Reviews

Florida. Arizona. Nevada. These were the states in which homes were most overvalued during the early millennium during the deregulation the mortgage industry. Consequently, when the housing bubble collapsed in 2008, these were the states hardest hit. A story about one man's struggle with the housing market catastrophe is the subject of Ramin Bahrani's new film, 99 Homes. It is at once sad and somewhat terrifying to watch.

Andrew Garfield plays Dennis Nash, an Orlando homebuilder, HVAC repairman, and all-around Mr. Fix-It, who loses his job during the disintegration of the housing market. Unable to make payments on his modest home, he, his mother, and his son are evicted by two sheriffs and real estate mogul Rick Carver, played by Michael Shannon. They move into a motel full of other families in the same dire situation – some of whom have lived there as long as two years. Nash shows up at Carver's office one morning requesting his men return the building tools they stole from him during the eviction. Carver admires the young man's acumen. Then, in an ironic plot-twist only found in the movies, he hires Nash – the man he had just evicted the day before.

At first, Nash is hired for his handyman skills – disconnecting & removing air-conditioner condensing units from foreclosed homes, removing kitchen appliances, and so forth. Carver is a dislikeable taskmaster, but it's good pay for an honest day's work. Still, Nash doesn't reveal his new employer to his mother or son, lest they possess moral ambiguity about the situation. But, as luck would have it, soon the quick-learning and affable Nash is performing as many evictions as Carver himself. And his pay increases.

While the ruthless Carver shows no outward sympathy for the evictees, Nash has a heart, and his more compassionate style plays well with those forced from their homes. Some of these evictions are downright depressing, albeit very realistic. We cannot help but put ourselves in the shoes of the homeowners forced to leave their dwellings. It's not easy to watch, but evictions are the inevitable conclusion of overvalued real estate.

In another incongruous plot-twist, Nash returns most of his early paychecks to his boss, requesting that he be allowed to buy back his old bungalow. When he sells the small house and buys a mansion, his family balks. Nash has now reached the end of his rope. His mother and the boy move to her sister's home in Tampa, while Nash is left to contemplate the deterioration of his life. Is the money worth the ethical atrocity of his work? Can he continue to evict homeowners who miss so few as two mortgage payments through no fault of their own – even though the evictions are perfectly legal? These are the dilemmas of 99 Homes, and Andrew Garfield gives the best performance of his young career as the troubled Dennis Nash. Nash is a simple, decent man who works hard, and is completely devoted to his family. We all know Dennis Nash. We all like him. He is everyman. And Michael Shannon's Rick Carver is the jerk we don't want to know. His role is that of Michael Douglas in Wall Street. We can practically hear Carver giving the "Greed is good" speech from that film. In 99 Homes, the most remembered speech will be Carver's articulation that the United States helps those who are successful, as opposed to those who are not – exactly the opposite definition of a socialist democracy, but it certainly makes us wonder about our own country.

Garfield and Shannon are excellent, and I hope academy voters don't forget them come Oscar time. My only complaint is that the ending is ambiguous. I can't tell you more without spoiling it, but if you struggle with it, please comment and we can discuss it. Now that I've contemplated the ending, I have a good idea what Bahrani was trying to convey, but the closure comes as quickly as in a David Mamet film. Don't expect a denouement. There isn't one.

And throughout, I was reminded of Michael Moore's first film, Roger And Me, in which he shows a Flint, Michigan sheriff evicting a former General Motors employee and his family on Christmas Eve, as GM CEO Roger Smith babbles on about how Christmas is the happiest time of year. Unlike 99 Homes, that was a real eviction captured on film for posterity. Therefore, it hits even harder than the scripted evictions of 99 Homes.

Still, 99 Homes is worth seeing. It's one of the best films so far this fall.

Years before he hit big with "Brokeback Mountain," Taiwanese-American director Ang Lee released what I consider to be an even better film, 1997's "The Ice Storm." Kevin Kline and Joan Allen play Ben and Elena Hood, a seemingly happily-married suburban couple in 1973 Connecticut. Tobey Maguire and the still teenage Christina Ricci play their children, Paul and Wendy. But alas, all is not as vanilla as it seems, for Ben is having an affair with a neighbor, Janey Carver, played by Sigourney Weaver, in her best (and most vulnerable) performance ever. Ironically, daughter Wendy is sexually experimenting with Janey's son Sandy.

The Hoods and the Carvers both attend the same "key party," a form of swinging in which the women draw the men's car keys from a bowl, then sleep with the owner of the keys. Here, Janey's husband, Jim (Jamey Sheridan) realizes his wife is having an affair with their neighbor. He and Elena spend the night together too, then return to find their teenage children in bed with one another. So two families, one affair, and three liaisons. Yes, Kevin Kline stars, but this is not some fraternity-level comedy. This is a serious, heartbreaking dramatic representation of the ashes burned from the sexual revolution of the 1970s – all played against the backdrop of a New England ice storm brewing outside.

