Frame is set in the 28th century where Earth has been abandoned due to the ravaging effects of humanity’s presence (the timeline seems somewhat optimistic given our  ecological bad-behavior). Despite the apparent technological advances, such as the ability for interstellar colonization, Strange Frame paints humanity as being still defined by the strong’s subordination of the weak. For many the only way to migrate off of the Earth’s destroyed surface is by trading in their autonomy for an indefinite period of indentured servitude. One of these servants, or slaves, is Naia, who has been genetically enhanced like so many others in her situation to become a more efficient worker for the rich and powerful.

The film’s storyline begins once Naia meets protagonist and narrator Parker (voiced by Claudia Black) in the middle of a riot, where the underclass of the new society (which is made up of cat-people, robots, individuals with extra-appendages, and beings with impossible skin pigments) is rebelling against their overlords. Instantly attracted to each other the woman soon become hot and heavy, and eventually fall in love. They form a band but soon are threatened by the demonic influence of Mig, who is voiced by the one and only Tim Curry.

Strange Frame can sometimes feel somewhat familiar, with its themes of star-crossed lovers and future-shock dystopia. Yet it is probably one of the most visually riveting movies released in recent years. The energy and beauty of the animation, and the strength of its vocal performers (particularly Curry, who is the definitive voice actor for flamboyant evil) keep this story of love up among the stars.

The book has a fluid, coherent and chronological structure, beginning with an examination of Hugo himself and the various socio-economic and historical circumstances which led to the inception of his original, mammoth novel. The text then moves into a detailed description of Cameron Macintosh diligent efforts to produce an English language musical adaptation.

Like many pieces of “behind the scenes” material, Les Miserables: From Stage to Screen has a tendency for some superficiality in its coverage. This is evident occasionally throughout these initial chapters, particularly when the book explores the shift in Hugo’s political and social consciousness. Of course this is a minor quibble as the book is not obviously written to be some sort of definitive Hugo biography. Once the book changes its focus from the expository backstory of the source material to a detailed look at the adaptation process the content becomes much more enriching and absorbing.

What is especially notable are chapters six, seven and eight; each of which are devoted to exploring the various qualities of a different main character from Hugo’s story, and the various actors who embodied each character on-stage. The text in each character-centric chapter is supported by a plethora of pictures which include stills from various productions, a couple behind the scene snaps and even some concept art. These chapters are a treat, although some of the pictures are a bit unfocused, which seems natural if they were being taken at an actual stage performance.

The time frame covered by the book is considerable, as there are chapters which focus on the show’s transition to American stages following its success in Europe and even a full chapter discussing the rejuvenation of the show for its 25th anniversary. The book does an excellent job of evoking the innovations made to celebrate the anniversary and to amp up the intensity of the show. This included technical hocus pocus, such as film projections which gave greater scope to the gothic gloom of Valjean’s flight through the sewers and Javet’s eventual suicide.

The film adaptation chapters are also well done, if mildly sparse with real information. This is again a minor complaint as the book’s intention is not to provide a massive chronicle of the day-in and day-out process of filmmaking. Still, the chapter spends a considerable amount of time discussing the much publicized decision to record the film’s songs live. This is a feature of the movie which has already received an unbelievable amount of coverage by even non-related media entities. There is no need to really spend a lot of time rehashing the subject like the book does here.

The filmmaking chapter is another example of the book’s sublimely generous inclusion of photographic material. The pictures and concept art included here are absolutely beautiful and really give you a sense of the artistry behind the production, which is something that Hooper’s penchant for the extreme close-up unintentionally obscured.

Les Miserables: From Stage to Screen won’t probably win over any new devotees to the institution, but it is a great supplementary addition to any established fan’s library. The text is not always the most involving, as it occasionally displays a penchant for superficiality and self-congratulatory feeling. Yet, there is too much here to enjoy to get really down on a few minor portions of text.

The book is broken up at certain sections with envelope-like containers which carry a proverbial treasure-trove of memorabilia related each time-period of the musical’s development (these envelopes appear after the chapter covering the Europe premiere, the Broadway premiere, the 25th anniversary show and the film adaptation). The memorabilia includes really nerdy stuff like copies of ticket stubs, call sheets from the film shoot, more concept art, blurbs of actual news reports of the 1832 uprising, and even posters from global productions of the show. These materials are integrated nicely into the book’s presentation and further show how even after more than 100 years Hugo’s original story remains just as powerful and that the people are singing louder than ever.

