Fanning stars as Lewellen, a young tomboy growing up in a dysfunctional household. Her father is the town drunk, and her grandmother is a fanatical Christian who chides Lewellen for her love of Elvis Presley and swimming with boys. She is probably too grown up for her age and curious about things she shouldn’t be, but this is a damaged girl. Things get even worse after her father is struck by lightning, rendering him a cretin. The only bright spots in her abysmal life are a chance to see Elvis Presley perform in concert and her friendship with a black shaman who encourages her to sing. Robin Wright Penn also stars as a woman linked to Lewellen through mysterious ties and the abuse both have suffered.

Make no mistake about it: Dakota Fanning is one of the definitive talents that define her generation of Hollywood performers. She may be a minor character in the Twilight franchise, but she’s a superstar when it comes to the future of this industry. Despite the narrative shortcomings of Hounddog, her performance is what will keep audiences in their seats. She holds her own when engaging in a memorable scene where Lewellen and her father lose control and bellow out their agonizing frustrations with the other. David Morse has been acting for thirty years, and Fanning plays like a seasoned vet opposite him. It’s quite remarkable.

The cinematography is also stunning. Writer-director Deborah Kampmeier seems like she’s painting with her lens early on, giving the viewer lush, serene images. But this is only an illusion in keeping with Lewellen’s brave exterior. Hounddog soon gives way to the grimy realities of abuse.

This is not a feel-good story; it may leave you downright nauseated. It offers the least amount of narrative reward of any film in recent memory. Even with Precious, as difficult as that is to watch, by the end there’s a sense of hope for the protagonist. Despite all the torment she’s endured and the enormous difficulties she may face ahead, when you hear those opening soulful notes of LaBelle’s “It Took a Long Time,” you feel an elation, some faint and hopeful spark that Precious will be okay in the end. In Hounddog, I didn’t feel that at all. In fact, if there were any sparks of hope, it seems like Kampmeier did her best to fully extinguish them.

There are scenes that brim with awkward sexual tension between Fanning and older male actors, giving the audience a queasy feeling. There’s also a disturbing rape scene. All of this would be fine if it was building to something rewarding, justifying all the torment we’ve witnessed this young girl go through from practically the opening credits. Sadly, it’s not. The ending is actually ambiguous and will leave viewers with more questions than answers.

I’m not saying movies about tormented abuse victims have to end with bluebirds, rainbows, and all things Lesley Gore. But it would be nice if there seemed to be some merit to it all. The viewer should be rewarded for sticking with the character and stomaching the brutality throughout. The Shawshank Redemption, This Boy’s Life, and The Color Purple are great examples of the aforementioned dynamic.

Hounddog features a tremendous performance from Fanning, but it’s not enough for me to recommend this dreary, somber film. I’ve already done the leg work, and I don’t want others to experience the same hopeless exhaustion.

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Stoltz plays Lester Grimm. As an adolescent, Lester’s first girlfriend cheated on him, forever shattering any trust he would ever have for future partners, rendering him into a jealous, insecure, but charming guy. He feels differently when he meets Ramona (played by Sciorra), but soon slips back into his old habits. He becomes particularly fixated on her ex, Dashiell Frank, a successful novelist. Lester ends up inadvertently joining Dashiell’s group therapy to learn more about him, but also to learn more about Ramona and feel closer to her. Yes, you read that correctly. He joins his girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend’s group therapy. All the malaise ensues from there.

Many of the same players from Baumbach’s Kicking and Screaming return here. Carlos Jacott and Chris Eigeman are back as Vince, Lester’s best friend and Dashiell, respectively. Eigeman is totally awesome in this. I love the work he did for Baumbach and Whit Stillman in the late 1990s and wish more people recognized him for these films. He’s a tremendous actor and plays Dashiell with just the right balance of arrogance and self-doubt. The writing is also strong. It works for me that Lester is a jealous guy, but still very likeable. His jealousy is rooted in absurdity rather than anything inherent, so that also earns sympathy from the audience rather than remind viewers of their own jealous exes.

One glaring flaw of the film is Annabella Sciorra’s casting. I didn’t feel her performance was strong or that she and Stoltz had any real chemistry. She’s wonderful at playing strong, razor-sharp females (Jungle Fever, The Hand That Rocks the Cradle and Law and Order: Criminal Intent). However, this was a role that begged and screamed for Marisa Tomei or any other actress who excels at playing quirky, awkward, and gorgeous (think Clementine in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind). Sciorra is a stunner, but this role was not for her.

