous feature was Tsotsi, this is a surprisingly large misstep. The film will likely receive some positive notices because critics will applaud its politics. While I personally have severe reservations about the policy of extreme rendition, they are not going to cause me to be lenient on this sloppy production.


* * *
The longest film I’m seeing at this year’s festival (both in terms of title length and running length) is The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. It seems every bit as long or longer than its 160 minutes. Parts of the movie are brilliant in a Terrence Malick-inspired way, but the lugubrious middle section is badly in need of the hand of a ruthless editor. The Assassination of Jesse James starts and finishes strong, but it will likely loose numerous viewers during its frustrating, meandering middle section that spends so much time fleshing out secondary characters that it often seems to forget about the title individuals. Ironically, it’s the movie’s half-hour coda that contains the most compelling material - material that often feels rushed and truncated.

One of the aspects of the life (and death) of famed outlaw Jesse James (Brad Pitt) addressed by this overblown drama is the way celebrity can take on a life of its own. Viewed in a cold, hard light, James was a thief and a killer. However, even in his day, myth had overtaken reality. He was seen as a dashing, Robin Hood type who was vaunted in some quarters as a hero. Robert Ford (Casey Affleck) found this out the hard way when he killed James. His initial expectation was that he would be greeted worldwide by thunderous applause. The reaction was quite different. After a period of curiosity, public opinion turned against him. The film’s title, in which he is referred to as “The Coward Robert Ford,” reflects this.

The first half-hour of The Assassination of Jesse James is great stuff. It’s September 7, 1881, and a train robbery is about to occur. James is 34 years old. This will be the final act of crime in a twelve year span for the James Gang, and will become known to history as the Blue Cut Train Robbery. Jesse and his older brother, Frank (Sam Shepard), still run the gang, but all of the other original members are either dead or in prison. So, accompanying them on this robbery are a bunch of locals. Robert Ford is among them. He’s a hug fan of James’, having idolized him since his youth. He also appears ill-equipped to be an outlaw. Frank says to him: “You don’t have the ingredients, Son.” Nevertheless, he worms himself into Jesse’s trust and becomes an off-again/on-again companion until the day when an act half driven by fear and half by avarice leads him down the road to infamy.

The problem with the film is that the section bookended by the train robbery and Jesse’s death is ponderous. It concentrates on lesser characters who aren’t that interesting. Character development during this period for both Jesse and Robert is uneven. Ford is something of an enigma. How he became transformed from Jesse’s biggest fan to a man who viewed him with envy and jealousy is never really shown. By spending so much time with individuals who capture neither our interest nor our sympathy, director Andrew Dominik’s film veers off track. He gets it back on the rails before it rushes into the station for the ending and extended epilogue, but not before a lot of time has seemingly been wasted.

The film has three undeniable strengths. The acting, especially by Brad Pitt as a world-weary Jesse and Casey Affleck as the increasingly bitter Robert, is excellent. This is the same Pitt who, as a character actor early in his career, earned raves, and Affleck buries himself in the role. Support is provided by Sam Shepard as Frank (who’s only in about the first 30 minutes); Mary-Louise Parker as Jesse’s wife; and Zoey Deschanel in a small-but-critical part as Robert’s late-film love interest. Vying with the acting for top honors is the film’s cinematography, credited to the veteran Roger Deakins. His landscape shots of the open plains of Missouri are astounding, and there are countless breathtaking visual compositions throughout. Finally, in a departure from the norm, the voiceover narrative is informative, clever, and intelligent. It adds to the film’s structure rather than being redundant and extraneous.

The Assassination of Jesse James is too long. It wants to play like a sprawling novel that provides insight into all of the characters, not just the main ones. But films are not novels and this approach encourages viewer apathy. Also curious is that the most intriguing material in the movie - the way that public opinion toward Ford changes after James’ assassination - is given short shrift. That’s when the movie comes alive and becomes vital. That’s also when it ends. As Westerns go, this feels like the kind of thing Terrence Malick might produce if his creative powers were ebbing. It’s far less engaging than the recent 3:10 to Yuma remake and concentrates more on the details than the broad picture. There’s a place for this sort of thing in the genre, but The Assassination of Jesse James is too protracted and oblique to represent it effectively.

Can someone please sum what those reviews above are saying? I don't really have the time to read it in whole...

Thanks Raffi.


Lust, Caution is 160 mins long...Ehh...