The Flat is a surprising, challenging film in many ways. It is not particularly radical in its approach. However, as Goldfinger (which has to be the best last name ever) embarks on a quest to discover the truth about how a relationship like this could have persevered despite the global turmoil of the 1930′s and 1940′s The Flat gradually becomes more and more intuitive regarding human behavior. The two most interesting components of the story are Goldfinger’s relationship with his mother, who reluctantly joins his hunt and the conversations that eventually transpire with Mildenstein’s now elderly daughter, Edda. Both of these women underline the core themes of the film which is an exploration how the effects of a past horror reverberate throughout the generations into the future.

This is compelling, disturbing stuff, however the film never seems to really develop much of an emotional stance on its powerful themes, which is unique even for a documentary. The only reason this is problematic is that the film’s perpetual façade of serenity and observational placidness doesn’t really provide any of the big payoffs that one might be looking for. Simply put, the pacing of the film might be challenging for some viewers.

However, in the end The Flat is worthy of one’s efforts if only for its exploration of familial secrets and the psychology involved in dealing with troubling past events. The film astutely captures the homes of both Gerda and Edda as being paraellel living spaces in many ways, with each home containing its fair share of hidden nooks and crannies crammed full of items and mementos from earlier years. This provides great visual subtext for the film’s central argument: The complicated emotions related to troubling past events are never truly gone, they are only tucked away.

Windsor sued the government in 2009 and this lean documentary provides a small glimpse into the dynamic relationship these two women shared together. Susan Muska and Greta Olafsdottir’s film has modest ambitions, and is, for the most part, successful in achieving them. The film spends a lot of time delving into the history of the two women’s lives, their courtship, and their trials as a same sex couple living through turbulant times. This section is filled with candid images (composed primarily of personal photographs) and reflections from the two women – yet, it remains only mildly engaging. What is far more engrossing is the more contemporary footage of the two women simply interacting; it is here where the relationship feels the most real, the most palpable. Additonally, it is when film moves away from what resembles little more than a glorified, personal slideshow that the couple’s story starts speaking more to the larger issue at hand, which is the blatantly insane politics of the United States forcing committed, loving partners to travel to other countries to be married.

Edie and Thea isn’t some sort of epic social statement which will be studied and revered for decades to come. Still, it is a potent reminder of our country’s repugnant stance towards same sex marriage, which restricts and marginalizes homosexuals into being second class citizens. The film successfully evokes the sense of joy that the two women’s relationship seemed to be instilled with. Also, the moving imagery of Windsor tending to Spyer as her health deteriorated later in life provides a depiction of love that we can all aspire to give, and take, in our lives.

Gere’s Robert Miller is a man who, at the start of the film, appears to have it all. He is an insanely wealthy hedge fund magnate, with a seemingly idyllic family life. His daughter Brooke, played by Brit Marling, works loyally at his side, while his wife Ellen (Susan Sarandon) projects nothing but unabashed adoration. However, Miller (evoking instant parallels to the Wall Street types whose recklessness destroyed a world economy) is a classic case of a self-saboteur. On both a professional and personal level Miller has overstretched himself, resorting to fraud to compensate for a series of risky investments, and struggling to keep an extra-marital affair from the attention of his family. When a freak accident draws him into the attentions of the law – personified here by a burly, bearded Tim Roth – both parts of Miller’s life are threatened. He must go to great lengths, even jeopardizing the life of an innocent associate named Jimmy (played by Nate Parker), to keep his carefully guarded life from falling apart.

Arbitrage is a remarkably assured feature-length debut – albeit one with fairly modest ambitions. One of the films biggest and most obvious assets is the strong thematic content of its script, and the unpredictable complexity in the way it builds the characterization of its main character. The film directly addresses the epic ramifications that can be generated by one act of moral negligence. It possesses a tightly wound intensity and never allows for the film’s focus on obtuse finance industry misbehavior to usurp the power held by the story’s moral questions.

Jarecki’s script also creates multi-faceted characters for his talented cast to engage with, although most of the family dynamics of Miller clan are fairly chilly and emotionally uninvolving. Marling, while initially looking like little more than Barbie doll, establishes a very potent and very credible sense of gravitas, which is appropriate for the daughter of a financial titan such as Robert Miller. Sarandon however has less to do, and Jarecki doesn’t't spend any time in establishing her character until the film’s final scenes. Yet, once the director finally gets around to her Sarandon doesn’t’ disappoint, and Jarecki is still able to imbue a new layer into her character, showing that Ellen is a woman perfectly suited for her high class and high powered environment. She also knows how to play hardball when she needs to.