The editing could’ve also been tighter. I love Baumbach’s dialogue, but it’s a bit heavy at times. There are several jump cuts, but those feel repetitive throughout the narrative and a bit over the top for the flat scope of the story. This is one of those rare films that can rely on its keen screenplay and simplistic storytelling without any fancy camerawork or cinematic techniques. If Polanski had ever done romantic comedy, it would’ve looked similar to this.

Overall, it is worth watching, particularly if you’re familiar with Noah Baumbach’s work, past and present. He was mastering dry humor before The Office made it popular. Despite its minimal flaws, Mr. Jealousy is an intelligent, witty, and entertaining romantic comedy that defies standard conventions of the genre and delivers solid and original storytelling.

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My resistance to seeing Alice in Wonderland stems from my recent lack of enthusiasm for Tim Burton. When he began directing feature films in the mid-1980s, I was more than a little impressed. Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure and Beetlejuice were highly stylized, cartoonish exercises in silliness that still manage to entertain today. And while I’m in the minority, I believe Burton and Michael Keaton’s Batman movies are far better than what Christopher Nolan and Christian Bale have produced. And Edward Scissorhands–his first of what now number seven collaborations with Johnny Depp–is the closest Burton has come to creating a true masterpiece of cinema.

But Edward Scissorhands is now 20 years old, and since then, everything Tim Burton has directed has been disappointing in one way or another. With the exception of Martin Landau’s remarkable performance as Bela Lugosi, Ed Wood was a misguided lampooning of a misunderstood director. Mars Attacks! was an unfocused mess. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Planet of the Apes were unnecessary. Sleepy Hollow and Big Fish were forgettable. And after Burton and company’s last production, an anemic presentation of the brilliant musical, Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (especially marred by the miscast Helena Bonham Carter, who cannot sing worth a damn), I was prepared to write him off as another director past his prime.

Knowing that Tim Burton has directed a new version of Alice in Wonderland, one doesn’t need a poster or trailer to know what to expect. Weird, gothic-looking sets. Swooping camera movements. Gallows humor. Serifs on the lettering and curlicues on almost everything. Johnny Depp looking crazed and chewing the scenery. Burton’s current squeeze featured in the cast (this is Carter’s sixth movie with him). And a score by Danny Elfman, who also deserves criticism considering that he hasn’t produced a memorable composition since 1995’s To Die For.

So I’m surprised and pleased to report that Alice in Wonderland isn’t disappointing, but actually rather good. While it’s not on the level of Edward Scissorhands, it is Burton’s best since then. One major benefit is the Disneyfication of the project, which not only helps to ensure necessary visual oomph in front of the camera, but also helped in the organization and structure of the story. Lewis Carroll’s wildly fanciful prose always seemed disjointed and incoherent (as are the ramblings of most drug addicts). Screenwriter Linda Woolverton (The Lion King) made some skillful restructuring to give Alice’s episodic adventure a clearer through-line, engage the wild array of creatures and characters in more than brief appearances, and establish a framing story that, though a bit too simple and simple-minded, invests the audience to a greater degree in the character of Alice, rallying a touch of 19th century female empowerment.

In this telling of the tale, Alice (newcomer Mia Wasikowska, whose assured performance is one of the film’s finest elements) is 19 years old and awkwardly thrust into a public marriage proposal she’s not ready to accept. Though Alice’s cluelessness at the reason for this elegant garden party seems hard to swallow, the assembled cast of British snobs are believably realized, led by Alice’s ice queen of a mother (Lindsay Duncan, similarly cold as Servilia on HBO’s Rome). Alice’s desperation to flee the scene–along with her pursuit of a curious White Rabbit (voiced by Michael Sheen)–leads her down the rabbit hole to the fantastically bleak Underland.

There, she encounters the heavy-smoking blue caterpillar, Absalom (mellifluously voiced by Alan Rickman); the floating and mostly invisible Cheshire Cat (Stephen Fry); the peculiar twins Tweedledee and Tweedledum (Matt Lucas); and, of course, the Mad Hatter (Depp). With help from a bloodhound named Bayard (Timothy Spall) and the frumious Bandersnatch itself, this lunatic assortment of characters help hide and protect Alice from the Red Queen (Carter, with an optically enlarged head and shrunken body, in a hilarious performance that nearly redeems her for Sweeney Todd) and her Knave of Hearts (Crispin Glover, an inspired choice for the role), then help Alice defend the White Queen (Anne Hathaway) against the fearsome Jabberwocky (Christopher Lee).