Those of us too young to participate have a tendency to think of the sexual revolution as some kind of wild, ongoing swingers' party, in which partners were traded and swapped like baseball cards, and those unfortunate enough to be married would certainly play along without feeling any repercussions to the traditional family structure. This is obviously an inaccurate description, and Ang Lee brilliantly illuminates the anguish experienced by many families. I suppose the most distressful relationship of all is that of the sexually-catechizing teenagers. Studies have shown children mimic their parents, and if their parents are sleeping together, well then… The performances are all first-rate, especially Sigourney Weaver, who was nominated for a Supporting Actress Golden Globe award. And it's revealing to watch Christina Ricci at 17 years old, in her first "adult" role. Her Wendy character carries herself with the poise of her mother, yet with the guilelessness of a child. James Schamus' screenplay (a winner at the Cannes Film Festival that year) features some of the most candid and open dialogue I've ever witnessed. Lee smartly refrains from overdirecting – letting his star cast elucidate the material effectively. Kline and Weaver let us into the hearts and souls of their philandering characters, allowing us not so much to judge them, but to feel their pain, as it were. We not only bear witness to their struggles, but we develop a connection to their very souls.

Unfortunately, "The Ice Storm" was simply lost in the shuffle of all the great motion pictures of 1997 – the box office champ and critical success "Titanic," Curtis Hanson's "L.A. Confidential," Paul Thomas Anderson's first classic "Boogie Nights," Matt Damon's and Ben Affleck's breakout film "Good Will Hunting," and Dustin Hoffman in "Wag The Dog." Plus Robert Duvall and Peter Fonda turned in the best performances of their long, successful careers with "The Apostle" and "Ulee's Gold," respectively. There simply wasn't room for "The Ice Storm" in the conversation, although it certainly deserves its place on the mantle of the many virtuoso films of 1997. This was one of the finest films of one of the best years ever for motion pictures.

Every now and then, a movie comes along that is "perfect." Christian Petzold's "Phoenix" is such a film. I wouldn't change a single scene; not one shot. It's an ideal motion picture, exactly the way Petzold made it.

A phoenix is a person or thing which has been renewed or restored following some sort of calamity or tragedy. This definition has several meanings within the context of the film.

Nina Hoss plays Jewish lounge singer Nelly Lenz, whose face is badly disfigured in an accident during the liberation of the concentration camps at the end of World War II. Her friend and fellow survivor, Lene (Nina Kunzendorf) takes her to a plastic surgeon who reconstructs Nelly's face as close to its original countenance as possible.

Nelly and Lene move into an apartment together, as neither has any remaining family members. Initially for reasons of safety, Lene concerns herself with a potential move to Palestine, where she can help with the creation of a Jewish state. But Nelly spends her nights meandering the streets of Berlin, searching for her husband (and former pianist), Johnny. With tips from various lowlifes and street performers, Nelly finally finds Johnny running a nightclub. With her reconstructed face, he doesn't recognize Nelly, but she looks similar enough that he employs her in a plot to retrieve Nelly's inheritance.

Johnny believes Nelly was killed in the concentration camps, but he is unable to produce any evidence. So he exploits Esther (the name Nelly uses) to portray his wife for a group of their friends, with the goal of reclaiming Nelly's sizeable estate. He offers "Esther" half.

So how's that for a set-up? The great German actress Nina Hoss spends the bulk of this picture playing a woman pretending to learn to be herself, if you will, for a husband whose motives are anything but pure. Sort of makes "Victor/Victoria" seem routine by comparison. As Johnny, Ronald Zehrfeld is flawless. He's just hot-tempered enough to potentially be a danger to Nelly/Esther, but it's obvious he still harbors deep feelings for his wife. And he does have some ambiguity that his plan will succeed.

Contrast this to how Hollywood would have handled this material. Johnny would have been portrayed as a jerk, Nelly would have been as pristine as Mary Poppins, and the final scene – the "big reveal" – would have been staged to satisfy even the most disconcerted of viewers. Here, the final scene is downplayed in a manner that would have made Alfred Hitchcock proud. Hence, it is the most satisfying final scene I've seen on screen since Bruce Dern drove his new pick-up truck through the streets of his old hometown in "Nebraska." And there's no denouement. No extra scenes at the end to tie up loose ends. As intelligent viewers, we're invited to do so on our own.

As for the title, "Phoenix" is the name of the club where Nelly finds Johnny. It also epitomizes Nelly's reawakening from a woman whose very identity is stripped from her, to a strong woman capable of fighting her own battles. And on yet another level, the entire Jewish race experienced a phoenix during the time between the liberation of the concentration camps and the establishment of the sovereign state of Israel in 1948.