With the character of Jimmy Jarecki is less successful, as the character comes off as one-note, and a bit too sanctimonious to be believable. This is not the fault of Parker’s performance, which is committed and intensely delivered. Jarecki’s writing here is marred by the character of Jimmey being obviously set up as the story’s moral center. The film doesn’t need this type of preachy moralizing and its inclusion counteracts the film’s great, seemingly ambivalent examination of Miller’s murky behavior.

Then there is Richard Gere himself, who is a long way from his days as the innocent American Gigalo, or the stoic mascuinity he brought out in Days of Heaven. Gere is perfectly cast here; his Miller is a pitch-perfect evocation of a world closed off from other classes by wealth. Gere’s natural charisma, which has often come off as simple movie star mugging in past roles, actually compliments the character of Miller, as it obfuscates the audience’s ability to know if they should support or disavow the character.

It’s a shame that Jarecki’s direction isn’t quite on the same level of his writing. It would have been interesting for the film to remain more focused on profiling the powerful, intriguing way that Gere’s Miller perceives his world. Instead the film devotes a lot of time to Roth’s (who nibbles a bit on the scenery here) investigation of Miller, which feels fairly routine aside from the fact that Jarecki highlights Roth’s central motivation being animosity for the rich. This wouldn’t really be an issue aside from the fact that it provokes Roth into a pattern of behavior that is just frankly unbelieveable.

Because of this focus on the police procedural, Jarecki’s film is unable to speak with any real conviction about subject matter exterior to the parameters of its story. Thus, despite Gere’s powerful characterization of Miller, the film does not have the ability to stand as some sort of zeitgeist summation of a certain time, place, or mentality – it’s just an elegant little thriller. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Arbitrage is consistantly engaging look at a man who has everything, until he suddenly doesn’t.

The film recounts the plight of Vardalos’ Toula Portokalos, whose family’s adherence to traditional gender roles has left her feeling stagnated and unsatisfied. In the film’s opening sequences Toula outlines her story through a series of flashbacks, where she sketches out the dynamic involved with existing inside a family unit where there is the simple expectation that any woman will simply “…marry a Greek boy, make Greek babies, and feed everyone until the day she dies.”

This expository scenes are in a way a smaller window to view what both works and doesn’t work with Vardalos’ story. The scenes, while somewhat funny, efficiently staged and crisply written, have the feel (as many reviewers have pointed out) of a slap-sticky sitcom where every next line is a throw-away joke. The film tells us everything (in voice-over) and really shows us nothing illuminating about Greek culture.

Everything is played for the broadest effect. In the film’s first section we meet the main character’s family which consists of her father Gus, whose cultural inflexibility basically forms the entire central dilemma of the story, and whose overblown quirks (such as his belief in Windex being a natural elixir to cure any health concern) provide a few laughs. Little better is the brother character (played by Louis Mandylor) or Joey Fatone’s (of N’Sync fame) character of Cousin Angelo. Both men barely register as being anything outside of obnoxious meat heads.

If there is something resembling a layered character in My Big Fat Greek Wedding it comes in the form of Lainie Kazan’s performance as Maria Portokalos, who delivers some of the film’s best lines (specifically when she explains to her daughter in a hilariously disgusting fashion about how Greek women have to be “tigers” in the bedroom) and is also her daughter’s advocate against the controlling proclivity of the family’s patriarch, Gus. The film sadly makes too little use of Kazan’s presence.

So, with there being very little in the way of an elucidative or didactic perspective on the interior facets of a traditional Greek-American family (outside of the culture apparently possessing a super archaic view on the role of women in society) the film presents viewers with a variation on probably the most dated formula that exists in the art of storytelling. The actual storyline of the film (once it leaves behind the back story of the Toula character) revolves around the remarkably coincidental meeting between Toula and very non-Greek Ian Miller (John Corbet), whose contrasting ethnicity further inflames the ire of curmudgeon Gus, who feels that Toula’s interest in Ian, paired with her desire to actually have a career of her own outside the family’s Greek restaurant, constitutes the ultimate in familial betrayal.