The film begs comparison at times to other contemporary special-effects spectaculars. An animal chase scene through a forest had me thinking Avatar In Wonderland. Other scenes, especially those playing with disparities of relative scale and the climactic fight scene, are reminiscent of Peter Jackson’s work on The Lord Of The Rings. All set to yet another generic-sounding Danny Elfman score. So some parts don’t feel all that original; fortunately, it’s still fun to watch, and that compensates for a lot of perceived shortcomings.

Yes, the production is loaded with all those Tim Burton trademarks listed earlier. With that candied Disney glaze on top of it, however, the taste is not so bitter or run-of-the-mill. After all, Disney first made an animated version of Alice In Wonderland nearly 60 years ago, and that version is trippy and wild, too. It’s another remake from this director, but his aesthetic was a natural fit for the project. It renewed my faith that Tim Burton still has the talent to someday craft a career-topping work of cinematic art.

The film centers on Malik El Djebenna (Taher Rahim), a French-born Arab and non-practicing Muslim. When he enters a French prison to serve his six years for petty assault, he’s 19 years old and illiterate. It’s his first stint in the big house, where he has no friends or connections. Having grown up in juvenile homes, he has no one on the outside, either.

On his second day in the exercise yard, Malik is approached by a Corsican mob boss named Cesar Luciani (Niles Arestrup). Another Arab prisoner–this one a snitch awaiting his testimony against Cesar’s crime syndicate–is being temporarily housed in the main cell block. Non-affiliated loner Malik, whom the target mistakes for gay like himself, is the Corsican’s only chance to get rid of his enemy. So he makes the newcomer an offer he can’t refuse.

It is in these earliest moments that A Prophet starts to set itself apart from Brian De Palma’s mob classic. Malik is no Tony Montana. He doesn’t revel in any new-found sense of belonging or power. As he practices hiding and producing a razor blade from the roof of his mouth, blood drips from his cheeks and tongue, and anguish reads on his face. There is no romance in murder for Malik. This is underscored by Audiard’s tight-cropped and shaky camera work during the murder. The scene is as clumsy and claustrophobic as our hero feels committing it.

The completion of the crime further cements Malik’s loner status. The Corsicans, who for a time rule the yard and even control the prison guards, view him as their lowly Arab lapdog and slave. The other Muslims see him as a dirty Corsican. His only friend is the ghost of the man that he killed.

It is fitting since Malik is also a ghost of sorts. No one truly sees the skinny kid with the pencil-thin mustache. But the observant boy turns this to his advantage, learning to read and write, teaching himself Corsican (his third language, along with French and Arabic), and acting as the unassuming go-between of the prison’s various ethnic and criminal factions. Along the way, he builds a crime syndicate of his own running drugs with an Arab named Ryad (Adel Bencherif) and a gypsy named Jordi (Reda Kateb), the closest he gets to having living friends. And, as the Corsicans lose control of the prison, they come to need Malik more than their pride will have them admit.

The screenplay, as written by Audiard and Thomas Bidegain, sets a markedly different tone than Oliver Stone’s. Unlike Tony Montana, Malik doesn’t lose himself in his criminal persona. It is through the process of doing what he must to survive–and being rewarded by televisions, porn, and Coca Cola–that he discovers who he is. Likewise, for every beautifully shot, operatic scene of violence offered up by Scarface, A Prophet gives us one that’s almost too realistic, resulting in cringes and shocked moans from the audience (and for this reviewer, a few moments of looking up at the ceiling).

Of course, A Prophet is still French, which means that there are a requisite number of surrealistic scenes that take us out of the gritty realism of Malik’s world. One, in which he dreams of frolicking deer who later show up in real-life, lends Malik the prescient quality that gives the film its name.

Rahim, who bears a striking resemblance to Erica Bana in Munich, does a fantastic job of grounding the title role. He’s small but not wimpy; his portrayal is clever but not virtuoso. It is the perfect balance to tell a story like this. As his opposite, Arestrup is remarkable at shrinking from the outside Big Man on Campus to an outnumbered relic without ever once losing his air of terrifying control.

One unfortunate thing (other than a permanent mark on the main character’s face) A Prophet does have in common with its American counterpart is its ponderous length. The subtitles make the film’s long-ish 149-minute runtime seem a full hour longer. But accompanying this young man over the six years that he learns to operate on his own terms, even criminal ones, is a sentence worth serving.

