A solid children’s film isn’t really a children’s film at all. We all know that. But it takes a group of people working together toward that aim like Pixar to make this deceptively complex truth a reality. Time and time and time again, they succeed. And Toy Story 3 is yet another in a long line of “children’s films” that are anything but. They are films directed at the child in each of us, and films to which we can all relate, regardless of childhood or background. And, yet again, it’s hard to find one better than this one.

The saga of Woody, Buzz, Slinky, Mr. & Mrs. Potato Head, and the whole gang goes back more than a dozen years (it all began in ’95). Since then, they (and their imaginative and fearless leader, Andy, who is about to head to college) have given us a riot of laughs and tears and everything in between. Here, our hapless group of toys finds themselves stuck in a daycare center, among other foreign lands, constantly within inches of mutilation or simply being covered in fluorescent green paint.

They come to find that the children that play with them on an hourly basis are the least of their worries, as Lotso the Bear, Ken (of Barbie fame), and a host of other malevolent toys have it out for their imminent demise. Working together, they must find a way out of the daycare and back to Andy, back to the life they once knew, however fragile it might be.

The voice acting is as good as we remember. Tom Hanks and Tim Allen lead the troupe, of course, playing Woody and Buzz Lightyear respectively, and Ned Beatty joins them as the maleficent teddy bear. The animation design team is equally wonderful, bringing to life the loveable band of plastic misfits. And who better to direct it than Lee Unkrich, who directed the second film in this series (the other obvious choice is John Lasseter, who directed the original film)? The whole team works so well together, so seamlessly, that the end result is nothing other than what it must be: an incredible film on all levels.

Near the roll of the credits (and the floodgates), as this epic coming-of-age tale comes to a close, we reflect on our childhood, on the life we are living, the friends we have made (both physical and imaginary), and, if we have them, children of our own, who are learning to understand the world around them, weaving their very own sigils in the air, and giving to their stories a local habitation and a name, as the creators of this film have done beautifully over and over again.

Toy Story 3 is a must see. It is this year’s Up, captivating people of all ages, touching us, coaxing us into a vulnerability in ways that much passing as film these days doesn’t even dream of. We were all children once, and inside each of us a child continues to live, continues to play and to create immense worlds of adventure out of wooden blocks and tuberous dolls, out of cotton cowboys and space invaders, out of magic and the stuff of the imagination. If you see an animated film this year, please make it this one. You’ll thank yourself (and so will your kids).

Rating: 4/4 Stars

Sigmund Freud, that veritable master of the mind and erstwhile liaison betwixt the dream world and our own (is there really such a hard distinction between the two?), said, “Dreams are often most profound when they seem the most crazy.” In a world where dreams are entered into volitionally, like remarkable virtual reality chambers, anything is possible, including theft, and its opposite, what the film calls Inception, a beginning and an end in which both are simultaneously evident and obscured.

Cobb (Leo) is a master of this soi-disant “inception”, a criminal of sorts, on the run from authorities and, in more ways than one, from himself, from his past, from the memories that haunt his waking and dreaming life, an admixture he can’t seem to separate clearly, as if his internal centrifuge has gone horribly wrong.

Along with his cast of oneiric bandits, played by a cast of top-notch actors, some familiar faces (Caine, Murphy, and Watanabe) and others new to the Nolan regime (Gordon-Levitt, Page, and Cotillard), Cobb seeks to infiltrate people’s minds through their dreams, colluding in and amongst their projected lives.

As we have to come expect, Leo is fantastic. His ability to draw on the melodramatic styles of his directors, to inhabit the characters he plays, and to simply speak the truth of the scene, is captivating, if not intoxicating. Christopher Nolan, the director, has surrounded Leo with a cast that both highlights the film and punctuates its very calculated movements with panache and a sense of jeu d’esprit, which is only one side to Nolan’s coin, with a backside as insidious as it is immaculately acerbic.

Dreams have a life of their own, the film seems to tell us, while reminding us that we are the authors of those selfsame dreamings: the creator and the created, enfolding on itself in an open and mysterious loop. That is the meaning of inception, after all – both a beginning and an end, at times one and the same, of a thought or feeling or desire whose provenance is lost in the labyrinthine hedges of our minds.