After this set-up the remainder of the film consists of the Toula and Ian attempting to navigate the rather tumultuous reactions of the Portokalos clan once they announce their intention to marry. This comes to its most vivid level when the Portokalos family attempts to host Ian Miller’s upper-crust, buttoned down and generally waspy parents, who are completely unprepared for the ethnic fervor of their son’s in-laws. Still, in keeping up with the cartoonish and bombastic treatment of the Greek people nothing about the scene sticks very long in the mind, except perhaps for the images of the Greek family tossing back a copious amount of alcohol.

As the two central leads Corbet and Vardalo’s make for an entertaining albeit rather bland couple. They are both capable of being engaging on-screen and together they seem to share a believable, bouncy chemistry. Yet, there is really no emotional complexity to be found, aside from Toula’s perpetual exasperation with her family’s erratic behavior. In fact, there probably has never been as accepting a man as Ian Miller, who shows very little in the way of frustration or annoyance with the Greek family’s outrageous response to his Anglo-Saxonism. This lack of complexity has unfortunate implications for the story because it helps create almost a total lack of conflict for the characters involved.

My Big Fat Greek Wedding is being released on BluRay this week and the results are, as expected, a product with a beautifully crisp image. As for extras the main highlight is a feature entitled: “A Look Back at My Big Fat Greek Wedding,” which is essentially the typical reflective musing that you always see with these anniversary releases elevated by the appearance of both Corbet and Vardalo. The two actors share little anecdotal accounts of the filmmaking process that are genuinely interesting, and the feature also reveals to the uneducated about the important involvement of Tom Hanks in facilitating the film actually getting put into production. This feature is unfortunately more interesting than the storyline contained in My Big Fat Greek Wedding, a film which, while certainly big (in terms of number of characters and its depiction of Greek culture) is unfortunately anemic where it truly matters. The viewers coming to the story looking for anything more (such as emotional, cultural, or thematic complexity) than silly hi-jinks and broad caricature will certainly walk away disappointed.

No Country for Old Men is a film which needs very little introduction or analysis. The winner of four Oscars in 2007, including Bardem’s sole acting win (for Best Supporting Actor) No Country has already carved out a place for itself as one of the most memorable films from the 2000′s. From a script littered with colorful, regional jargon and scenes of bombastic violence, to the beautifully designed lighting arrangements and stark cinematography which define the film’s visuals, No Country is a film that richly succeeds as a genre exercise and remains congruent with the Brother’s cannon.

However, this being the Coen Brothers, working off of material by Cormac McCarthy (a national treasure to be sure) No Country for Old Men also carries a moral urgency and thematic power that imbues the action of the story with both a sense of present day topicality and historical relevance. No Country is about the violence central to the American experience, that is, it ellucidates our nation’s baptism through blood and reliance upon violence to settle disputes, particularly in the geographical location of the American West.

Embodying these themes completely is Bardem’s Anton Chigurgh, a character who is certainly befuddling. Is he a real person? Is he simply an allegorical manifestation of the unstoppable patterns of violence permeating the American West? Or is it simply the story of man ready to wreak havoc on the world because he is the owner of the world’s worst haircut?

No Country for Old Men doesn’t entirely answer this question, but this is partially why the film is so richly rewarding. The film benefits enormously from the Coen Brothers immaculate direction, sparse scripting and brilliant harnessing of actors and cinematic artisans. It delivers a film that works both as a gritty thriller about drug violence as well as our country’s inability to move behind a chaotic, vicious history, or to stop “…what’s coming,” in the years to ahead.

The second film, Biutiful, in the collection gained accolades for Bardem and also is notable for being Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu’s first film where he also shouldered screenwriting duties. In Biutiful, Bardem is Uxbal, a critically-ill man attempting to navigate both the seedy underbelly of Barcelona while somehow still providing financial and emotional stability for his children.

Biutiful falls squarely in the genre of misery-porn, an artistic sensibility that would include films like Lee Daniels’ Precious, the work of Harmony Korine, and also Inarritu’s own cannon of Amores Perros, 21 Grams and Babel. Biutiful recounts not only the gloomy adversity of Uxbal existence, where he struggles to provide for children who have essentially lost their mother due to her bi-polar disorder, but also the plight of Barcelona’s immigrant population (who Uxbal is heavily involved with) who are continually exploited throughout the story.