Which brings me to the other way in which Dead Snow stands apart from the crowd. These aren’t your normal flesh-eating zombies. No, these are Nazi zombies. And here you thought that the undead couldn’t get any worse.

A group of seven medical students decide to spend Easter vacation at an isolated cabin nestled among the mountains and a 45-minute hike from the nearest road. While they wait for the cabin’s owner, Sara (Ane Dahl Torp), to arrive, they engage in a variety of activities that remind one of what a Norwegian Noxema commercial must look like. Little do these young men and women realize that Sara bought the farm in the opening scene to the strains of “In the Hall of the Mountain King.”

With the body count already standing at one, let’s go ahead and meet our would-be victims (before it’s too late):

• Hanna (Charlotte Frogner) – The dreadlocked female lead and girlfriend of…
• Martin (Vegar Hoel) – An aspiring doctor who gets queasy around blood. Will he overcome this by film’s end? Oh, you betcha.
• Erlend (Jeppe Laursen) – A pudgy movie nerd. He takes an immediate liking to…
• Chris (Jenny Skavlan) – The brunette hottie with a little movie geek in her (that statement becomes literal later in the film).
• Vegard (Lasse Valdal) – The good-looking and capable boyfriend of the late Sara.
• Roy (Stig Frode Henriksen) – Described as “the horniest guy north of the Arctic Circle.”
• Liv (Evy Kasseth Rosten) – The hot blonde who’s lacking in the personality department.

But their fun is interrupted when a haggard stranger (Bjorn Sundquist) emerges from the darkness and asks for a cup of coffee. After complaining about the quality of the beverage and popping open a beer, he fills the kids in on the predictably dark local lore.

During World War II, the nearby town served as a harbor for German forces, and the area was under the iron-fisted control of Colonel Herzog (Orjan Gamst). Relations were never good, but, as the war drew to a close, they got even worse when Herzog and his men began looting households for gold and silver. This provoked the locals to no end, and they turned on the Germans, killing any who failed to escape into the mountains with the Colonel and his ill-gotten treasure.

Having provided the necessary exposition, the stranger wanders back into the cold. Not long after, Erlend finds a box hidden inside the cabin.

It’s a box filled with gold jewelry.

Guess what happens next?

Dead Snow moves at a deliberate pace in the beginning, with little to show in the way of horror other than the opening chase sequence. But it’s the kind of slow pace appropriate for films of this genre, allowing the inevitable bloodshed to creep up on you and then erupt into an avalanche of carnage.

And there’s plenty of carnage to be found. With busted brainpans, outhouse attacks, and brutal hand-to-hand zombie fighting, Dead Snow won’t disappoint those looking for plenty of the ‘ol red stuff. An impromptu field surgery with a fishing hook and duct tape is sure to make even the most hardy gorehound wince.

Some horror directors–especially new ones–like to pay tribute to iconic films of the genre. This often comes off as a little too fanboyish, but director Tommy Wirkola manages to tip his hat without seeming like an autograph hound. Horror fans should enjoy spotting all the subtle nods directed at films such as Evil Dead II, Shaun of the Dead, and Ravenous. There’s also a knowing moment early on where movie geek Erlend asks his fellow travelers to name horror movies where young people head to an isolated location without cell phone reception.

Which brings me to a complaint: Dead Snow takes several opportunities to stress the isolation and lack of communication with the outside world. But, in the middle of a full-on Nazi zombie siege, one character produces his phone and manages to make a call. Were it not for an unreliable battery, the day would’ve been saved by the authorities. That’s just sloppy continuity.

The score, ranging from blaring Norwegian rock to swelling orchestral arrangements, mixes well with Wirkola’s unique visual flair. The snow and mountainous terrain are plumbed for maximum effect–especially the ominous stillness that’s established early on–and a scene featuring zombie intestines and someone dangling over a cliff is truly original. The same can be said for the ultimate showdown between the exhausted survivors and Colonel Herzog’s endless wave of undead.

Of the potential zombie victims, Lasse Valdal stands out at the earnest Vegard. Looking like a cross between Tobey Maguire, James Caviezel and Ashton Kutcher, he’s the obvious hero of the bunch. Which is interesting, considering that Wirkola has him separated from the group for much of the film. There’s so much running about, in fact, that we’re cutting between four distinct struggles for survival at one point. This adds nothing to the film, and it serves to hamper the pacing at key moments.