In past years, I have written about how coffee is the lifeblood of festival goers. Certainly, there’s no shortage of places to get it in Toronto. Starbucks are ubiquitous. My hotel is a fifteen minute walk from the Varsity cinema complex, where most of the press screenings (and many of the public ones) are held. During that fifteen minute walk, I pass three Starbucks. Three! There are other coffee shop chains as well: Timothy’s and Second Cup. When one considers the amount of coffee that needs to be bought in order to keep all these places afloat, one has to assume that Toronto is afloat in caffeine. The festival simply adds a few thousand bleary-eyed, sleep-deprived customers to the endless coffee shop queues.
I have gone through the last couple of days without coffee, substituting orange juice, but I can only do that so long. Show me someone who rejects a morning cup of Joe in the middle of a film festival like this, and I’ll show you someone who is guaranteed to fall asleep. This year, I have noticed prominent film critics dozing off during films as diverse as Lust, Caution; The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford; and Into the Wild. Coffee doesn’t ensure a nap-free day of movies, but it helps. (Personal revelation: I have snoozed during a French film and a Spanish film, neither of which will be written up.) The fact is, when one is seeing so many movies back-to-back-to-back with perhaps only five or six hours of sleep in between, it often doesn’t matter how good the films are.

It’s times like these, when I see the masses pouring into Starbucks, that I wish I owned stock in the company. Even if or when the economy goes into a slump, it’s hard to imagine the coffee industry being hard-hit. Coffee has become as much of a necessary resource as oil or gasoline, only it fuels the workforce rather than their automobiles. Strange to think that 20 years ago, people got their morning cup of Joe from diners and community Mr. Coffees at the office. (And where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio?)

With only a few exceptions, film festivals love “serious” fare, and “serious” almost always equates to “grim.” As long-time readers know, I’m usually partial to unhappy movies. It must be something deeply rooted in my psyche. However, although “serious” often equates to “grim,” “grim” doesn’t always equate to “good.”

For an example of that, consider David Cronenberg’s latest, Eastern Promises. Although the director has re-teamed with his The History of Violence star, Viggo Mortensen, the results aren’t as satisfactory. Eastern Promises is a jumbled string of mob-related clichés that mesh into something that’s derivative and at times uninteresting. Aside from two “Cronenberg” scenes, the movie is lifeless and concludes on a note that makes the movie feel unfinished. I have been complaining about a lot of the movies at this festival being needlessly long; Eastern Promises might have been a better production had it added another 15 or 20 minutes on the back end, beefing up an anticlimactic finale.

Naomi Watts is Anna, a midwife at a London hospital. After delivering a baby for an unwed mother who dies in childbirth, Anna goes in search of the girl’s living relatives. Her quest unexpectedly brings her into contact with the Russian mob, presided over by the kingpin, a restaurant owner named Semyon (Armin Mueller-Stahl), and his creepy son (Vincent Cassel). They pretend to be nice to her, but their goal is to obtain an incriminating diary possessed by the dead mother. To do their dirty work, they employ Nikolai (Viggo Mortensen), whose official role is as Semyon’s driver, but who is also referred to as “the undertaker.” Nikolai has his own secrets, not the least of which is a desire to depose Semyon and replace him upon the throne of the Russian criminal underworld in London.

Eastern Promises concentrates on two basic plots, neither of which radiates originality. The first pertains to Anna’s near-obsessive need to find a family for the motherless baby. We learn that she lost a child and so relates to the newborn on a maternal level. Then there’s the crime element of the story, which includes gamesmanship among the gangsters to see who will ultimately end up on top. The “surprise” twist (which won’t be unexpected to some viewers) introduces more problems than it solves and leads in part to the incomplete feeling that accompanies the ending.

Cronenberg delivers twice when it comes to gore and violence. The movie opens with one of these trademark scenes as a man’s throat is slit while he’s in a barber’s chair. (Encouragement to tip well.) Later, there’s a no holds-barred two-on-one between Nikolai and a couple of thugs. What makes this interesting is that Viggo Mortensen is naked for the entire battle. This is one of those rare movies when there’s plenty of male nudity as Mortensen literally lets it all hang out. (Hetero men will be glad to know that there are a few bare breasts here and there, although none belongs to Naomi Watts.) Sadly, those are the only two sequences likely to remind the viewer that he or she is watching a Cronenberg movie. The rest of what’s on offer - including everything related to Anna - is banal. Perhaps the director set the bar so high with The History of Violence (a flawed but at times brilliant motion picture) that there was no way he could equal it with Eastern Promises, but for him to fall so far short is nothing less than criminal.