The film instills a sense of wonder at the world of dreams, of our dreams and the dreams of others, of another world in and of itself, a created cosmos, in which the rules may have changed, and in which the playful musings of the spirit are made manifest alongside the penumbral magic of the other side of our lunar souls. In a word: Art. All art is essentially volitional dreaming of sorts, entering into another place and time, created either by ourselves or by others, sometimes simultaneously.

Art, like dreaming, may seem, at times, to lack meaning, to be obfuscated by a misleading artist or, simply, by postmodernism, an absconding racket. Inception is neither. Inception is a work of art, discernible and impenetrable, a dream incarnate on the silver screen, and, though not quite perfect, still the best picture of the year thus far.

A quote comes to mind, something said by Luis Buñuel, another filmmaker, both enlightening and amusing, its truth apropos to Inception, and, indeed, to all art, and to all artists: “If someone were to tell me I had twenty years left, and ask me how I’d like to spend them, I’d reply ‘Give me two hours a day of activity, and I’ll take the other twenty-two in dreams.’” I think Nolan understands this as well as anyone. And I most certainly agree.

Rating: 4/4 Stars

A blend of politics, the Mafia, and concentrated, modern, aristocratic Italian culture, Il Divo is a biopic on Giulio Andreotti, seven time Prime Minister of Italy, whose life is shrouded in secrecy and ambiguity, with plenty of wit to boot. Paolo Sorrentino writes and directs this calculated and highly entertaining film, a product of keen foresight and a scrutinizing awareness of each and every detail.

The story, based on Andreotti’s life, is a fascinating account of one powerful man’s unwavering commitment to secrecy, an obsessive-compulsive lifestyle in which everything is the product of extraordinary premeditation and an uncannily phlegmatic demeanor. A series of imprecise events contribute to the dissolution of Andreotti’s core group of followers, until all is apparently lost. The Italian government accuses Andreotti of Mafia involement, something against which he must adamantly defend himself, and, in the end, his eternal self-reliance will either be his savior or his hamartia.

Toni Servillo plays Andreotti serenely, brilliantly portraying a man whose outward character seems like the unsettling fusion of Kim Jong-Il and Mr. Magoo. Servillo’s surreal stillness is captivating. He says nothing, yet we hang on his every movement, his breathing, his pupils, his meticulous hands. And he is surrounded by capable actors and actresses, a cast of political players whose goal is nothing more than the deification, or downfall, of Andreotti.

The cinematography alone is reason enough to see this film. Sorrentino crafts each scene, however long, with conscientiousness and committed intentionality, not to mention a mordant wit, as dry as it is wry. He presents characters (and subtitles) from unforeseen angles, hidden behind objects, or not at all, all working to further the intangible quality of this film and its characters, whose larger-than-life personalities seemingly jump off the screen.

Andreotti, Il Divo himself, was truly a character, and this film certainly seems to do him justice, portraying a volatile and furtive political landscape, where conspiracy lurks around most corners, leaving the others simply too dark to see much of anything at all. Sorrentino and Servillo work well together, adding this to their repertoire of collaborative efforts, including Gomorra and the upcoming This Must Be the Place. Like all great director-actor collaborations, this film leaves one wanting more. If nothing else, at least a second viewing.

Rating: 4/4 Stars

Few know how to do psychological thrill rides like Scorsese. Evoking (if not channelling) 1991′s Cape Fear, Shutter Island manages to pull off another thriller of extensive scope. Both films allow the score and the camera to set the tone almost entirely in many scenes, in others stripping the score away and returning to conventional camera work. The mixture of the two is put to work by the genius of Scorsese. Add to that masterful performances by living legends, and you have a classic thriller in the flesh.

In 1954, two U.S. Marshals, Teddy Daniels (Leo) and Chuck Aule (Mark Ruffalo) come to Shutter Island to investigate the escape of a female patient/prisoner at a mental institution. They both look for clues, while Teddy wrestles his personal demons, a distressed history with his wife and memories of serving in World War II. As Teddy’s Now and his Then collide and mingle, the two are harder to distinguish, until Teddy is wrapped up in the mystery of the disappearing murderess in a way he hadn’t imagined.

