The thirteenth animated feature film from Pixar Studios, Scottish-set Brave is essentially a body-swap movie impressed upon a comfortable fable-of-yore narrative template, wherein an at-odds parent and child rediscover their love for one another against a backdrop of magic-infused conflict. Amiable and action-packed without being overbearing about it, and marked by a new level of visual complexity, even by Pixar standards, the film peddles with assurance and panache the pleasant tale of a new young heroine, even if the payoff of its more traditional legend elements is a bit stilted. For the full, original review, from Screen International, click here. (Disney/Pixar, PG, 100 minutes)

As it gets out of the starting gate, 6 Month Rule, from writer-director-star Blayne Weaver, seems like it’s going to be an Eric Schaeffer-type cinematic exercise, infused with a pinch of Swingers. After all, multi-hyphenate Weaver contrives situations for him to make out with multiple women, postulates a strict theory about dating and relationships, and puts himself at the center of a universe in which others’ feelings, need and wants are all secondary piffle, collateral damage to be shrugged off. His movie gamely rallies from the awkwardness and all too evident seams of its conceit, but still, despite some atypicality and a few memorable supporting turns, lacks the sort of roundhouse kick and spice that would truly make this Rule a golden one.



Weaver stars as Tyler Watts, a commercial photographer who the audience knows is brilliant since, 1) he had a book of art photos published, and 2) every character keeps talking about how brilliant he is. After a couple meet-cutes with a gal, Sophie (Natalie Morales, above left), who breaks him down, Tyler turns his attention toward trying, in tough-love fashion, to cheer up his best friend Alan (Martin Starr), who is fresh off a break-up with Claire (Jaime Pressly), his fiancée of three years. It’s only when Tyler pulls a big photo assignment for an up-and-coming rocker, Julian (Patrick J. Adams), that Tyler discovers Sophie is the one who actually recommended him for the job, and is Julian’s kinda-sorta-but-not-really girlfriend. Awkwardness ensues as Tyler faces down his disinclination for conventional relationships and Sophie tries to sort out her feelings for the two men in her life.

6 Month Rule, so named for Tyler’s self-imposed romantic term-limit, is constructed almost entirely of familiar parts: pop-infused psycho-analysis that immediately cuts to the bone; the sudden-rush-at-one-another make-out scene (which last seemed fresh in Moonlighting); montage arguments about literature (Camus, Wuthering Heights, Hemingway!); the premature break-up where any reasonable discussion is undercut by one party speeding away in a taxi cab; the list-type speech of pitched woo to try to win the girl back. Better films — movies with a bit more forceful personality, sparkling banter and/or convincingly sketched leads — can more capably transcend the creakiness of these conventions. 6 Month Rule has some nice moments, but doesn’t quite fully do that, so an embrace rests more on one’s acceptance of these elements than anything else.

It doesn’t help, mainly, that the movie is funneled so singularly through Tyler’s point-of-view. The material between Tyler and Alan — with the former often lecturing the latter, in somewhat condescending mentor-like fashion — is where the film’s humor mainly lies, and those scenes mostly work, but Sophie’s ennui is unfortunately thinly sketched. A platonic sounding-board-type relationship for her would have given the movie a comfortable parallel construction, and also more firmly established her independent thinking and personality, which would make the third act payoffs in 6 Month Rule resonate a bit more deeply.

If the plotting and payoffs of this love triangle are a bit problematic and less satisfying than they one wished, there are also pleasant inversions to be found in the film’s finale, reminding more pensive viewers that every down is a prelude to an up, and vice versa. For the full, original review, from Shockya, click here. For more information on the movie and its VOD offerings via FilmBuff, click here to visit its website. (Abramorama/FilmBuff, R, 93 minutes)

A gassy, self-satisfied adaptation of Guy de Maupassant’s 1885 novel of the same name, threadbare Parisian period piece Bel Ami purports to tell the rise from poverty to wealth of a savvy if caddish war veteran and self-made man — a sort of less sociopathic, more rakish Mr. Ripley, if you will. Instead, it merely bores and grates, in alternating fashion. Making up what it lacks in dynamism or attentive psychological detail with lots of love scenes with its hunky, tween-beloved pin-up star, Robert Pattinson, Bel Ami belies the erroneous notion that costume dramas automatically have a higher IQ than their contemporary dramatic brethren.



