Film

We've all been there. Even if you haven't been sexually harassed, or belittled by an evil narcissist who likes the sound of his own voice, or pushed around by your boss' coked-out son, we've all had at least one boss who has made our working lives hell. Because of this, the revenge-fueled escapism of Horrible Bosses works. When paired with an all-star cast of Hollywood's funniest people, it works well. Horrible Bosses joins Bridesmaids and Paul as three of the funniest movies I've seen all year.

Michael Bay has a few fetishes. He likes supermodels, cars, high-tech military weaponry, hunky military personnel, jingoistic flag waving and giant, flaming explosions. I like models and explosions, so that was enough to plant me in the seat for the third film in a trilogy that could at best be called “special.” Rain Man
special, not first-kiss special. If you like either the first or second offering in this trilogy, you will enjoy this one as well – it's easily the best in the trilogy. Before you accuse me of damning with faint praise, let me first admit that I am, in fact, damning with faint praise.

I have a confession to make. Sometimes when no one's looking, I'll force myself to watch a romantic comedy just to see how much I can take before retching. It's never very long. Like when watching a bad accident, my mouth hangs open and I begin to wonder not only what is wrong with actors, writers and directors, but the world at large.
Something is amiss in this vacuum they call “rom coms.” The most recent flicks I attempted were The Ugly Truth and Couples Retreat, resulting in my almost committing hari kari. So I figured the only way to safely get through Larry Crowne without hurting myself or anyone in a five-mile radius was to make it a date night with my fiancée. Well, here's the deal. Neither of us liked it.

I dig Terrence Malick. Rarely have we seen such a director go out on a limb, taking chances few artists dare to make. Since his classic Badlands, starring Martin Sheen and Sissy Spacek chronicling Charles Starkweather's 1958 murder spree, Malick has made only three other movies (Days of Heaven, Thin Red Line and New World), all non-linear cinematic sonnets hailed and scorned by fans and critics alike. With Tree of Life, Malick stirs the pot. Even if this movie sucks, long live Terrence Malick for his visionary style.
Tree of Life won the Palme d’Or award at Cannes, giving credit where credit is due. I understand art and messing with it, deconstructing it and making the big artistic statement, but the two-hours-and-18-minute runtime makes this film an endurance test. Cinematically, Tree of Life is an enthralling, mesmerizing film. Meticulous to the hilt, everything shines on the technical side of things. But after a half an hour we get it. We know what this film is about and we also know what it's not going to be about. The trip it takes isn't so hard to follow, it's just image after image in Malick's surreal photogenic style. This is one of the most beautiful and intensely filmed bore-fests I have ever seen.

Documentaries are most successful, or perhaps most gripping, when the story has a well-developed and intriguing character. Viewers connect with these real people, and what you're watching is more or less their actual lives. Buck, which won the Audience Award for documentaries at the Sundance Film Festival, follows the life of cowboy Buck Brannaman, who overcame an abusive childhood and went on to become an inspirational horse trainer.
Buck leads a fairly unconventional lifestyle in that he's on the road nine months out of the year conducting four-day horse clinics across the country. On the surface, he embodies the stoic ideal of the all-American cowboy that those of us outside of the horse community didn't know still existed anywhere but in the movies. Buck isn't all chaps, cowboy boots and horse training – he watches Oprah, too.

This summer we've already had mutants battling the Cuban Missile Crisis and Norse gods realizing that Natalie Portman is hot, but up next is Green Lantern, based on the DC Comics series that originated in the 1940s. It's a space adventure where the costumes are made out of willpower and computer-generated people fly around shooting stuff out of their rings. I'm not mocking, I've been collecting the comics for 15 years. And now you're mocking me. Real cool, guys.
The Green Lantern Corp. is an intergalactic police force created by the Guardians of the Universe, a group of short, blue senior citizens who are tasked to be… guardians of the universe. Then they created power rings that use the wielder's willpower to create anything they can imagine. The rings are the primary defense the Corp. has against any threats, domestic or interstellar. I have one, but it only changes color and makes my finger smell funny.