Looking on the brighter side of darker matters, Joe Wright’s interpretation of Ian McEwan’s Atonement proves that, when it comes to literary adaptations, he understands what he's doing. Wright’s previous feature was Pride and Prejudice, a significantly happier production than this one (although both are love stories). He brings along his leading lady, Kiera Knightley, newly finished from swashbuckling alongside Captain Jack Sparrow, and has cast her alongside James McAvoy (The Last King of Scotland) and Romola Garai. Also making a brief but important appearance is Vanessa Redgrave.

McEwan’s novel isn’t the easiest to adapt but, by employing occasional, targeted changes and by not jettisoning the essence of the ending, Wright and screenwriter Christopher Hampton succeed in making a motion picture that is faithful in many ways to its source material. The film is gorgeous to look at, well paced (especially during the first half), and by turns touching and sad. The ending packs an emotional punch, which is what one would expect from any movie developed from a McEwan novel. McEwan may be many things, but he’s no Jane Austen. Atonement is a period piece (is Knightley ever in anything else these days?) but it shows growth for Wright as he moves into darker territory.

In 1935, the world is poised on the brink of war, but some families in the English countryside remain isolated and immune. One such family, the Tallises, are seeing their own personal drama unfold. 13-year old Briony (Saoirse Ronan, later played by Romola Garai) is watching a developing relationship between her older sister, Cecilia (Kiera Knightley), and a servant, Robbie (James McAvoy). She feels a combination of jealousy and overprotectiveness. On the one hand, she has a crush on Robbie, but she also views him as a rake and seducer and wants to keep Cecilia safe from his advances. When a girl staying with the family is raped, Briony steps forward with a lie that forever alters three lives.

The film, as the book, is divided into two principal sections with a short epilogue. The second half of the story, which takes place during wartime and follows Robbie to Dunkirk and Briony and Cecilia as nurses, is the less interesting. It lacks the sharp dialogue and character interaction that characterizes the first hour. Over two films, Wright has shown he’s at his strongest when emphasizing people and dialogue over action. There’s nothing wrong with his wartime depictions of Britain and Northern France, but there’s nothing special about them, either.

Wright does some things to make the tale more cinematic. In order to capture the flavor of two scenes in the book in which Briony’s perceptions don’t match the reality, he shows events twice - once through Briony’s eyes and once from a neutral perspective. It’s an effective approach because it helps us to understand what the girl mistakenly believes is occurring. Later, at Dunkirk, there’s a three minute unbroken take that weaves in and out with characters as they wander across the beach then pans back to show the dispirited evacuation.

Kiera Knightley gets star billing, but Cecilia is the least important character of the main trio. Consequently, Knightley doesn’t have the opportunity to shine the way she did in Pride and Prejudice. Briony is played by three actresses: Saorise Ronan as a 13-year old, Romola Garai as an 18-year old, and Vanessa Redgrave as an old woman. Great care is taken to make Ronan and Garai look alike and have similar mannerisms. Redgrave doesn’t appear much like either, but she’s like Meryl Streep or Glenn Close - if you can get her in a movie, you don’t sweat the details.

Atonement is a tragic story regardless of whether it’s presented in book form or movie form. The film is more quickly and urgently paced than the book and the dissonant music, which uses a typewriter as a percussive instrument, keeps the audience on edge. Atonement is effective at getting under the skin, and some audience members won’t like that. Overall, it’s a finely crafted motion picture - perhaps not the equal of Wright’s Austen adaptation, but strong enough to make it worth seeing for fans of the book and the genre.

From the sublime to the slightly ridiculous…

The last scene of In the Valley of Elah may be the most ridiculously ham-fisted and over-the-top moment in all of 2007’s supposed prestige cinema. This image is so blatant and cheesy that it makes one wonder whether director Paul Haggis’ success with Crash was some kind of fluke. In fact, the film as a whole raises that question. Crash was not the most subtle film, but its clever structure and finely tuned character moments camouflaged many of its weaknesses. The same cannot be said of In the Valley of Elah, which takes two hours to make an oh-so-obvious point: war dehumanizes human beings. Is there anyone alive over the age of 12 who doesn’t know that?

The majority of the film is a plodding police procedural. In the Valley of Elah is not without its moments. When it’s a meditation on loss, it works. When it’s a half-baked chronology of a criminal investigation, it seems like a bad episode of N.Y.P.D Blue. Unfortunately, Haggis’ screenplay gives more weight to the latter elements. It’s not just that the investigation isn’t interesting but that it unfolds in such an unrealistic manner that we’re left shaking out heads. Consider, for example, that despite his snappish attitude and Texas accent, Tommy Lee Jones is pretty much playing Sherlock Holmes.