The fact that such a seemingly "small" film should connect on so many tiers is a testament to the brilliant yet subtle direction of Christian Petzold. This may very well be the best German film I've seen since Volker Schlondorff's "The Tin Drum," clear back in 1979.

Quentin Tarantino's 1994 release "Pulp Fiction" is perhaps the single most important film of the past quarter-century. Its heated, in-your-face dialogue, hardened criminals, coarse language, and particularly its non-linear story line, peppered with occasional scenes of hilarious comic relief, ushered in a new era in filmmaking. Often copied but never equaled, "Pulp Fiction" made a star out of its young writer/director, Quentin Tarantino.

But many of us may not realize "Pulp Fiction" was actually Tarantino's second film. His first was 1992's "Reservoir Dogs," a caustic, claustrophobic paean to the great caper noir films of yesteryear, updated for a more percipient audience. The highly original story involves a diamond robbery which we never see. Think "Deliverance" without the rape scene. We're treated to an opening scene in which a mob boss and his son have coffee at a diner across the street from the soon-to-be crime scene, along with a bevy of hardened career criminals hired for the heist. The men, previously unknown to one another, don't use their real names. Instead, they refer to each other as Mr. Blue, Mr. Orange, Mr. White, Mr. Brown, and so forth. They are played by some of the best tough-guy actors of the day – Harvey Keitel, Steve Buscemi, Michael Madsen, Tim Roth, Chris Penn.

The next scene takes place immediately after the robbery. Something has apparently gone wrong. One or more of the criminals has been shot. The rest of the action takes place at a nearby abandoned warehouse, in which the remaining criminals attempt to find out which of them, if any, is an informant. Here, we delight as the double-crosses accumulate like horseflies in a swamp at dusk.

Interspersed with the warehouse scenes, Tarantino gives us flashbacks highlighting the backstories of each of the primary criminals. This serves to break up the present-day action and give us some breathing room, as it were, while pulling back the covers of cynicism we instantly develop about each of these characters at the beginning. In other words, the more we learn about each of the major players, the more we understand the ongoing warehouse scene.

Having seen "Pulp Fiction" before "Reservoir Dogs" (as did most filmgoers), a lot of Tarantino's trademark effects first cultivate in the earlier picture. While not as brilliantly effective as in "Pulp Fiction," the non-linear screenplay is first on display in "Reservoir Dogs," with the individual backstories shedding light on the robbery aftermath. As in "Pulp Fiction," once the movie ends, we then want to see it again from the beginning, due to our now-complete hindsight.

"Reservoir Dogs" first introduces the Tarantino trait of uncomfortable scenes which are intentionally too long. The best of these features the great character actor Michael Madsen, as Mr. Blonde (Yeah, I know; he's not really blonde), torturing a police hostage for information. After slicing off his ear, Madsen douses the cop in gasoline, then continues to talk to him while holding a lit match – all the while Stealer's Wheel's 1973 hit "Stuck In The Middle With You" plays on the radio in the background. But before the cop can be set afire, Mr. Orange (who's passed out on the floor in the corner, due to a gunshot received during the robbery) rises to life and kills Mr. Blonde – because he's the informant.

This stuff is classic Tarantino – from the non-dead body, to the classic pop/rock oldies, to the double-crosses, to the mordant, uncomfortable nature of the scene itself. He's employed these techniques for the past twenty years. This scene is the first.

While the majority of the film takes place on a barren stage, if you will, I like the fact that we don't actually view the robbery take place. Why does Tarantino eliminate the apogee of the film? Because it isn't truly necessary! Much as the real heft of "Deliverance" takes place after the rape scene, Tarantino has given us the longest denouement in film history – everything after the opening credits! Again, think about "Pulp Fiction." Remember that we never see John Travolta accidentally shoot the man in the back seat of the car. We hear the gunshot, then Travolta and his cohorts spend the next fifteen minutes dealing with cleaning blood off the vehicle's interior. That's what we have here. "Reservoir Dogs" is about the "clean-up," if you will, of a flawed heist.

My favorite scene of all is the first. Remember in "Pulp Fiction" how audiences latched on to the humorous dialogue between Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson, as they discussed what the French call a Big Mac sandwich? Same here, but even funnier. As this tableful of career criminals plans a horrible crime, they discuss the fine details of the lyrics to Vicki Lawrence's hit song, "The Night The Lights Went Out In Georgia." Really. It's a seemingly effortless marriage of downright unpleasantness coupled with meaningless everyday conversation. We find it funny, but it's probably more realistic than screenplays in which every uttered line is pertinent to the plot. No one has perfected this technique as well as Quentin Tarantino.

In fact, no one has come close to mimicking Tarantino's love for the cinema, processed and regurgitated from a unique perspective, and thrown back at us in classic film after classic film. I always claimed no one could watch a Stanley Kubrick film in the background. In other words, if a Kubrick film were on television, you were instantly drawn to it. You couldn't knit, play cards, read the paper, or think about anything else. Same is true of Tarantino. He's still one of our greatest living directors, and it's a thrill to go back and watch his very first work. That's why "Reservoir Dogs" is this month's Buried Treasure.