DiCaprio is Scorsese’s current muse, in the way De Niro was in the 70′s. (It seems only fitting that their names should have such a similar structure.) Scorsese’s vision and Leo’s performance are so in sync, so well harmonized, that it seems as if one’s prescience is the other’s inspiration. They seem to lean on one another synergistically, and the result is another brilliant production, a film which both tells us an engrossing story and coaxes us into its turbulent maelstrom. Cape Fear and Shutter Island, lessons in thrill-making and emotional devastation, inform both the artist and the psychologist. (Only a very thin line seems to separate the two at times.)

Mark Ruffalo plays an earnest Chuck, and Ben Kingsley plays one of the head doctors on the island, each turning in fitting performances, depicting two men in one, willfully split personalities – personal fictions, a steady theme throughout the film. And, though minor, Jackie Earle Haley is fantastic as patient George Noyce. The acting, like the writing, is intentional, inventive, an extension of Scorsese’s imagination, a fusion of past and present.

We create for ourselves a reality that we can deal with – some are able to deal with more than others, some less, some only a strictly confined fantasy resembling reality only in its form, its construction. We build walls and fortify our mental village against intruders, sometimes at any cost. Scorsese knows this well, and this film is the evidence. A gripping story, pitch perfect acting, and the hands of a master. Shutter Island is the best film of the year so far.

Rating: 4/4 Stars

A middle-aged, weathered performer who’s down on his luck, strapped for cash, and reaching for the bottle. Haven’t we seen this before? We have. This film wishes it was The Wrestler from 2008. It can’t be The Wrestler for one very simple reason: it tries way too hard to please everybody. Nothing is that hard to handle, it pulls punches throughout, and each ache is quickly bandaged with laughter or sentimentality. Cooper puts together a pretty decent film, with good writing and straightforward cinematography. Ultimately, though, it’s Jeff Bridges’s performance and several doses of feel-good country music that make this film a mass-market win.

Bad Blake (Bridges) is a country musician who has run his course, riding in on fumes from a career that ended a decade earlier. He drinks like a fish, and his shows suffer for it. While on his armpit of America tour, he meets Jean Craddock (Maggie Gyllenhaal), a single mother who quickly shows she’s more than just another tour junkie looking to get laid. They are smitten, and a romance separated by tour miles and a generation gap buds and attempts to bloom. Following a few missteps, Blake comes face to face with questions he must answer if he wants to live a meaningful life.

Bridges is very good, in touch with his character in a way we have come to expect from silver screen vets. His Blake is everything we expect him to be. He is certainly believable, and he reveals the pathos that has been welling in Blake’s soul for years, but, though it may be one of Bridges’s best and one of the year’s best, if we’re honest, it probably isn’t the best performance that we have seen this year.

Bridges is complemented well by Gyllenhaal, who seems to be channelling Renée Zellweger, circa 1996. However, the floodgates are opened in almost every scene, causing her to lose emotional honesty and the audience to care less about her than we might have had she shown some restraint, some personal character, an attempt to quell the tears which gnaw at her eyes, begging to be set free. Instead, we are coerced into caring, a current running rampant through much of this film.

The music is mostly kitschy, the writing fine but incredibly safe, and the whole story a bit too easy to come by. Cooper’s directorial debut shows much promise, but he needs to find a voice detached from the crowd, something we haven’t seen, or, perhaps more importantly at times, something we don’t want to see. The Wrestler was able to pull this off with dignity and candor. Then again, we are comparing Darren Aronofsky with a first-timer. At least a pinch of lenience is due.

All in all, much could probably be forgiven in this one if the credits had rolled about ten minutes earlier than they do, when we see Blake alone, guitar in hand, singing to himself the song that resulted from his life-changing experiences. Instead, the film rolls on, and everything is wrapped up nicely – with a sunset to boot. Cooper needs to remove the gimmicks and just tell the story. Because he doesn’t do that here, Crazy Heart is ultimately just one more above-average feel-good film that could have been so much more.

Rating: 3/4 Stars

Imagine the Godfather trilogy set almost entirely in a prison in France. You now have a pretty good idea of what to expect from Un prophète, both in substance and tonality. This visceral epic depicts the harsh realities of both prison life and the painful truth of being involved in the mafia, whether within or beyond the prison walls. With no holds barred, Un prophète takes the viewer on the journey of one man’s gripping confrontation with life behind bars and the burdens he must bear simply in order to stay alive.