But the biggest problem with Dead Snow is an overall lack of humor. Evil Dead II and Shaun of the Dead were superb examples of films able to blend genres, and they produced laughs that were frequent-yet-unobtrusive to the action at hand. This feels more like Severance, a movie whose attempts at humor were half-hearted at best. At worst–as is the case with Dead Snow–it was enough to blunt the more terrifying aspects of the film.

Despite its uneven tone, Dead Snow remains a film that will leave horror fans satisfied. Director Tommy Wirkola shows promise, the cast is likable in a doomed sort of way, and it’s hard to beat Nazis as a depiction of the ultimate creeping evil. With any luck, Colonel Herzog and his men will rise again for a sequel.

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In the all-American town of Ogden Marsh, Iowa, everyone knows everyone else. So when teenage receptionist Becca (Danielle Panabaker) asks for the afternoon off, her boss, town physician Judy (Radha Mitchell), already knows it’s to watch her boyfriend play in a high school baseball game. Likewise, Judy’s husband and the town’s sheriff, David (Timothy Olyphant), knows who has outstanding parking tickets–the high school principal–and a problem with the bottle–family man Rory Hamill.

There are no secrets in Ogden Marsh. So imagine everyone’s surprise when Rory marches onto the baseball field with a loaded shotgun in hand and a dead look in his eyes, forcing David to shoot to kill. Then, a local farmer goes from acting spacey to methodically murdering his wife and son. Ogden Marsh’s prosaic small-town existence is overturned in just a few days.

Soon after, David discovers that there’s something in the water that’s turning his town of consummate normals into murderous crazies. And things only get worse when the government becomes aware of what’s going down and sends in the heavily armed troops in hazmat suits on a damage-control, er, disease-containment mission.

The story, such as it is, has been adapted by screenwriters Scott Kosar and Ray Wright and director Breck Eisner with Romero’s seal of approval (he executive produces). As is the case with many horror classics, there isn’t much depth, nuance or intricacy to The Crazies. The dialogue is sparse and the longest plot exposition comes from a marooned government bureaucrat in the 10 seconds before his head is blown off.

But that’s a good thing. Who goes to a zombie picture to wax poetic about motives and motivations? Just blow the suckers away and run! That’s exactly what Becca, Judy, David and his short-tempered deputy, Russell Clank (Joe Anderson), do.

This, of course, means that the actors don’t have much to do. Anderson alone stands out as the slightly disturbing hick with the intense blue eyes and a penchant for the double-tap. Clearly, he’s watched a zombie movie or two. Olyphant spends much of his time looking like the poor man’s Josh Duhamel, while Panabaker barely ranks on the Jennifer Carpenter (The Exorcism of Emily Rose, Quarantine) scream-queen scale.

Still, they all do a serviceable job of getting abused–by both their newly crazy neighbors and the uniformed men they thought would protect them. It’s thanks to these military foes that Eisner gets to flex his visual muscles. His unexpected explosions and fiery aftermath are operatic enough to rival those of established masters of blowing stuff up (take note, Roland Emmerich, before making 2013). The fireworks are offset by the eerie quiet of the town’s deserted streets and expansive wheat fields.

But the sound department is the real star of The Crazies. The most cringe-worthy moments in the film come from the sounds of pitchforks scraping across linoleum, spent shotgun shells crunching underfoot, and bone saws dancing across tile floors. If there is such a thing as a Foley Dude’s Guild Award, this team deserves a little gold statue right away.

Of all the Romero remakes and ripoffs since 1968’s Night of the Living Dead, I’m not sure that The Crazies is the best. But like baseball and apple pie, it’s pretty good.

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This movie serves up so much from the old buddy-cop movie formula, it’s as if the script was constructed out of MadLibs. Old, wizened cop Jimmy (Willis) is partnered with brash, inexperienced younger cop Paul (Morgan), polar opposites (one white, one black, of course) who form an uneasy crimefighting alliance. A police operation they’re working on–using a snitch to nail a drug dealer–goes awry, leaving the pair harangued by their by-the-book captain (Sean Cullen) and suspended from the force. To regain their dignity, Jimmy and Paul must go rogue to nab the villain with delusions of grandeur and badassitude, Mexican drug dealer Po’ Boy (Guillermo Diaz), who got them into trouble in the first place.