Georges Duroy (Pattinson) is but a penniless North African war veteran looking for enough money to score a prostitute when he crosses paths with a fellow ex-soldier, and accepts his invitation to dine with him the following evening. By the end of supper, he’s won a guest newspaper editorial spot, a sort of diary of a cavalry officer, from a powerful and influential publisher, Rousset (Colm Meaney), in part because his wife, Madame Walter (Kristin Scott Thomas), is kind of smitten with him.

Having little better to do, Madeleine Forestier (Uma Thurman) then takes it upon herself to basically pen all of Georges’ columns, while Georges seduces the married Clotilde de Marelle (Christina Ricci), with whom he promptly sets up a love nest. When his himbo status and near-illiteracy are almost outed, Georges manages to connive his way further into the good graces of those who ensure him continued access to the finer things in life, eventually even marrying Madeleine, who seems ill suited to conventional love.

Co-directed by Declan Donnellan and Nick Ormerond, Bel Ami is a bundle of phony psychology and false motivations wrapped up in pretty, trite packaging. The costumes are nice and eye-catching, and the pompous, swelling orchestral compositions, from Rachel Portman and Lakshman Joseph de Saram, nudge viewers in the ribs, repeatedly, attempting to inject menace and substance into the proceedings, and letting the audience know what a Big Deal they’re watching unfold.

Except they’re not. Pattinson, pallid and sweaty throughout, seems in over his head, and never quite comfortable. He’s had success before at pulling off layered angst and agitation, but here he seems resolutely of modern times, and not at all believable in the context of 1890s France. With a cipher’s smile and that great sweeping hairdo, he fills a ruffled shirt, and little more. The other performances are, by degrees, much more engaging — Thurman is somewhat mesmerizing as the ahead-of-her-time Madeleine, and Thomas gets to have some fun as a society lady uncharacteristically gripped by hormonal fever — but given the degree to which Bel Ami rests on Pattinson’s shoulders, and the dearth of insight it possesses, the movie falters early on, and never recovers.

Most fatally, there is neither a sense of canny manipulation nor a honest occupational rooting of Georges’ social climbing in the status afforded him by his job as a newspaperman, the latter of which is a crucial component of the novel. Instead, there is only a series of thin contrivances and machinations through which various women throw themselves at Georges’ feet. His wit and seduction are evidenced less by anything manifest in the script and more by the apparent absence of any other (nominally) single lad willing to throw these women a (literal) bone. With a tip of the cap to fellow critic Tim Grierson, the hackneyed, yawning Bel Ami would have been more entertaining if it were about Bill Bellamy, or at least just starred the same. For my full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (Magnolia, R, 104 minutes)

Modern-day American independent filmmaking, in such large measure, apes Hollywood product — or, alternately, movies made during the last great frontier boom of indie cinema, in the 1990s — in large part because the (perceived) reward seems to be informing the creative process. The increased democratization of film comes at the same time as a slew of TV reality show contests where “winners” are ushered inside the palace, and given a shot at all their professional and personal dreams.

Perhaps perversely, this seems to have seeped into the national well-water of the collective creative subconscious; would-be filmmakers so want to make films that they often make their first film with an eye on how it can be used to get them their next film. (This may be changing, but slowly; avant-garde and micro-budget movies like ¶ or Tarnation may have left their marks, in a way, but they hardly ushered in an era of widespread experimental cinema, or an army of Junior John and Johanna Sayles.) None of this aforementioned symptomatology, thankfully, is evident in Ultrasonic, a savvy, artful, well constructed little domestic drama of paranoia that builds its story around its limited production means but never sacrifices its thematic inquiry, its essence, its core.

Set in Washington, D.C., director Rohit Colin Rao’s movie centers around Simon York (Silas Gordon Brigham, above right), an aspiring musician with a pregnant wife, Ruth (Cate Buscher), and financial problems that are beginning to take their toll. When Simon starts hearing a persistent buzz that’s imperceptible to anyone else, Ruth tells him it’s probably work-related, but urges him to see a doctor. Simon does, and he learns that he can hear in lower and upper registers unlike any other patient the doctor has ever seen. As the ailment worsens, Simon’s brother-in-law Jonas (Sam Repshas, above left), an eccentric conspiracy theorist, peddles the notion that this is all the result of a strange government experiment gone wrong. Shadowy figures and mysterious black boxes posted on nearby lampposts trip the wires of Simon’s dark and panicked imagination. But is this merely a shared psychosis, his psychological vulnerability attaching itself to Jonas’ troubled mind, or actually part of something more sinister?