The film thoroughly revels in its gritty portrayal of lives lived on the edge, and contains a thematic canvas that is certainly ambitious yet ultimately portentious in nature. The presence of morality in the face of the world’s harsh realities seems to be the film’s driving force, in addition to an exploration of the fragility of the human experience. However, it all becomes rather overbearing, with Inarritu’s characteristically frantic style of jarring, hand-held camera-work, and relentless focus on scene after scene of human suffering drowning out any sort of coherent message.

This is not to say that Biutiful is without power. The film contains several harrowing sequences, such as when a group of African illegal immigrant  (who Uxbal organizes) are beaten by the police, or when Uxbal and his estranged wife Marambra attempt to reconcile. In his strongest and most shattering performance to date, Bardem’s performance holds the entire film together and imbues the film with a sense of truth which cuts through Inarritu’s barrage of cinematic despondency. Bardem simply lives and breathes this character. He is enormously layered, projecting a sadness and frustration with his circumstances, but also a great, selfless love and concern for the fate of his children once he passes on. He almost single-handedly gives the film with its vitality, its heart, and its coherence, showcasing a desperate man trying to hold onto what is essential, what is biutiful.

The final entry of the collection is the Spanish film, Mondays in the Sun, which chronicles the debilitating effects of unemployment on former shipyard workers living off the Spanish coast. In Sun, Bardem plays Santa, a burly, bearded, and proud man who is the unofficial leader of the unemployed men. The rest of the characters includes the colorful likes of Lino, played by José Ángel Egido, a craggy, aging man who doggedly pursues new work that he is unqualified for, Amador (played by Celso Bugallo) an alcoholic who repeatedly states that the return of his wife is imminent, and also the benevolent barman Rico, played by Joaquín Climent.

Director and screenwriter Fernando León de Aranoa film is strongly character driven, and structured almost like a series of vignettes than an actual cohesive story. This is not a negative thing, however, the film is also not all that original. The appeal of the whole enterprise comes down primarily to how engaging the audience finds the characters. In this regard, the performances by the main cast members, in addition to Fernando León de Aranoa’s careful characterization, allows Mondays in the Sun to succeed as both a elegant character study and wide-reaching examination of the economic conditions faced by Spain’s working poor.

As Santa, Bardem is characteristically impressive. Hidden behind a robust beard, clothed in boxy sweaters, Santa is a proud man enraged at circumstances that are far beyond his ability to influence. And it is how this anger manifests itself through small acts of destruction (Santa is on trial for breaking a city light during a protest at the beginning of the film) that illustrates the character’s heartbreaking situation of existing in a society with little opportunity. It is this attention to character which makes Mondays in the Sun rewarding, even if in a narrative sense the film has serious pacing problems and is rather unremarkable.

The films which constitute the Javier Bardem 3-Film Collection are all highly watchable and complimentary to each other thematically. However, probably the films’ greatest unifying factor are the inimitable performances by Bardem found in each one of the titles. From the unstoppable bloodlust of Chigurgh, to the gruff humanity of Uxbal and Santa, the collection showcases the actor’s seemingly boundless range and unique ability to project a nuanced, unshowy intensity. His performances in these films are precise, gritty and ultimately profound, showing us the small, interior-lives of real flesh-and-blood individuals, while simultaneously highlighitng the larger sociological and economical experiences that permeate all.

The storyline of Ella Enchanted is one built entirely around a gimmick, which is that Ella, when she was a baby, was given what probably rates as the worst gift of all time by her fairy godmother: total, unstoppable obedience. After years of dealing with this repugnant gift, Ella sets out to find her godmother, (played by Vivica A. Fox in total ham-bone mode), to hopefully free herself from her odious enchantment.

As you might expect what follows from this set-up is a stream of sequences which strive desperately for broad, family-friendly entertainment, some of which are more engaging than others and none of which really register as being anything aside from superfluous to the actual themes of the film, which circle around a simple coming-of-age story.

If the film has a saving grace it is in the form of Anne Hathaway, who seems perfectly comfortable existing in a colorful, goofy world and game for all of the “crazy hijinks” that director Tommy O’Haver and each of his five screenwriters put her through. And boy do they put her through her paces. From a silly, completely un-involving fight scene, (where Hathaway suddenly is endowed with a supreme affinity for martial arts), to a strange sequence where the character is forced to sing a rendition of Queen’s “Somebody to Love,” the actress carries the film through its whimsical foolishness with the strength of her good-natured charisma.

