Full review goes live at midnight or so, but Year One is better than expected, at least based on the bulk of its TV advertising. Well, let me qualify that somewhat: the pairing of Jack Black and Michael Cera gives the movie some punch, and a pleasant enough vibe, and the joke writing is pretty strong. The story, about two wayward, primitive age villagers who embark on a weird sort of road trip, is unfocused, and kind of a mess, mainly because it doesn’t unfold in one discrete time period and there’s not a codifying interior logic with respect to what sorts of human inventions and modes of behavior with which its characters are and aren’t familiar. (Black’s Zed, when confronted with a woman who “likes girls,” responds with a blank smile that he doesn’t even know what that means; later, Cera’s Oh pointedly uses the word “gay” when explaining away to his crush an incident where he was caught rubbing oil onto the chest of a priest played by Oliver Platt.) Still, The Office writers Gene Stupnitsky and Lee Eisenberg, along with cowriter-director Harold Ramis, stuff the movie’s edges with an above-average amount of ADR riffs and other scene-capping quips. My favorite line might just be Zed, bargaining for his life after having entered a supposedly forbidden chamber and not being struck dead, trying to save Oh by dint of executive privilege, claiming, “Everyone knows the Chosen One gets a plus-one!”

Large fan boy Harry Knowles has seemingly walked back his “official recommendation” of skipping Wolverine, saying he’ll check it out in theaters today, opening day. His initial shrugging protest seemed mainly inspired by the fact that “Fox refused to invite one [sic] the AICN editors to an advance screening,” which was probably inspired by posts like this one, which called 20th Century Fox out on the fact that they were lying about differences between the leaked, air-quote work print online and the final version of the film opening in theaters today. Huge multi-national corporations tend not to like being called out on their shit.

So… Knowles’ reaction: Petty? Sure. But it’s actually more or less in line with my own feelings, in some ways. He just plays the slightly douchey slight-me-and-I’ll-slight-you-back card. I was a huge fan of the first two X-Men films, understandably a bit baffled by the third flick, but still a big fan of Hugh Jackman. So I should care about Wolverine. At least a little bit. But now? After being waylaid in efforts to line up a screening earlier in the week, (which, hey, they at least actually took the proactive step of inviting critics to), I just don’t care. There’s no anger or pique, though, really, except when I have a pressing assignment; this just more or less dovetails with the swell in a shrugging, above-the-fray attitude with which I’ve been infected over the hassle of so many studio screenings. I won’t say that I’ve grown cynical about films themselves; I haven’t. But the number of movies which elicit true anticipation seem to shrink every year. There’s plenty of stuff in which I have legitimate interest, but if all the variables don’t align, or I only get a same-day invite or some such bullshit, nevermind… I’m on to the next thing. Money attaches itself to other opportunities, and there are always other things to see and write about. I don’t feel the slightest bit empty inside missing a lot of these Hollywood movies.

So I had a realization about Matthew McConaughey recently, and it didn’t come from staring at a picture of the sun glistening off his shirtless body. No, instead, it struck me as I was wandering through Target, and came across some Johnson’s Baby Powder, which actually has the enigmatic phrase “Clinically proven mildness” stamped across the front of its packaging: McConaughey is the Johnson’s Baby Powder of the under-40 set, masculine enough for the ladies, but so totally bro-riffic as to induce absolutely no feelings of hostility or jealousy in any guy. This isn’t to say that he’s at all feminine, just that there’s no edge, darkness or menace to him, no capacity for ill will, violence or even complication lurking behind those eyes. Paul Walker has undeniably more of an edge to him than McConaughey; hell, I think DJ Qualls might, too.

In and of itself this wouldn’t necessarily be a problem, but for the way it’s coloring McConaughey’s work, and choices. I mean, just look at the sigh-inducing poster for Ghosts of Girlfriends Past, his new pairing with Jennifer Garner (Kate Hudson was apparently unavailable), and try to convince me that there exists a more de-fanged-looking actor working consistently in studio fare these days. Even the rare, occasional curveball (We Are Marshall, Two for the Money) can’t escape the drag of McConaughey’s Southwestern stoner-folksy persona, which descends like a thick mist upon almost all in which he appears. Notice I said almost. A late sub for Owen Wilson, McConaughey slayed in Tropic Thunder, reminding viewers how fun he can be when unhooked from rom-com piffle. Unfortunately, apart from that emergency role-snatch, McConaughey seems unconcerned with any sort of on-screen exercise to match his off-screen workout regimen, and so his movies have become near caricatures of themselves.

Elizabeth Banks cops to her Zac Efron crush, and admits to the fact, in amusing fashion, that she may be taking 17 Again way too seriously.

Recently eying the tagline “Are you man enough to say it?” from the poster for I Love You, Man sent my mind pinballing back to 1998’s There’s Something About Mary, and Lee Evans’ line reading about Cameron Diaz when he’s outed as a handicap faker by Matt Dillon’s dickish, tooth-capped gumshoe: “I love her, maaaaaan!” This is of course exactly the right combination of plaintive shamefulness and manic defensiveness, as any guy who’s ever loved/lusted after an unattainable hottie and struggled to get out of “Friendship Alley” can absolutely attest.