Jacques Audiard (The Beat That My Heart Skipped) directs this ambitious film about an Arab named Malik El Djebena, who is thrown into prison for six years for something he claims he didn’t do. Six years in this prison is an eternity, one that many may not live to see. Djebena catches the eye of who might as well be the Don Vito Corleone of the prison, the inmate who essentially controls the entire institution, guards and all, whose past remains clouded and whose appearance resembles Brando himself in a way. Through one task after another, the prison eventually grants Djebena days of freedom, twelve hours outside the walls of the prison, during which he begins to make ties of his own, ties which will grant him possibilities he never dreamed of, lending credibility, in one scene, to what seem to be prophetic abilities.

Audiard crafts a brilliant, jarring film, and what might as well be a course in storytelling. Much conventional work is incorporated, but some aspects defy convention, including, at times, some engrossing cinematography. Audiard also collaborated on the script (replete with that beguiling quality so characteristic of the French tongue), and it shows, as the level of control seems evident throughout the film. Should a sequel be in order, one can only hope it resembles the intensity and mastery of this one.

Newcomer Tahar Rahim is Djebena in a riveting performance, and his counterpart, Niels Arestrup, plays the Don, César Luciani, with compelling honesty, in what may be his magnum opus. The casting is spot on all around, and the performances all up to the task. In fact, there are no weak links in the acting chain here, as all the roles are played extremely well.

Raw, unflinching, and powerful, this film is an absorbing encounter, a veritable Godfather for a new generation (a fact of which it is not unaware – at one point, Djebena is told he is the godfather of someone’s newborn son), and an instant classic. One of the best films of the year, it is a triumph, a must see for anyone capable of withstanding the film’s nearly three hours of unadulterated brutality.  A film worthy of recognition, Un prophète deserves to be seen again and again and again.

Rating: 4/4 Stars

We know the writings, but few of us know the man behind them, the pen that wrote some of the most beloved and respected books in the Canon of Humanity, among them, War and Peace and Anna Karenina. Unfortunately, the man was caught between two worlds late in life, his family and his Movement, the Tolstoyans. Michael Hoffman (Emperor’s Club, A Midsummer Night’s Dream) puts together a film worthy of Tolstoy’s epic status in human history, almost entirely due to the performances from his leading pair.

Rife with controversy, Leo Tolstoy (Christopher Plummer) lived out his last years in a tug-of-war between his wife (Helen Mirren) and his Movement. The former wanted his affection, while the latter, or their leader in any event (Paul Giamatti), wanted his estate. For his wife, the estate was a synecdoche of his love, the part that, in the end, would offer her many more years of living the life of luxury to which she had become so accustomed. When a young prodigy, Valentin Bulgakov (James McAvoy), comes to live with the Tolstoys, he, too, is thrown into the middle of the storm that would ultimately send Tolstoy to his grave.

The Movement desires the estate, or more specifically the placement of his writings into the public domain, “for humanity.” As his wife, Sofya, says, however, “I’ve never met humanity.” The struggle for his favor is aptly summed up thus, and the film tells the story very well. A subplot emerges, the romance between Valentin and Masha, played by Kerry Condon (HBO series Rome), and it provides the story with a bit more tension, creating another struggle within Valentin. We see the story mostly through his eyes, and it engenders a war of conscience in the viewer, as well, as we argue within ourselves over the rightful placement of the Tolstoy estate.

Plummer and Mirren are a perfect pair, with a dynamic chemistry indicative of seasoned veterans as themselves, certainly worthy of recognition. McAvoy and Condon furnish another spark in the film, working together deftly. Giamatti is appropriate for the role of Vladimir Chertkov, the veritable leader of the Tolstoyans; however, I have personally always found him to come off a bit strong, like a stage actor who never learned to tone it down a notch, and most of this film is no different. Hoffman’s direction is adequate, mostly conventional, which allows the stars to shine. And shine they do.