Rao, working from a script co-written with Mike Maguire, serves as his own composer and cinematographer, lending Ultrasonic a carefully manicured, just-so production package. The film is crisply, engagingly and digitally shot on a Canon T2i, its black-and-white hues only slightly sepia-toned and punctuated by but a few notable splashes of color. The framing, meanwhile, feeds Simon’s increasing sense of isolation.

The story? Well, it’s not dark or really edgy, per se, but there’s an often hypnotic and occasionally unsettling quality to Rao’s marriage of sound and image. Ultrasonic is a resolutely mid-tempo affair, one of the more difficult modes to sustain in feature-length filmmaking. Songs from two of Rao’s erstwhile bands, Tigertronic and the Translucents, open and close the movie, respectively, serving as nice bookends, but the electronic compositions in between give Rao’s debut a moody and sometimes frenetic feeling. Ultrasonic doesn’t really work if one is leaning forward constantly, in search of clearly delineated narrative markers. There’s an aura of mystery that hangs like an early morning mist, but the menace never manifests itself in overly hammy ways. Instead, Rao trusts in himself, and his collaborators. And he’s quite rewarded by his locally assembled talent.

Especially in its ambiguous ending, Ultrasonic slots in alongside an impressive recent spate of little film festival-minted diamonds in the rough — the biggest being  Sound of My Voice, starring Brit Marling; a couple others still awaiting or searching for distribution — that arrive at a place of tonal settledness without answering all of the big(gest) questions of their respective narratives. Does this indicate a barometric shift, a change in the creative appetite for the sort of distinct indistinctness that real life most readily provides? Maybe. One can hope. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. For more information on the movie, including its playdates and VOD options, visit its website, why don’t you? (Garden Thieves Pictures, R, 90 minutes)

Part Scarface, part In America, immigrant’s tale For the Love of Money puts a Jewish-American spin on the hardscrabble and borderline-illegal fight for entrepreneurial rooting that colors dramatic depictions of so many stories of strangers trying to find their way in opportunistic and upwardly mobile fashion in a new country. Touting itself as based on true events (and feeling very much financed by some of the parties depicted in the movie), it’s a period piece that breaks no great new ground, but neither does it terribly embarrass itself.

The film opens in Tel Aviv in 1973, in a family bar/illegal gambling den that’s a haven for all sorts of seedy characters. Eventually ready for a change, Izek (Yehuda Levi) moves to Los Angeles while still a teenager, trades up on a number of business ventures assisted by a kindly real estate agent (Jeffrey Tambor), and eventually hooks up with his cousin Yoni (Joshua Bitton) to open an automotive repair shop. Izek even lands a wife, in the form of comely Aline (Delphine Chaneac).

Years pass, and Izek still dreams big, though — wanting to open an even bigger auto mall, and get into real estate and construction. His business is threatened when Izek unwittingly crosses a hotheaded mobster (James Caan), and shortly after that situation resolves itself further temptation arrives via a recently paroled cousin, Levi (Oded Fehr), who is all too eager to return to a life of crime. Against this turbulent backdrop, Izek must try to juggle his outsize ambitions while also deciding how married he is to his moral compass.

Directed by Ellie Kanner-Zuckerman, For the Love of Money leans fairly heavily on its performers to make something out of the material, cycling through a bunch of similarly temperamental, two-dimensional, mid-level mob-type villains, kind of like a Nintendo videogame circa 1991. Throwing money at expensive music cues (“Spirit in the Sky,” “Magic Carpet Ride” and “Cult of Personality,” among many others) and trading in fancy stock footage to flavor the proceedings and mark/pass the time, the movie works more on almost academic level rather than an emotional one — as a thumbnail, period piece sketch of small business appetite and its intersection with gotta-get-mine criminal intent.