The other actors are competent, if unremarkable in their roles. Dancy, as the toothy Prince Charmont and eventual object of Ella’s desire, makes a fine beefcake and is able to establish a lively repoire with Hathaway. Cary Elwes on the other hand, despite being no stranger to this type of film, (having starred as the iconic Westley in The Princess Bride), is so egregiously stylized with his performance that one can’t help but be somewhat turned off.

However, Ella Enchanted is a film where arguably its design is even more critical than the strength of its acting. Director O’Haver is able to synthesize his film’s various aesthetic elements to create a visual presentation which compliments the storyline but does little to enhance it. Part of the problem here is probably financial; the film was only budgeted at $31 million dollars, a paltry sum for a fantasy/period piece in 2004. However, because of the jokey nature of the story, the tacky look of the costumes and the unconvincing effects work doesn’t detract from the experience.

In its new Blu Ray format Ella’s world looks great, with vibrant colors, (the hills of Ireland have rarely appeared so lush and green), and a soundtrack that rings out with clarity and strength. Even more impressive is the bonanza of bonus features that Miramax included with the film, such as: a fairly extensive “Making of” featurette, a music video of Kari Kimmel’s song, “It’s Not Just Make Believe,” and also a feast of deleted and extended sequences. The one negative of the bonus features would be the thirty minute “Red Carpet” special hosted by then teen heartthrob musicians, Kari Kimmel and Jessie McCartney. This feature contains basically identical “Making of” footage from the official “Making of” featurette, and is only occasionally broken up by some shots of the film’s stars arriving for the film’s New York premiere and doing their obligatory gushing.

Ella Enchanted was allegedly based on the bestselling novel by Gail Carson Levine, yet the changes are allegedly so dramatic that the existing film only bares a passing resemblance to its source material. Perhaps that is the best way to characterize the experience. The film is passable, albeit unmemorable, family-friendly entertainment. It’s a shame that Disney, in its lustful zeal to obtain adaptable properties, couldn’t be bothered to stick closer to storyline of the novel and not simply deliver a film that is a strikingly simple and silly story of a young woman coming into her own. But, hell, when you’re looking to reach the biggest audience and insure the greatest profit, simplify, simplify simplify is probably the name of the game. Those construction costs on Hong Kong Disneyland weren’t going to pay for themselves.

Everybody’s Fine (which will be released on BluRay on October 16th) symbolizes this new stage in De Niro’s career. The groundbreaking thespian from the 70′s, driven to transform himself physically and emotionally through a (possibly insane) devotion to his method acting technique is probably never coming back. However, films such as What Just Happened?, Stone, and Everybody’s Fine showcase a more respectable and less flashy De Niro, free from some of the egotism and listlessness which dominated much of his work over the last decade.

Everybody’s Fine puts the actor in Grandpa De Niro mode. Gone is the hair-trigger temper and explosive violence, replaced by a chronic health problems and an interest in his children that feels surprisingly genuine. De Niro is Frank Goode, a blue collar retiree whose affinity for gardening is only equaled by his propensity to be a “worry wart.” Following the death of his wife Goode plans a reunion visit for all of his children to return home to upstate New York. However, when each one of his four off-spring pulls out of the trip Frank decides its time to shake the dust off of his bones, put his bum ticker to the test, and head out on a cross-country journey to see if each one of his kids is, in fact, doing just fine.

After this set-up Everybody’s Fine turns into what at its worst is an episodic travelogue, and at its best a moderately involving family melodrama. De Niro is very strong here,  refreshingly nuanced and starkly contrasted to his more over-the-top recent performances. The problem is that De Niro’s character, while played well enough, is simply not that interesting of a guy to hang a movie on. As Frank Goode traverses the spectacular American landscape and visits his adult children (played by Kate Beckinsale, Sam Rockwell and Drew Barrymore respectively) the script never really delves into the psyche of its central character. Comparisons of this movie to the 2002 Alexander Payne film, About Schmidt, have been frequently expressed. This has been much to the detriment of this film, because, while they are indeed structurally similar, Jack Nicholson’s Warren Schmidt is given a much closer examination, and the audience gains a great deal more insight into the regrets a parent might have over their parenting, or what it might feel like to consider yourself a failure as your life draws to a close.