Furthering the formula, our bickering heroes each have domestic issues roiling their personal lives: one is dealing with possible infidelity, the other with financial needs. They’re also repeatedly hassled by a couple of legitimate cops still on the force (Kevin Pollak and Adam Brody). Throw in a car chase in a cemetery, a sexy damsel in distress (Ana de la Reguera) who holds the McGuffin the bad guy seeks, lots of gunfire, and a couple of crazy comic relief characters–particularly Seann William Scott, who steals all his scenes as a drug-addled, parkour-lovin’ thief–and you have a movie about as satisfying as a box of Hamburger Helper.

Director Kevin Smith, known more for his cult following thanks to movies like Clerks and Dogma, goes for the studio-release mainstream with Cop Out, and the results are predictably uninspiring. The only moment close to being interesting from a directorial standpoint comes near the end, when Tracy Morgan’s face is humorously framed by a bullet hole. Other than that, Smith seems to merely be a traffic-cop director here, staging conventional action sequences and letting the stars dictate their own rhythms.

Cop Out, however, does have a couple of high cards up its sleeve. For starters, it doesn’t waste time with a lot of exposition. Within only a few minutes, it’s established that Jimmy and Paul have been partners for nine years, we immediately see what sort of characters these two guys are, we have our first comedic set piece–a riotous barrage of dialogue lifted from other movies as Morgan interrogates a suspect–and from that we’re launched right into the story. The screenwriters seem to have at least some awareness that audiences for this kind of movie don’t care about the background details, so let’s just cut to the chase and get to the good stuff.

As for the aforementioned comic relief, besides Seann William Scott’s grinning nutbag of a role, there’s a scene with a foul-mouthed 11-year-old car thief, along with Susie Essman (Curb Your Enthusiasm) earning laughs as a gun-waving mother. Strangely, Kevin Pollak, who’s a hysterical stand-up comedian and impressionist, as well as a fine actor, is wasted in his role as a boot-obsessed cop. And top-billed Bruce Willis, whose comedic background traces all the way back to Moonlighting, seems a touch reserved given the film’s humorous tone. Maybe he realized he was in Danny Glover’s straight-man role from the Lethal Weapon franchise. or perhaps he just backed off in deference to the overenergy of his co-star.

Make no mistake, Cop Out is Tracy Morgan’s movie, and in terms of sheer laughter generation, he produces the bulk of it. I’m a little surprised to write this, as I’ve never been a particular fan. I found his efforts on Saturday Night Live uneven at best (same for the show in general), and I just don’t care for 30 Rock at all. The idea of watching him on the big screen for two hours filled me with sense of trepidation, but I was impressed at his line delivery and timing, all the way down to his little momentary eccentricities like wiping his nose. To his opening salvo of memorable movie lines, I would add a gem he utters later in the film: “I like to watch chimpanzees gettin’ head.” And I defy you not to at least chuckle when he utters a menacing line in a tattoo parlor.

Morgan’s performance guarantees at least one sequel to this movie. It’ll be formulaic, too. But when it’s enveloped in laughs like Cop Out, it’s more entertaining than some of the far-too-serious alternatives.

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The White Ribbon takes place almost entirely within a small German village called Eichwald. Most of the villagers farm the fields or tend to the needs of the local landowning Baron (Ulrich Tukur), his Baroness wife (Ursina Lardi), and their children. The village pastor (Burghart Klaussner) strictly governs his own houseful of children, sending the entire family to bed without supper when his two oldest kids, Klara (Maria-Victoria Dragus) and Martin (Leonard Proxauf), arrive home late without sufficient explanation. He ritually beats these two children, then makes them each wear a white ribbon until they regain their “innocence” and “trust” from their father/pastor’s perspective.

The village doctor (Rainer Bock), a widower, is raising two children–a 14-year-old daughter and a shy young son–with the assistance of the town midwife (Susanne Lothar), who in turn is looking after her mentally challenged son, Karli (Eddy Grahl). We learn the names of many of the children populating the village, but most of the adult characters are nameless, identified only by their job or position. The children are often witnesses to the strange events depicted in the story; the unspoken but larger question is, are the children participants, or even instigators, in what occurs?

Narrated in the voice of an old man who was once the village’s milquetoast 31-year-old schoolmaster (Christian Friedel), the story born from his admittedly unreliable memory begins with a shocking, mysterious incident that hospitalizes the doctor. A cursory investigation of the crime is diverted almost immediately by another, deadlier incident. As the months pass, more disturbances occur: A farmer commits suicide. A field of the Baron’s cabbage is destroyed. A barn mysteriously catches fire. Two children suffer yet survive vicious physical tortures. The village children, especially Klara and Martin, seem to be nearby when many of these incidents occur. And though these mysteries initially had me thinking this film was a whodunit, writer-director Michael Haneke is not focused on the mystery, but on a larger sociopolitical scale. It becomes apparent that the repressed, cold, and curious nature of the village children reflects the oppressive, secretive, gossipy, and perverse lives of their progenitors in this village. Whatever these children may or may not be up to, the adults are their enablers and protectors.