I have already gone on the record to say that I can't stand Jim Carrey. I recently saw him on a daytime TV show valiantly trying to prove how funny we must think he is. My view is even the lamest of actors can give one good performance. Carrey's high point was I Love You Phillip Morris. Mr. Popper's Penguins is not. Carrey clearly can act if he gets the chance, but he still cannot make me laugh. I find his rubber-faced antics, jerky movements and overall hamming it up offensive. Didn't he have his day in the sun and get replaced by Will Farrell who got replaced by Steve Carell? Let's face it, Hollywood is churning out generic scripts and ideas in “vehicle” movies in which comedians repeat everything they've done in every movie they've ever made. It's time for these tired old comedic repeat performances to retire. Thankfully, Carrey's star seems to be fading.
This innocuous film is more G rated than its PG tag would suggest. Penguins is touching, sweet, stupid and endearing and with the combination of Carrey as a goofy funnyman/jackass and cute penguins. What could possibly go wrong? The answer is nothing. This flick is such formulaic drivel that I can't fault it for its methodological genius.

I have an immediate aversion to any movie with Stephen Spielberg's name attached to it. Not just because Spielberg and George Lucas singlehandedly changed movies for the worse in the '70s by making special effects-induced blockbusters and taking away the strong story-driven anti-hero movies of that era, but because nowadays everything Spielberg touches involves cuteness, schmaltzy music and some sort of cornball ending. Plus, he has this “never grow up” agenda and gobs of money to make things overly extravagant (think Transformers franchise). Super 8 is no exception: it's a kid's movie from start to finish.
Teaming up with the brains behind TV's Lost, J. J. Abrams (also responsible for Mission: Impossible III and Star Trek), this movie is essentially Cloverfield meets ET, Stand By Me and District 9. Set in 1979 Ohio, it starts out with a bunch of kids (including Elle Fanning, Joel Courtney and Gabriel Basso) making a zombie movie with a Super-8 camera. While filming, the friends witness a horrifying train derailment. Amid a series of unexplained events and disappearances, they discover that the crash was no accident. Deputy Jackson Lamb (Kyle Chandler), the dad of one of the kids and designated “grown up,” searches for the shocking truth behind the crash.

From the trademark Windsor typeface on the title cards to the incredibly neurotic leading man, Midnight in Paris is distinctly Woody Allen. Not only that, but it's, arguably, his best work in years. Allen remains one of filmmaking's most successful and true-to-form auteurs, but it could be argued that since leaving his home city of New York, Allen hasn't been at his finest. Midnight in Paris, however, brings us back to classic Allen, while giving fantastical whimsy a fresh spin.
Gil (Owen Wilson), a screenwriter, and his fiancée, Inez (Rachel McAdams), join her parents for a pre-wedding vacation to Paris. Gil has fallen under the intoxicating spell of the city, and wants to pen his first novel there. Inez, on the other hand, would rather hang out with her intellectually elitist friends who also happen to be in Paris at the time. One night while walking home alone, Gil travels back in time at the strike of midnight. Gil yearns for the Paris of the roaring '20s and gets the opportunity to be on a first name basis with some of the era's biggest names in art and literature, including Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway and Salvador Dali.

Before watching Cave of Forgotten Dreams, I had never had the pleasure, or displeasure, depending on your opinion, of seeing a film directed by Werner Herzog. I was well aware of his contributions to cinema and have heard amazing things about his Grizzly Man doc. To prep me for my viewing of his most recent film I did, however, watch a YouTube video called Werner Herzog Reads Where's Waldo (Google it!). After this hilarious introduction, I felt prepared to view Cave of Forgotten Dreams.
For Cave of Forgotten Dreams, Herzog gained access and permission to film in the Chauvet Cave in southern France, from the French minister of culture. The caves, which were first explored at the end of 1994, feature the oldest known pictorial drawings by humankind. In order to preserve the drawings and the caves' pristine condition, the filmmakers were highly restricted and Herzog could only have three other people with him in the cave.