Penned by Jenna Mattison, For the Love of Money features familiar characters doing familiar things, and even when crisis pops up it’s more apt to be tamped down or smoothed over by coincidence than any great action by its protagonist. It’s not that the movie is aggressively bad, it’s that its presentation too often feels reductive. Males bond by doing the hearty shoulder-clasp thing, a slow-motion automobile hit is set to Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight,” and threats of grand bodily harm are conveyed in the absence of repayment. Viewers have traveled this road of criminal menace before, only this time it’s peppered with more exclamations of “L’chaim!” For more information on the movie, click here to visit its website. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (Archstone, R, 93 minutes)

Over the past century more than 45,000 large dams have redefined river corridors around the globe, taking fresh rainwater deposited for hundreds of years into the oceans and re-directing it for human purposes of energy and commerce. Patagonia Rising takes as its area of inquiry the fight over one such controversial plan in Chile’s famed wilderness. A well-meaning but dry and pedantic documentary, the movie doesn’t do much to bring fire, passion or interest to this story outside of a demographic consisting of the most ardent environmentalists. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (First Run, unrated, 88 minutes)

An interesting documentary that rather criminally buries its lede, Pink Ribbons, Inc. examines the ubiquitous pink ribbon campaigns for breast cancer awareness, and how — in distressing but perhaps classically American fashion — the movement has moved from activism to consumerism. Director Lea Pool assembles a fantastic collection of medical experts, authors, activists, social psychologists and others, but never quite tames her unwieldy collection of thought-provoking opinions into a coherent and cohesive entity any grander than the sum of its disparate parts.

Candid, focus-group-style personal discussions amongst women living with breast cancer (including one of the country’s few Stage IV-specific support groups) lends Pool’s movie an emotional pulse, but it’s the commingled pique and critique of Barbara Ehrenreich, Dr. Samantha King, Dr. Charlene Elliott and others that give Pink Ribbons, Inc. a most gripping sense of intellectually rooted provocation. Examining how, over the last two to three decades, certain parties have pushed and backed a culture of corporate philanthropy in place of governmental investment in medical research and social issues, Pool’s film delivers a pretty unsettling indictment of the phoniness of cause-marketing, which is what corporations and brands like Yoplait, Ford and KFC do when they ply consumers with advertisements and promotions promising charitable donations on their behalf in exchange for purchases.

This debate over the commodification of breast cancer, and the militaristic metaphors often deployed in the realm of public discussion (a “battle against,” “survivors,” etcetera) is an important one, because it gets to the heart of a two-fold pattern in American life — the cynical manipulation of a widespread basic decency in the country, and a tendency to commercialize the treatment or tamping down of problems and ills rather than attack underlying systemic causes. This has everything to do with socioeconomic inequality, but while Pool doesn’t run from this line of inquiry neither does she find a way to truly focus on it in laser-like fashion.

The underwater portion of the issue iceberg, of course, lies in the fact that in the 1940s breast cancer impacted about one in every 22 women, while today that rate stands at roughly one in eight. And it’s here, in its treatment of possible environmental factors for this terrible boom (think: plastics), that the movie stumbles most badly. It’s more than 50 minutes into the film before this question is even addressed, and the issue of suppressed corporate chemical research and testing is treated as an adjunct, when it really says everything about the silent conspiracy at the heart of this go-go capitalist machine. For hardcore documentary fans this smart but problematically constructed film is still definitely worth a look, but Pink Ribbons, Inc. doesn’t deliver enough of a knockout blow to win over audiences not already predisposed to lend an ear to its message. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (First Run Features, unrated, 98 minutes)

A hot mess whose sub-par direction kind of neutralizes its fantastic comedic premise, as well as the delight of some of its wonky supporting performances, High School is a willfully “stupid” stoner comedy, yes, but it also illustrates the gap between stupid done right and merely indulged too far.

Co-written and directed by John Stahlberg, the film centers on a straight-arrow kid and soon-to-be valedictorian, Henry Burke (Matt Bush), who takes a healthy hit of potent weed from his estranged stoner friend, Breaux (Sean Marquette), on what turns out to be the day before his deranged principal, Leslie Gordon (Michael Chiklis), institutes a sweeping anti-drug policy that jeopardizes the academic goodwill and standing for which Henry has labored so long.

Faced with being unable to pass a mandatory drug test for students, Henry and Breaux concoct a masterful on-the-fly scheme — to steal some even more extra strength ganja from an epically eccentric dealer, Psycho Ed (Adrien Brody), in an aim to spike the offerings of their school’s bake sale, get everyone blazed and thus invalidate the tests. This eventually leads to assistant principal Brandon Ellis (Colin Hanks) and others wandering around dazed and confused, while a panicked Henry and Breaux try to scrape up enough money to stave off a beatdown and/or murder at the hands of the aptly named Psycho Ed.