Last time Tommy Lee Jones directed a film was his 2007 flick, "The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada," (which actually premiered at the Cannes Film Festival two years prior). He won Best Actor at Cannes that year, essentially playing his usual crusty, irritable self, with the added augmentation that his character was perhaps just a little crazy and unpredictable. Now he's done it again. In "The Homesman," he directs himself as a crusty, irritable old claim jumper and all-around good-for-nothing, who borders on crazy and unpredictable, especially when he drinks.

But unlike in "Melquiades Estrada," Jones' George Briggs is not the most interesting character in "The Homesman." That honor belongs to the great Hilary Swank – at 40 years of age, already the recipient of two Best Actress Oscars. Here, Swank plays a hard-working, unmarried farmer in the rough pre-Civil War Nebraska Territory. The fact that her Mary Bee Cuddy is still single seems to bother no one but herself. But none of the single townsmen are interested, professing Cuddy to be both "plain" and "bossy."

When the local pastor requests a volunteer to transport three unstable women to a church in Iowa that cares for the mentally ill, Cuddy raises her proverbial hand. Ironically, all the townsmen seem to agree she'd be the best choice. But Cuddy, wisely, doesn't want to endure the journey alone. Enter Tommy Lee Jones' George Briggs. Why this loser? The script says it's because she saves him from hanging by making him promise to help her. I believe she chooses Briggs because (a) he's unattached – no family, no farm, and (b) he knows how to handle the inevitable obstacles of the journey – Indians, outlaws, severe winter weather. The two make an odd pair. He, the cantankerous old gunslinger, and she, the strong, upright, deeply religious, independent spinster.

As you might expect, the two don't get along. Fortunately as "The Homesman" progresses, they don't magically become best buddies. In a more realistic fashion, they simply learn to tolerate one another. Each of the lead characters changes a little, but not unbelievably so. Briggs begins to respect Cuddy, as well as gaining at least a modicum of concern for the three "crazy" women in their care. Cuddy learns how to at least communicate with Briggs in a such a way that he'll do what she wants. It's a bit unrealistic that such a liberated woman would entertain the idea of settling down with a chiseled old curmudgeon, but she does. And she's a little upset he's not interested.

And this is essentially my only complaint with the screenplay, which Jones adapted from Glendon Swarthout's 1988 novel. I do want to mention Rodrigo Prieto's first class cinematography. He gives us wide panoramic views of the desolate plains countryside, while also focusing on Jones' lined and roughhewn face. Each wrinkle seems to represent a hidden and unspoken backstory of army desertion, cattle rusting, and God only knows what. His life, essentially unexamined by the script, must feature a variety of episodic twists and turns similar to the present quest. Nor are we treated to any real backstory of Swank's character. And this is probably a smart move. The camera and the somewhat sparse dialogue tell us all we need to know about these two.

Along the way there are adventures, to be sure. And at the end, Jones' character connects with a young girl who reminds him of Swank's. But this tender moment is then superseded by another episode of crazy, drunken behavior. The bottom line is that while Briggs may not have truly changed during the course of this film, he's at least able to see the good in some people.

Is that enough to earn "The Homesman" Oscar recognition? Probably not. Swank won't win a third Oscar, and Jones' direction probably won't either. But my fear is that this picture will be buried amongst the heavy-hitters of the season. It probably would have found an audience had it been released in the summer – the token adult film surrounded by the usual bevy of superheroes. It's good enough I'd like to see it again. It's not the best, but it's certainly worth a look.

Director Wayne Kramer's took on quite a venture when he made his 2003 effort, "The Cooler." Why? Because it was released just eight years after Martin Scorsese's "Casino" – the greatest film ever made about mob corruption in the Las Vegas casino industry. In fact, some critics dismissed "The Cooler" as too predictable and felt it overly mined some of the same territory as "Casino." I disagree. In a comparatively weak year for Hollywood, "The Cooler" was my favorite picture of 2003. Rather than "Casino," I prefer to equate "The Cooler" with David Lynch's 1986 masterpiece, "Blue Velvet," in that a dark underworld brews beneath the surface of an otherwise innocuous setting.