When Mike Deerfield, a soldier just back from Iraq, goes AWOL, his superiors pay a courtesy call to his dad, retired officer Hank Deerfield (Jones). They warn him that if Mike isn’t back on base in a few days, he will be reported as missing. This sends Hank, an ex-military cop, into search-and-discover mode. He jumps in his car, leaving behind a worrying wife (Susan Sarandon), and heads for Fort Rudd in New Mexico. Once there, he spends some time poking around on the base then tries to liaise with an overworked non-military cop, Emily Sanders (Charlize Theron). Then the charred pieces of a hacked-up corpse are identified as belonging to Mike, and Hank must shuffle through his son’s past to uncover how the culture of soldiers in Iraq led to Mike’s untimely death.

The effective scenes in In the Valley of Elah are the character-based ones - the quiet instances when fine actors like Tommy Lee Jones, Charlize Theron, and Susan Sarandon are allowed to perform. Jones, for example, is a perfect picture of barely contained grief as he channels all of his efforts into determining who killed his son and why. Theron’s scenes with Emily’s son represent her strongest moments. The movie becomes plodding and, eventually, hard to swallow when it delves into the investigation. And it’s a huge disappointment that the point of these two hours is to inform us that men and women who go away to war often see such horrible things that life no longer has the same meaning. I can name at least a dozen films that have presented the same theme a lot more effectively.

Like Rendition, this production is so overtly one-sided and political that it makes it points stridently and with a lack of elegance. There’s a difference between a movie with a political point of view and a movie that exists as a sermon for a position; The Valley of Elah feels more like the latter than the former. I’m not offended by Haggis’ message because I think there’s merit to it. But the ungainly manner in which it is presented damages all aspects of the movie.

The film’s title comes from the location of the Biblical struggle between David and Goliath, and could be symbolic of a number of things. But, like a lot of other things in this movie, using “The Valley of Elah” as a symbol is a jumbled association. The more one thinks about it, the less sense it makes. Less consideration is necessary to make the same deduction about the movie as a whole.

Finally, a few words are necessary about Silk which, along with Helen Hunt’s Then She Found Me, ranks among the festival’s most unwatchable fare. By any standards, this is a bad movie. It’s a perfect example of how awful direction and performances can ruin an adequate screenplay. Granted, what’s on paper isn’t perfect and it contains a number of ripe lines of dialogue, but the way it is butchered by director Francois Girard is shocking. There’s very little that this movie does right; it’s hard to believe it came from the man who directed two acclaimed motion pictures (Thirty Two Short Films about Glenn Gould, The Red Violin).

Based on the novel by Alessandro Baricco, Silk introduces Herve Joncour (Michael Pitt), a young man who takes a commission to buy silkworm eggs from Japan so the local silk mill owner (Alfred Molina) can stay in business. As a side benefit, this will also allow Herve to marry his one true love, Helene (Kiera Knightley). It’s 1862 and travel to the Orient is not an easy thing to accomplish. Eventually, Herve arrives in Japan and makes the deal. While there, he spies a beautiful Japanese concubine (Miki Nakatani) who becomes an obsession even once he has returned to France. In fact, she has such a forceful grip on his thoughts that he jumps at a chance to return to Japan and see her again.

Stories about sexual obsession can be powerful when developed and presented effectively. Execution is the problem with Silk. The choice of Michael Pitt to play Herve is the first of numerous errors. Pitt staggers through the film as though caught in headlights. His delivery of lines is amateurish, he shows nothing in the way of emotional range, and his voiceover narration is delivered in a monologue. Any chance of character identification is killed as a result of Pitt’s portrayal. Supporting work by Keira Knightley (having even less to do than in Atonement) and Alfred Molina is insufficient to elevate the movie to a watchable level.

The film is handsomely photographed, but even the images lack power. Scenes with the concubine dripping water on Herve are supposed to be suggestive; instead, they’re about as erotic as a wet noodle. Much of the narrative seems comprised of shots of Herve traveling back and forth from France to Japan. There are impressive snowscapes, but this kind of monotony is not conducive to keeping audiences involved. Added to that is a maddeningly repetitive piano score that fills up all the dead space in the soundtrack when there's no dialogue - by the end of the film, I wanted to take Truffaut’s advice and shoot the piano player.

Silk may or may not arrive in a theater near you, depending on what distribution choices New Line Cinema makes regarding it. One suspects they know they have a dog on their hands. My advice is that, even given a choice, you avoid Silk. Despite the title, it’s rougher than burlap and twice as uncomfortable.

On the Hollywood front, some movies quickly distinguished themselves as must-sees, while others had armchair awards pundits wagging their tongues.