At heart, this film succeeds for one reason and one reason only: the acting. Plummer and Mirren are a tour de force, bringing all the wisdom and honesty that, at times, only a lifetime of experience can truly provide. This is a good one, but it isn’t great. It seems to soften some of the blows, goes the humorous route in nearly every scene (even some heated ones, where it seems dually unnecessary and even inappropriate), and provides just enough romantic subplot to keep interested those who might otherwise check out during the opening credits. The acting is of utmost importance here, and it’s evident throughout the film. However, in the end, it is the acting that makes this film worth seeing.

Rating: 3/4 Stars

Famous men and women live epic lives, it seems, in one way or another, if only for the impact they’ve had on humanity both during and, if not more importantly, after their own lifetimes. Many of these notables received little approbation during their lives (in some cases none or, worse, public censure). But they wrote, or painted, or served in some capacity toward themselves and their fellow human beings in such a way that their spirit and life’s work could go unnoticed for only so long. John Keats is one of these unhappy few, who, during life, received little acclaim, only to be currently recognized, as one placard during the film states, as ”one of the greatest Romantic poets.”

At a relatively young age, Keats (Ben Whishaw) devoted his life to poetry. He and a patron-friend, Charles Brown (Paul Schneider), secluded themselves as often as possible in order to open their minds to inspiration, to visit the muse as frequently as time and nature would allow. Keats, it seems, was visited more often than Brown, a fact of which Brown was certainly very much aware, something he told Keats on more than one occasion. Soon, Keats has fallen in love with Fanny Brawne (Abbie Cornish). After some time of romantic rapture, he develops an illness that will ultimately lead to his demise. This film tells that story, their story, a story of love, of poetry, and the unfortunate adage that all good things must end.

Jane Campion is no stranger to solid, well-crafted films.  The Piano received 8 Oscar nominations (including Director, Picture, Cinematography), not to mention a win for Best Screenplay. This film, too, is very well written, and delivers some notable moments of inspired cinematography, offering us a chance to view the story from an unexpected angle or height, through a different pair of eyes. Indeed, the entire film is gorgeous, airy and light, exhibiting stunning intentionality in its use of color, and the costumes are an enormous success.

Campion has put together a very noteworthy film, a period love story that doesn’t bore or shamelessly seduce. Ben Whishaw is a compelling Keats, subdued in manner yet powerful in his grasp of life and language. Opposite him is Abbie Cornish, playing Fanny, the smitten young girl with an eye for the life of a seamstress; however, she isn’t as good as Whishaw, and, at times, it shows. Interestingly, it is often difficult to differentiate her choices from the choices of the character, leaving one to question whether the poor course of action falls on Campion or Cornish, something to be possibly revealed simply by reading the script in a handful of particular spots.

Bright Star is a good film. Its only notable drawback is Cornish (or is it Campion?), but even this isn’t so bad as to spoil what the film has going for it. Keats is a captivating figure, and Whishaw does a splendid job of being simultaneously both vulnerable and concealed, and Campion’s camera work adds a certain level of intrigue or sheer curiosity in a number of scenes. All in all, it is an enjoyable yet heartbreaking story of love and loss, and of a life that was cut far too short, which has since moved anyone with the pleasant fortune of reading his work. If you have a predilection for period films or quasi-biopics, you will enjoy this one, too.

Rating: 3/4 Stars

You can probably think of several movies that would qualify as a recent quality action flick. Or a recent quality dramedy. But when was the last time you saw a recent quality farce? Yes, a farce. That rare comedy which lampoons with far-flung characterizations and far-fetched situations, many times very political in nature. In the Loop is that film for the time being: the most recent, quality, political farce film in some time. With acerbic politicians and preposterous liaisons, In the Loop manages to reveal the asinine nature of much that is deemed political.

When the British Secretary of State for International Development, Simon Foster, has a slip of the tongue in an interview (an all too often occurrence for him), he sets in motion a series of events on both sides of the pond leading up to a declaration of war in the Middle East. His gaffe quickly escalates into an international phenomenon, and his political life, as well as that of several well meaning interns, starts to spiral out of control. When Malcolm Tucker, a communications chief, gets involved, he tears everyone to pieces with his foul mouth and quick temper. America and the UK battle in England, DC, and the UN building in New York, always resulting in ire and hilarity.