A cooler is apparently a term casinos used to describe someone so inherently unlucky that his mere presence at a table game would cause other gamblers to lose money. A Casino boss would send his cooler to a table where a guest was on a winning streak. The cooler would theoretically end the hot streak, thereby preventing the casino from losing a large chunk of money to one gambler. Did casinos really utilize coolers? I don't know. It seems a little far-fetched, but Kramer shows us how it works in the opening scenes. William H. Macy is at his meek, downtrodden, everyman best as Bernie Lootz, a former gambling addict now working as a cooler for casino boss Shelly Kaplow, brilliantly played by Alec Baldwin. If you recall his five minutes of hot-tempered verbal abuse from David Mamet's 1993 film, "Glengarry Glen Ross," Baldwin has basically taken that character, toned it down a shade, and set him in a Vegas gambling house. Baldwin's Kaplow operates the casino with an iron fist, and nobody tells him what to do – save for his mob connection, Nicky Fingers. (And if that isn't the greatest mafia name in cinema history, I don't know what is.) Enter Larry Sokolov, played by Ron Livingston – a recent Ivy League grad sent by the new owners to bring the casino into the 21st century. Sokolov's ideas run counter to everything Shelly Kaplow stands for – in essence, the recent effort to make Las Vegas more of a family-friendly vacation destination, complete with the beautification and ornamentation despised by the "old guard." Conflict also arises when Bernie Lootz' son and his wife show up at the casino, only to mock its stodgy vapidity. Shelly's world is crumbling around him, and he's bound and determined to make everyone else pay the price. The result is a taut, vivid yarn depicting the sometimes shockingly violent unraveling of the mid-century Las Vegas casino industry as seen through the eyes of the Alec Baldwin character. Baldwin received his only Oscar nomination for this role, and it is indeed the best work of his long, successful career. Coincidentally, Tim Robbins won Best Supporting Actor that year for his role in Clint Eastwood's "Mystic River." Robbins is always solid, and that picture was a surefire winner, but as the years have passed, I remember Baldwin's performance as though I've just seen it for the first time; I can't say the same for Robbins.

William H. Macy gives one of the three best performances of his long career as well – the other two being 1996's "Fargo" and 1999's "Magnolia." And Maria Bello scores too as Bernie's love interest. The cast is strong, the screenplay (by Wayne Kramer and Frank Hannah) is a real gem, as it laments the passing of a bygone time and place, while simultaneously bidding it good riddance. Unfortunately, Kramer's work since then (including "Running Scared" and "Crossing Over") hasn't lived up to the vast potential of "The Cooler." "The Cooler" was lost in the shuffle of Christmas releases in 2003, and it never gained the audience it deserved. It's worth seeking out "The Cooler," for the performances, as much as the script and James Whitaker cinematography – which lay bare the violent, uneasy marriage of the mob and the Vegas casino industry of the past. It's a winner, and it's this month's Buried Treasure.

You've probably seen the previews for Still Alice, the story of a middle-aged woman's battle with early-onset Alzheimer's Disease. You might be wondering if Still Alice rises above the level of the typical "disease of the week" television movie. I can tell you this: It does, but it's not Best Picture material. (Since it wasn't nominated for Best Picture, I guess it doesn't matter, but let's just say it's not one of those pictures the Academy overlooked.) The real treat here is Julianne Moore's performance. This should be the role to (finally) win her the Best Actress trophy.

I've always liked Julianne Moore. She possesses some of the same attributes as Meryl Streep. She's not the classic Hollywood beauty. She's achieved her success the old-fashioned way – by simply being one of the best actresses in the history of motion pictures. Here, Moore creates a sympathetic character at the outset, then lets us burrow deeper into the despondency of one of the most taxing of man's physical maladies. There is no cure for Alzheimer's. Friends and family are obligated to helplessly tend the afflicted. But Still Alice doesn't wallow in self-pity. Yes, we feel sorry for Moore's character, but never does she beg victimhood.

Moore plays Dr. Alice Howland, a Columbia University professor of linguistics, married to John, himself a college professor. Her disease begins innocently enough when she can't remember a word – right in the middle of a lecture class. Soon, she gets lost while jogging through very familiar territory near her home and work. She is diagnosed with early-onset and familial Alzheimer's – meaning it's passed down from generation to generation. This puts additional pressure on Alice's three benevolent children – all young adults.

Alec Baldwin plays the loving and supportive husband, who has a very marginal desire to not be bothered by Alice's condition and needs. For the most part, his character is sympathetic. The Howland's three children are also supportive, but the real stand-out is Kristen Stewart of Twilight fame, as middle child Lydia. In her first "adult" role, Stewart nails her part as the most independent-minded of the Howland kids. She's skipped college in favor of a fledgling stage career with an upstart theatre company in Los Angeles – much to the dismay of her mother. As is often the case in these situations, those closest to the Alzheimer's victim (the husband, the college-grad daughter who still lives close) find it most difficult to deal with the declining mental state of the afflicted party. It's the daughter who rarely sees her mother who accepts Alice's condition, and communicates with her on her own ever-reduced level. If anything, Alice's bout with Alzheimer's allows her to draw closer to Lydia. The final mother-daughter scene is outstanding, without being needlessly weepy.

Stewart should have received a Best Supporting Actress nomination. Her performance tops three or four of those of the nominated actresses. But again, this is Stewart's first performance in an "adult" film. I expect to see more from her in the future.