Miramax/Paramount Vantage's "No Country for Old Men" continued to build on the positive buzz that began in Cannes, and everyone is talking about Viggo Mortensen's turn in David Cronenberg's "Eastern Promises," which Focus Features will distribute in the U.S.

While certain established actors are getting raves -- Jodie Foster's performance in Warner Bros. Pictures/Village Roadshow's "The Brave One" is eliciting an "of course she's good, she's Jodie Foster" reaction -- many relative newcomers and up-and-comers are getting praise as well.

In New Line's "Rendition," for example, Omar Metwally outshone the film's Hollywood stars. Emile Hirsch is getting some talk for Paramount Vantage's "Into the Wild," which earned raves in Telluride but had Toronto viewers divided, with some calling it "too arty" and others calling it "beautiful." Ang Lee's Venice Film Festival winner "Lust, Caution" also divided viewers, but they agreed on newcomer Tang Wei's stunning performance and Oscar potential for Lee and all below-the-line categories in the Focus film.

Fox Searchlight's "Juno" might be the surprise crowd-pleaser of the festival. Jason Reitman's heartfelt follow-up to "Thank You for Smoking" is the antithesis of the heavy Iraqi war dramas and political thrillers, and while it ostensibly tackles teen pregnancy, audiences were laughing and crying in equal measure. The movie already has people talking about the star-making turn of Ellen Page, who plays a pregnant teen, as well as Diablo Cody's script and the music by Kimya Dawson.

Still waiting in the wings were movies including "Elizabeth: The Golden Age," Brian De Palma's "Redacted" (which won a directing prize at Venice), "In the Valley of Elah" and "Reservation Road."

I'm very much looking forward to the reactions to Reservation Road.

Into the Wild is a beautifully made motion picture and some of the segments (especially those with Hal Holbrook and those that transpire around "the magic bus" in Alaska) are powerful. Chris initially comes across as an idealistic jerk - the kind of guy who will thoughtlessly hurt others if they stand in the way of his achieving a goal. Gradually, he is revealed as being more complex. By the end of the movie, I don't know that I liked Chris, but I understood him and sympathized with him, and sometimes that's more important.

During the course of the movie, Penn dances with pretentiousness and self-importance. He never slips over the brink but lines like "material things cut [Chris} off from the truth of [his] existence" make this kid's odyssey sound more important than it is. There are moments like this in Into the Wild but they are thankfully isolated.

Into the Wild is a long motion picture, clocking in at about 150 minutes. But the strength and breadth of its material earns it the extended running time. It's about many things, but the final truth it distills reveals something crucial about what it means to be human - something that Chris doesn't realize until it's too late.

From a purely visual standpoint, Elizabeth: The Golden Age is every bit as impressive as Elizabeth. With respect to costumes and set design, this is a sumptuous affair. The script is less even, as is the pacing. The first two-thirds of the movie deal almost exclusively with the intrigue of Elizabeth's court and it isn't nearly as engaging as the poisonings and backstabbing we have become used to in many historical epics. The war with Spain comes quickly, is told mainly through montages, and is over too easily and bloodlessly. The entire movie could have focused on that and, by condensing it in such a manner, there's a sense that it's not given its due.

Blanchett is the film's chief asset, picking up where she left off nearly ten years ago. This isn't the star-making turn it was at that time, but it's solid, colorful work. Geoffrey Rush has less to do and, as a result, is a less forceful presence. Clive Owen is suitably dashing and Abbie Cornish is adorable, but neither draws the camera with regularity. Although the performances are all workmanlike, they are unlikely to garner much notice when it comes time for Oscar nominations to be announced. (Blanchett may well be nominated, but her chances are better as Bob Dylan in Todd Haynes' I'm Not There than as the Queen in Elizabeth.)

The problem with Margot at the Wedding is that these questions are all that matter. There isn't a whole lot else, and they aren't very interesting questions. In and of itself, some of the dialogue is enjoyable but it's sound and fury signifying nothing. With Rohmer's films, there was always a universal truth at the heart of his characters' interactions and dilemmas. The conversations aren't just enjoyable, they offer sustenance. Here, there's nothing more than a bunch of self-centered, neurotic people bitching and whining. It grows tiresome after a while. Jack Black's presence doesn't help. Here's an actor who can be brilliant in supporting, comedic roles. Give him something meatier and serious and his hamminess sinks any chance of his being taken seriously. Margot at the Wedding still would have been uncomfortable to absorb without him but, by adding him into the mix, Baumbach has made this a bitter pill to swallow.