Darkness pervades this town, both literally (due to the shadowy, natural period lighting and the bleak black-and-white cinematography) and figuratively–the latter best exemplified when the doctor, a heretofore sympathetic character due to his violent accident, quietly unleashes a scathing verbal attack on the midwife that contains some of the most brutally vicious language I’ve ever heard directed at another human being. Along with this sense of darkness is a profound silence. There is no musical score, only a couple of brief moments of incidental music. Haneke emphasizes the unnerving quietude by bookending his film with credits displayed in complete silence, reinforcing the notion that this village is in tacit agreement–or apathy–over the events transpiring around them.

It occurred to me midway through The White Ribbon that it was like a partially finished jigsaw puzzle, where the outer framework has been completed to set the boundaries, and a few contiguous areas within appear to fit together. However, many gaps remain to be filled in by our imagination. A prime example comes with the revelation that the story takes place in 1913-14, in the months just prior to the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand and the resultant beginning of World War I. Though the film never directly references later history, knowledgeable viewers can picture these menacing children twenty years hence, in their twenties and thirties, wearing uniforms, committing atrocities, and forcing people to wear identifying cloth patches not unlike the white ribbons their parents “corrected” them with.

This subtle, deceptive film pays such hypnotic attention to its vintage look and feel that it’s difficult to perceive it as a contemporary film, unless you compare it with other influential cinema classics that preceded it. The cloistered, repressive community is reminiscent of those depicted in the searing Lars von Trier dramas Breaking The Waves and Dogville. More than once, it reminded me of another unusual film of youth in simmering revolt, Lindsay Anderson’s If… (both movies contain a ritualized beating scene). As I was exiting the theater, I was also surprised to overhear a stranger mention another movie memory that the film triggered in both of us: the 1960 British sci-fi classic Village Of The Damned, in which a small town falls under the control of soulless children who look angelic but are unafraid to kill. Considering that film was made during the Cold War, with memories of World War II still fresh in the minds of the British, it could be analyzed as allegory just as The White Ribbon surely can.

Is Haneke’s aim to show how the Nazis grew up? Or is it about the nature of evils both great and small? Could it be, as some have suggested, about the rise of terrorism? Religious extremism of any stripe, regardless of the religion, fosters increasingly shocking acts designed to terrorize others. The White Ribbon will surely generate much discussion and analysis as it reaches a greater audience. It’s an unconventional and discomforting film that confuses-yet-haunts and lingers in the brain. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.

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The film is about just-released ex-con Billy Brown (played by Gallo himself, who wrote, directed, and even scored the film). After serving five years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit, he goes back home with his wife to visit his parents. Except for one thing…he’s not actually married. Billy lied to his folks to hide the fact that he was incarcerated, so he has to find a new bride straight away upon his release. Rather than mail ordering one from Singapore, he does the next best thing and kidnaps Layla (played wonderfully here by Christina Ricci), a hapless but obedient tap dancer. He convinces her to go along with the role-play, otherwise he’ll be forced to bite off her cheek and never talk to her again. Billy doesn’t have a gun and actually gives Layla several opportunities to escape early on. She never does. We follow them through the awkward–but hilarious–visit to the Brown home and then learn of Billy’s plan to assassinate a former Buffalo Bills kicker who inadvertently ruined his life.

Buffalo ‘66 is definitely out there. This is not the kind of film Zac Efron could star in alongside Miley Cyrus with a Paramore soundtrack. This is hard-boiled, in-your-face, idie filmmaking at its absolute best delivered from a true cinematic maverick. At its core, it’s an introverted, personal story about isolation. Gallo is a bold visionary who took aesthetic chances with the film. Fade to whites, still photo montages, shot on reverse stock utilizing a grainy texture…it leaves the viewer bewildered with its stunning imagery. Director of photography Lance Acord’s (Being John Malkovich, Adaptation, and Lost In Translation) saturated colors makes you feel as if every frame is a photo found in an old shoebox, and it works so well because this is a film deeply rooted in nostalgia. The script is brimming with comedic moments, and the cast is top notch, including awesome turns by Ben Gazzara, Anjelica Huston, Kevin Corrigan, Jan-Michael Vincent, and Mickey Rourke at a time when it wasn’t chic to use Mickey Rourke. Here he plays a sinister-but-uber-cool bookie.