As for Julianne Moore, she should have won at least one Supporting Actress statuette by now (actually three, by my count – 1993's Short Cuts, 1997's Boogie Nights, and 1999's Magnolia). This time, particularly since Amy Adams wasn't even nominated for Big Eyes, the award is hers. It's well-deserved. She is one of our greatest actresses, and this performance is the crowning achievement of her career.

Ava DuVernay's Selma is a monumental achievement in filmmaking with one very glaring historical inaccuracy. Much as Steven Spielberg did with Lincoln, DuVernay wisely shows us just one small but important snapshot in the life of the film's hero, Dr. Martin Luther King. The 1965 Alabama march (Selma to Montgomery) was perhaps the peak event of the Civil Rights Movement, directly resulting in passage of the Voting Rights Act of 1965. Organized by Dr. King, local police violence against non-violent African-American citizens was broadcast all over the world, and was, in large part, responsible for changing America's attitude toward the racist injustices of the day.

British actor David Oyelowo plays Dr. King not so much as an impersonation, but as a character who embodies King's spirit. Oyelowo's King intones the exact cadences of Dr. King's preaching. While we know we're not actually watching King himself, it certainly sounds like it. Ironically, DuVernay was not allowed to use any of King's actual verbiage, making Oyelowo's acting achievement all the more astounding. He's not King, and he's not even speaking King's own words, but again, it sure sounds like it. Why he wasn't nominated for a Best Actor Oscar is beyond me.

My primary issue with Selma is its portrayal of President Lyndon Johnson as a roadblock to passage of the Voting Rights Act – legislation for which King fought aggressively. DuVernay depicts King and Johnson practically coming to fisticuffs over this bill, with Johnson enraged by King's bullying. In reality, Johnson and King may not have always seen eye-to-eye, but Johnson considered the Voting Rights Act one of the two greatest legislative achievements of his presidency, and he deemed King an ally in the fight against racism in the South. Perhaps DuVernay felt the storyline required a certain amount of tension, but the tension here is misplaced. Tension between King and the local sheriff? Fine. Tension between King and the Southern local media? To be expected. But King vs. Johnson? Not only is it historically inaccurate, but it tarnishes Johnson's legacy to an entire generation who might be unfamiliar with him. Now, I'm no huge fan of Lyndon Johnson's. But criticism must be applied when and where it is applies. Tom Wilkinson does as good a job as anyone I've seen play Johnson on screen, but the role itself is deeply flawed because it is simply wrong.

And that's unfortunate. This egregious deception tarnishes an otherwise excellent film. Selma legitimately brings us to a specific time and place. When the peaceful marchers cross the bridge to the courthouse, they come face to face with an all-white and heavily-armed police force. I felt as though I were actually there – not simply watching some PBS documentary, but present and accounted for. It's a powerful scene, and to think that it occurred in my lifetime is heartbreaking.

On a more minor note, I was also disappointed that the titles at the end of the film (the "what happened to these characters later in life" titles) left out a great portion of former Alabama Governor George Wallace's story. DuVernay correctly tells us that in 1972, Wallace was shot and paralyzed while campaigning for United States President. What she leaves out is that Wallace renounced segregation about a year before his death in 1998. What an important piece of information! I would think the fact that the greatest political obstacle to racial harmony in the South publicly proclaimed a late-life conversion of thought is not only substantial, but also an uplifting footnote to the legacy of Dr. King. Almost 30 years after his assassination, King's greatest political enemy embraced his teaching! That's almost as incredible as the Roman Empire's embrace of Christianity. And it was omitted.

Again, Selma is mostly a great and powerful film. The disappointing legacy of the Civil Rights Movement is that African-Americans still believe, in large part, that law enforcement is working against them. Unfortunately, this belief is justified, as recent events have manifested. If we are lucky, Selma will act as a call to action for 21st-Century African-Americans to advocate for equal treatment by authorities. I hope Selma also acts as an example of how non-violent dissent is, in fact, the only dissent which has ever changed public policy and beliefs. A very important scene shows King and fellow Civil Rights leader Malcolm X disagreeing over the most effective method of achieving their goal. Non-violence must become the modus operandi for today's racial resistance, lest those opposed to change paint the entire movement incorrectly.

So do I recommend Selma? Yes, but with the caveat that this is a motion picture, and that, while it feels realistic, everything you see is not factual. I would not recommend using this film as a teaching tool for those too young to understand this reality.

Merchants Of Doubt is a truly fascinating new documentary. By now, we all know the big tobacco story. You know the one about the cigarette manufacturers who knew, even prior to the surgeon general's 1964 declaration, that cigarette smoking was physically harmful and addictive? Then when scientific studies proved that, in fact, smoking does cause cancer, heart disease, and so forth, big tobacco testified under oath that the science community was wrong. They even called "expert" witnesses who cast doubt on the results of these studies, and called for even more testing – just to be sure. Later, when the results were simply beyond doubt, big tobacco and its "experts" continued to request no restrictions be placed on smoking, claiming our freedom was being infringed by so-called "big government" (read "big brother"). They developed the phrase "smokers' rights," to convince the rest of us that poor addicted smokers had no choice but to continue smoking, and that the rest of us should simply leave them alone. Lapdog "big government" bellyachers like Rush Limbaugh bought into this argument.