High School‘s basic premise is a fantastic one, ripe with possibilities for misdirection and commingled genre hijinks. Unfortunately, its execution leaves much to be desired; half-sketched storylines and scenes jostle and abut one another in awkward fashion. Stahlberg reworked the script a couple times, with Erik Linhorst (who also gets a co-story credit) and Stephen Susco, and the movie — especially its messy third act and harebrained finale — seems to bear traces of different drafts never quite smoothly integrated into one final, cohesive story. Several characters and beats could and probably should be easily jettisoned.

The leaves the movie leaning mightily upon the efforts of its cast. For a good while, that works. Bush, who cut such an amusing supporting figure in Adventureland, has comedic chops, and is an engaging and sympathetic lead. And Brody has an absolute blast, chewing scenery left and right as a corn-rowed, pop-eyed nutjob. But a deeper exploration of some of the things that could have helped make High School truly unique and memorable — the idea that Breaux is Henry’s ex-best friend from middle school, and a guy he “outgrew,” for instance — get traded and/or bypassed too often for recycled, low-grade laughs. In embracing yawning and pointless authority-as-villainy shtick, Stahlberg illustrates that, well, he’s happily left his mind back in high school. The movie High School, meanwhile, requires a bit smarter and more focused treatment. For more information on the movie, click here to check out its website. (Anchor Bay, R, 100 minutes)

A slight but amiable prison-set satire that mines the thawing relationship between a hardened Ku Klux Klansman and a Mexican farmhand, festival-minted Cellmates, starring Tom Sizemore and Hector Jimenez (above), surfs along mostly on the good fortune of its casting and sly peculiarity of its forced-odd-couple premise. If writer-director Jesse Baget’s movie ultimately doesn’t seem to burrow down and fully comedically exploit its conceit, it’s at least pleasant to see Sizemore back and robustly engaged in something other than Eastern European-produced genre tripe. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (White Knight Films, unrated, 85 minutes)

A deadly dull melodrama of familial dysfunction and emotional abuse in the face of patriarchal anger management, writer-director Debbie Goodstein’s Mighty Fine leans heavily on autobiographical inspiration for dramatic heft and connection, a tactic that proves ill-advised. A somewhat drab and unimaginative telling further dents this offering of already rather limited psychological insights and pat conclusions and catharses.



Set in the 1970s, Mighty Fine centers around a so-surnamed husband and father, small businessman Joe (Chazz Palminteri), who uproots his family and moves them from Brooklyn to New Orleans. His wife Stella (Andie MacDowell) is a Holocaust survivor for whom Joe wants only the material best, so he overextends himself buying a big home and steady stream of extravagant gifts for Stella and their two daughters, Natalie (Jodelle Ferland) and Maddie (Rainey Qualley, MacDowell’s real-life daughter).

Unfortunately, his apparel business suffers a downturn, and Joe turns to loan sharks to keep his lifestyle afloat. The stress of this leads to flashes and fits of anger that frequently leave his family scared and/or in tears, but Joe seems unable to curb his destructive behavior, even (and perhaps especially) as his eldest daughter grows more willing to confront him about it.

First-time narrative feature director Goodstein has a good instinct about the toll of parentalization and walking-on-eggshells management that such sideways bursts of adult behavior can take on children, noting that the family worked hard to “keep that monster in a cage.” Too often, though, she deploys terribly obvious voiceover (“My dad missed the whole show — where the hell was he?”) that neither advances the plot nor illuminates characters’ feelings in a manner that isn’t already evident. Goodstein tells rather than shows, consistently missing opportunities to dig deeper into the effects of Joe’s lashing out.

None of this falls on Palminteri, really, whose performance does a good job of highlighting some of the underlying fear and insecurity that informs Joe’s behavior. MacDowell and Qualley, though, are out of their element. The former’s ridiculous, stilted accent does her no favors, and Qualley, in her film debut, can only unconvincingly pantomime the white-hot flashes and swings of teenage emotion. Nothing about their reactions to Joe’s fits feels particularly nuanced or well sketched out, and the well worn grooves of dramatic engagement that the film follows render Mighty Fine anything but. For the full, original review, from ShockYa, click here. (Adopt Films, 80 minutes, R)