Some of the characters will be familiar to those who have seen The Thick of It, but their relationships are fleshed out so well it doesn’t seem necessary to have seen it. The acting, like the comedic timing, is spot-on. A farce is difficult to pull off, but this one approaches perfection. Tom Hollander (Pirates of the Caribbean), Peter Capaldi, James Gandolfini, Gina McKee, and the rest of this pitch perfect ensemble, have unrivaled comedic chemistry. Relative newcomer Chris Addison and Anna Chlumsky play the interns, two otherwise intelligent people aspiring to political success in one form or another, a highly unintelligent aspiration in this farcical world.

The director of The Thick of It, Armando Iannucci, also directs this one, no doubt lending to the impeccable timing and farcical atmosphere. The film itself tells the ludicrous story leading up to the current war in the Middle East, a veritable farce even without all the Scottish cursing. The world watched as two political giants garnered nonexistent evidence in order, essentially, to declare war on a entire region of the world. The sad truth of the matter, of course, is that, as farcical and funny as it is in many ways, America and England hurled themselves, and the world, into a decade of unnecessary death.

Watching the politicians conjure smoking guns out of thin air and manufacture lie after lie in order to achieve whatever end they see fit, elicits both laughter and terror, as we realize that the buffoonery that took place at such a high level of political import is the progenitor of so much global ruination. Iannucci and his team of extraordinarily funny actors and writers produces, without a doubt, one of the best farces of recent years, if not the best. Ultimately, regardless of your political or national affiliation, this one is a definite must-see.

Rating: 4/4 Stars

Darkness pervades The White Ribbon. Shot wholly in black-and-white, it feels instantly like a classic from a much earlier era. Simultaneously, the camera both hides and reveals, building unabated tension throughout the film, giving it the distinctive quality of the horror of a Hitchcock and the innocence of a Chaplin. The juxtaposition of a secluded pre-WWI Germanic village and the horrors of the most macabre modern headlines creates a world where the unknown lurks around every corner, engendering fear and inhibiting any semblance of stability or a positive spirit.

In the years leading up to the first World War, a small village in northern Germany experiences a series of mysterious monstrosities, one following on the heels of the other in uncanny severity. The parents are exacting and uncompromising, and the children desire to rebel. A school teacher narrates years after the events, telling us what to expect, and when it happens, we can’t help but feel surprised and appalled. It is the children, though, whose unenviable lives are often at the center of this enigmatic story, who evoke a deluge of empathetic emotions time and time again.

Deep pathos resides in every soul. The people in the village struggle to exist fully when the world around them proscribes it with draconian strictures and moribund phenomena abound. (The following sentence may be a “spoiler.”) The film reads like a classic horror film, though none of the occurrences are ever shown on the screen and the individual(s) responsible never revealed. Several different plot lines are followed, each of them connected by a common thread in the village. Fear perpetuates fear, and the people never fully recover. The world of the village is eventually consumed by an ever present ominous quality, permeating the entire village, from the school to the church to the minds of each and every individual.

Michael Haneke (The Piano Teacher) directs The White Ribbon with an eye for the uncanny and an ear for overt naturalism. The film lacks a particular aspect most films wouldn’t dare to leave behind: music. Save for a few instances when the characters themselves play music, we hear little more than the sounds of frustrated speaking, hushed collusion, creaking floorboards, and ambivalent Nature herself. At the end of the nearly two and a half hour film, we haven’t so much noticed the lack of music, because the tone is set so brilliantly by the cinematography and the dialogue, not to mention the acting. The film itself exudes the mood of each scene so deftly as to seem a bit unnatural, almost eery.

With The White Ribbon, Haneke has produced one of the greatest films of the previous decade. The very air the characters breathe is perfected, appearing paradoxically both thick with tension and empty of substance. This instant classic may go down in the annals of film history as, perhaps, one of the greatest films of the century. Only time will tell.

Haneke wields matchless intentionality to build constant friction, create characters rife with inner discontinuity, and tell a story as haunting as it is heartbreaking.  But the heart not only breaks, it also races throughout much of the film, as the fragile uncertainty of the characters’ lives becomes only more and more palpable as the film rolls on. This is storytelling at its best. In fact, The White Ribbon is as close to a perfect film as I’ve seen this year. I suggest that you see it. Immediately.

Rating: 4/4 Stars