Then came scientific studies bemoaning the dangers of second-hand smoke. And the experts came to the rescue again, first casting just enough doubt on the science to prolong the inevitable, and buy more time for the cigarette manufacturers. Eventually, fifty years after big tobacco first acknowledged (in private in-house memos) that cigarette smoking was harmful, the CEOs of the tobacco corporations were forced to go before Congress and admit they intentionally and systematically lied to America about the known dangers of their products.

Now, just who were these so-called "experts" used by big tobacco to prolong the eventual demise of a once-powerful industry? A new documentary by filmmaker Robert Kenner attempts to shed some light. Merchants Of Doubt is based on the 2010 book of the same name, by Harvard professor Naomi Oreskes and NASA historian Erik M. Conway. Oreskes and Conway draw a fascinating correlation between the half-century of denial thrust upon us by the tobacco industry and the now-thirty-year denial of climate change by the oil and coal industries, particularly Exxon/Mobil. Ironically, some of the very same "experts" used by the tobacco industry to discredit the results of the scientific smoking studies are now being used to discredit the results of scientific climate studies.

Oreskes researched every climate study published since the mid-1980s – almost a thousand different scientific works – and found the same thing Al Gore alluded to in his 2006 documentary, An Inconvenient Truth. 100% of climate scientists agree that global warming is not only real, but is man-made. Those who disagree may have science degrees, but they do not make their livings studying the earth's climate. Specifically, Merchants Of Doubt cites Fred Singer, a rocket scientist, and Fred Seitz, who helped develop the atomic bomb. Singer and Seitz, both of whom are interviewed in this film, were the very same physicists used by cigarette manufacturers to dilute the science condemning smoking. They have also cast doubt on the harm of acid rain, and the ozone hole. What do they have to gain by testifying against the rest of the scientific community? Money and fame.

Singer, Seitz, and a very small handful of other scientists and marketing gurus have made a living by forming conservative thinktanks, such as the Heritage Foundation, and using them as a front for fossil fuel companies like Exxon/Mobil. For example, if a Sunday morning news program featured a climatologist arguing the science behind global warming with the CEO of Exxon/Mobil, no viewer would believe the CEO to be an independent voice. He'd obviously have an agenda. But if a "senior fellow at a prominent Washington thinktank" were to argue against the climatologist, the debate would now appear to be non-biased. And that's exactly what the big oil companies have done to buy time – just as big tobacco did throughout the second half of the twentieth century.

Merchants Of Doubt takes the additional step of implicating the media for not investigating climate change more thoroughly, and for giving equal voice to these political thinktanks. As a former member of the media myself, I am continually disappointed in what has become of our once-great political watchdog. When Walter Cronkite visited Vietnam in 1968, then returned to the CBS Nightly News to declare there was "no light at the end of the tunnel," America listened. America took note. "If Cronkite says this war is a lost cause, then it must be," we thought. Who carries that kind of weight now? Heck, name one television news journalist who has the courage to personally investigate both sides of the global warming debate, then declare that climate change is real and must be addressed immediately, even if that means the eventual death of the American fossil fuel industries.

If there is a light at the end of the proverbial climate change tunnel, it is addressed at the end of Merchants Of Doubt. The Tea Party movement was an outgrowth of perceived excess government regulation. Many Americans, under the guise of capitalism and free markets – don't want their government to regulate anything – even industries destroying our earth. As in the tobacco narrative, this is the final stage of denial before big oil is forced to admit they knew all along their products were ruining our atmosphere. Unfortunately, as Dr. Oreskes states, "This time we don't have fifty years." As documentaries go, Merchants Of Doubt is somewhat dry. To me, it's not as interesting a topic as Robert Reich's "Inequality For All," and it's certainly not as entertaining as a Michael Moore picture. But I loved it anyway. It brought to light nothing I didn't know (or at least nothing I didn't suspect), yet it still held my interest throughout, and, dare I say, fascinated me. That's the mark of a great documentary. You owe it to yourself to see this one.