The biggest drawback to Buffalo ‘66 is that it’s not very accessible and may seem utterly incomprehensible. Much of an audience’s suspension of disbelief is built through an understanding of the monumental hurt and loneliness of the characters. This is a film for people who have either felt or can understand Billy and Layla’s isolation. Without being sympathetic to their plight, it’s hard to invest in them or, on a more logical note, understand why Layla doesn’t run away when she has the chance. The viewer isn’t driven by the plot, rather by sheer fascination for these damaged individuals.

The audience is given very few clues to understand when the story takes place. It could be the 1980s, or it could be set in the present. There are no cell phones, the cars span different eras, and even the fashions make it hard to pinpoint. While something like this could serve as a distraction in a lesser movie, here it works to instill a sense of chronological ambiguity, allowing it to age gracefully with future audiences much the same way Pulp Fiction does. The overall absence of technology gives the film a warm, organic feel.

Buffalo ’66 is a classic independent film and not something all viewers will find palatable. However, for those who like to take chances with their cinema, it’s a rewarding experience that won’t disappoint.

It opens with Edward “Teddy” Daniels, a U.S. Marshal (Leonardo DiCaprio) and his new partner, Chuck Aule (Mark Ruffalo) aboard a ferry in the foggy waters off the coast of Boston. They’re headed to the titular island, one that looks like Alacatraz, only more forbidding. The island’s rocky outcrops and sheer cliffs protect the rest of society from Ashecliffe Hospital’s inhabitants: 66 dangerous mental patients who have all killed before. Or is it 67?

We’ll save that question for later. For now, Teddy is there to investigate the seemingly impossible disappearance of patient #66, Rachel Solando (Emily Mortimer), housed in the institution for drowning her three children. From the moment he arrives, however, it’s clear that the folks in charge on the island are not giving Teddy their complete cooperation. The deputy warden confiscates his gun, while Dr. Cawley (Ben Kingsley), the psychiatrist in charge, obfuscates the truth. And then there’s the German doctor (Max von Sydow).

What Teddy does get to keep are his molasses-thick Boston patois, trench coat and fedora, and a 1950s-style short tie in just about the ugliest print I’ve ever seen. It was a gift from Teddy’s late wife, Dolores (Michelle Williams), whose violent death still haunts his dreams and whose murderer, Andrew Laeddis (Elias Koteas), may also be somewhere on the island.

Laeddis, the German doctor (of whom WWII vet Teddy is immediately suspicious), and the question of patient 67 are among the many bread crumbs–and more than a few red herrings–Teddy follows to the truth of Shutter Island. Are Dr. Cawley and the German performing sinister experiments on the mentally ill? Are they driving people crazy to turn them into Manchurian Candidate-esque ticking time bombs? Is Teddy here by accident or is he being lured and trapped for knowing too much? Will his already frayed mental edges come apart at the seams? The more he learns, the less he’s sure about.

And the less he is sure of, the more we’re reminded what a gifted actor DiCaprio really is. All right, so he cheats by borrowing the dropped “r”s and blinky facial ticks he honed on his last two collaborations with Scorsese (The Departed and The Aviator, respectively), but they still work. Meanwhile, Kingsley is spot-on as the psychiatrist whose warm, kind exterior conceals dubious motives and methods. Even the usually rumpled Ruffalo works as Teddy’s (mostly) loyal sidekick, and looks downright dapper in a suit and hat.

Adapted from Dennis Lehane’s novel of the same name, Shutter Island is a densely plotted film–albeit not nearly as suspenseful as it thinks it is–that could have easily turned into a big, sloppy mess. But in the hands of the Oscar-winning Scorsese, it becomes a picture more about the mood than about the niggling details, of which there are almost too many. Forget them all.

Instead, allow yourself to be rattled by the violent New England hurricane, with its blue-grey skies and inky storm clouds, that sets in as soon as the film begins. Savor the curly tendrils of cigarette smoke that fill every room in a nod to noir classics. Get a little dizzy from all the swish panning from one Edvard Munch-looking twisted face to another. And marvel at the hideousness of that tie. It’s as repulsive as Dolores’ vivid yellow house-frock is appealing.

After all, mood setting is this director’s special gift. Then again, this dame’s soft spot may be showing.