As Frank Goode’s three adult children, Rockwell, Beckinsale and Barrymore are highly competent albeit unremarkable in their brief appearances. Similar to De Niro’s character none of the children are characterized by anything all that intriguing, and one can tell that probably the greatest appeal of this project was the potentiality of emoting against one of the great American actors during his twilight years. Yet, again due to the highly episodic structure, none of these performers are able to register in a memorable way. Probably the most successful of the vignettes revolves around De Niro’s Frank meeting with his daughter Rosie, played by Drew Barrymore. This sequence is the most thematically complex because it adds some much needed dimension to De Niro’s character and helps explain the dynamic he has with his children.

Taking the directing and adapting duties, (yes, Everybody’s Fine is a remake), Kirk Jones is not able to able to imbue his film with any sort of distinctive or coherent vision. The film is photographed beautifully enough but the proceedings often times feel rather superificial. Even the film’s constant audio/visual motif, which consists of lovely shots of the telephone wires criss-crossing America, fails to really communicate anything monumental about the story or its characters. If it accomplishes anything it would be evoking the simple irony of De Niro’s Frank, whose job was covering telephone wires with PVC-tubing and helping facilitate the nation’s communication, being, you guessed it, not a great communicator with his children.

Finally, the new BluRay release doesn’t add much to the film in terms of storytelling quality. But, the aesthetics of the visuals, particularly the majestic environments that Goode travels through, really do get an additional pop from its BluRay presentation. The Special Features portion of the disk is pretty much a refutation to its name, as the features are anything but special. All that it includes is a so-so “Making Of” featurette about the production of Paul McCartney’s song for the film, I Want to Come Home, in addition to several deleted scenes that were mercifully omitted.

Everybody’s Fine is a worthwhile experience for someone who is a big fan of its leading actor. It is an intriguing little spectacle because De Niro has rarely played this type of role before. Still, there isn’t enough dramatic material here to attract anyone who isn’t morbidly curious in late-career moves from one of the medium’s legends. In the end, it’s fine, but you might find yourself wishing for Johnny Boy, Travis Bickle, or hell, even Jack Byrnes to appear, and give this film a much needed blast of vitality.

For those who have been even mildly conscious to the world of cinema over the last fifty years the story of Bomb contains very little that you haven’t seen before. The basic premise is rather mundane and recycled; girl is sexually expressive, girl gets sexually assaulted, girl goes on a vengeful tear where her assailants learn the error of their ways through acts of bloody carnage perpetrated by said girl. Now, if you take this simple format and throw in a pinch of the unstoppable hitman trope (think Javier Bardem a la No Country) you pretty much have the essence of what you’ll be getting through a viewing of Cherry Bomb. However, as stated above, the main problem with Bomb is not that we’ve seen all of this before (and we have) it’s that the filmmakers involved did not possess either the skills necessary, or the funds required to transition this campy exercise away from amateurish goofiness to a more professional (and enjoyable) level of grind-house genre riffing.

The titular Cherry is played by a woman listed on imdb.com as simply “Julin”, and while she is somewhat successful in pulling off the slinky physicality and hyper-sexualized stage persona of a stripper, her ability to handle other facets of Cherry (such as Cherry as a traumatized rape victim) ranges from laughable to egregiously hammy. Far worse is the performance of adult film star Nick Manning as Cherry’s strip club manager, Ian Benedict. His performance is so shockingly wooden, so listless in presentation and so devoid of any real definable skill that it becomes immediately apparent that Manning should have continued to solely focus on utilizing his “physical” attributes. These are what helped produce such classic titles as Worship My School-girl Ass, Big Boob Blondes and my personal favorite Barely Legal 110 – which I think is far superior to Barely Legal 109.

Still, as terrible as the talent is in front of the camera the blame for this cinematic failure should be placed squarely on the shoulders of director Kyle Day and especially writer Garrett Hargrove – whose script can’t give any of these characters coherence or imbue their actions with any sort of credibility (even with the film possessing a hyper-realistic tone). One striking example of this is the post-rape character arc of Cherry, where she transitions from emotionally crippled sexual assault survivor to avenging angel in seemingly the blink of an eye.

Cherry Bomb belongs in this bizarre genre of film which espouses a world-view that true female empowerment can only obtained via the process of victimization, degradation and then subsequent violence. It would be interesting to see a film which comments on the cinematic trend of a woman experiencing violence in response to her sexual expression or her rebuff of more socially traditional gender and relationship roles (Cherry has a female partner in the film). However, if you aren’t interested in getting heady (which Cherry Bomb’s filmmakers clearly weren’t) when you are making a film and turn to your bro saying, “Dude! This is going to look so cool!” at least have the skills and resources to make it look, well, cool.