Continuing my look back on three Buried Treasures from the late 1990s, let's review 1998. That was the year of Steven Spielberg's WWII drama, "Saving Private Ryan. Why it lost the Best Picture Oscar to the lightweight British comedy "Shakespeare In Love" remains one of the greatest mysteries in Oscar history. While "Saving Private Ryan" was the motion picture that year, 1998 was also the year of Roberto Benigni's "Life Is Beautiful," John Travolta's star turn (a spot-on Bill Clinton impersonation) in Mike Nichol's "Primary Colors," and director Terrence Malick's triumphant return with "The Thin Blue Line." But there was also a little-seen gem called "Zero Effect." Directed by Jake Kasdan (son of director Lawrence), "Zero Effect" tells the story of Daryl Zero (Bill Pullman), supposedly the world's "most private detective." In fact, Zero is so private he won't even meet with his clients. Instead, he sends his assistant Steve Arlo (Ben Stiller) to meet with them, so that he can, in turn, investigate his clients without their knowing who he is. Seems so logical, I wonder why private eyes don't do this in real life. Zero also has a passion for jumping on his bed playing hard rock air guitar.

Now I know what you're thinking. Jumping on bed, assistant played by Ben Stiller, strange method of investigation. This has gotta be an offbeat comedy, right? Well, not really. I found the personality quirks (such as jumping on his bed) to be annoying, Stiller plays his role straight, and the very undercover method of investigation works like a charm (at least on screen, if not in real life). No, "Zero Effect" actually happens to be one of the most interesting mysteries I've ever seen on screen.

The plot concerns millionaire businessman Gregory Stark (Ryan O'Neal) who hires Zero to find out who is blackmailing him for his money. The blackmailer turns out to be Gloria Sullivan (Kim Dickens), a young EMT who, logically, should have no personal or social connection to Stark. But Zero refuses to turn her in until he understands why on earth she's blackmailing a local businessman. In the process of the investigation (and remember, nobody knows who Daryl Zero is), he begins to fall for her romantically. As the plot continues to unfold, we learn of a shocking backstory involving the millionaire and the EMT. Meanwhile, the romantic entanglement (secondary though it may be to the story) is genuine and heartfelt. Could Gloria be the one to finally "tame" the great Daryl Zero? Yes, "Zero Effect" is a bit offbeat, but again the screenplay is alluring, the script is tight (like something David Mamet might have written, albeit without his trademark stilted dialogue), and the acting is first rate – particularly Kim Dickens as Gloria, the EMT. This was her first major starring role, and she continues to be the best character actress nobody has ever heard of. Need proof? Watch her as the police detective in last year's "Gone Girl," or as Mrs. Boswell in 2009's "The Blind Side." Dickens continues to fly under the proverbial radar while nailing all her roles, no matter how small.

Was "Zero Effect" a masterpiece? No, but it certainly deserved better than it got. While critics generally loved it, "Zero Effect" garnered slim box office. Go back and look for this one. You'll be glad you did. "Zero Effect" is my Buried Treasure for this month.

One of the great songs on Simon & Garfunkel's landmark 1970 album "Bridge Over Troubled Water" is "El Condor Pasa." Based on a Peruvian folk melody, "The Condor Passes," it's the song which features the line, "A man gets tied up to the ground… He gives the world its saddest sound… its saddest sound." Had music videos existed in 1970, I've often wondered what a video for "El Condor Pasa" would look like. Would it depict a condor soaring majestically over a city whose inhabitants labor away without realizing the grandeur above them? Would it show a man breaking free of the proverbial chains of his life to begin a new journey? I think I've found the answer. Jean-Marc Vallee's "Wild" stars Reese Witherspoon as Cheryl Strayed, an author who, in 1995, walked all 1100 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail – a hiker's dream path, surmounting the highest peaks of the Sierra Nevada and Cascade mountain ranges through California, Oregon, and Washington. As the movie unfolds (to the periodic aural beauty of Simon & Garfunkel), we simultaneously learn Strayed's backstory, and the reason why she decided to embark on such an arduous undertaking. I can't give away much information here without ruining "Wild" for you, but suffice to say Strayed was at a turning point in her life.

As Strayed, Witherspoon (already a Best Actress winner for 2005's "Walk The Line") gives the best performance of her career. She's sturdy and headstrong, yet occasionally vulnerable, and always focused on her task. As she meets various residents and travelers along the way, the first part of her life is told in a series of flashbacks. Typically I don't like to see directors rely too heavily on flashbacks. I figure if the present-day story is interesting enough, the actors can simply communicate their histories to one another as part of the screenplay dialogue. But here, flashbacks are necessitated by the fact that Strayed spends most of her hiking hours alone with her own thoughts. This is perhaps the one time I've seen such heavy use of the flashback technique where the recollections seem to flow naturally from the script. Fortunately, the present-day story (read "The Hike") is infused with such an array of interesting characters that I never felt like the backstory was predominant. In the sense that the script must find that perfect balance between present-day and past, Nick Hornby's screenplay is outstanding. Adapted from Strayed own memoir, I'd like to see Hornby win Best Adapted Screenplay at the Oscars.

And Reese Witherspoon never ceases to amaze me. She's already one of our best actresses, and "Wild" is, so far, the apex of her career. She hits every note just right – from early frustration to later determination, Witherspoon's Cheryl Strayed is perhaps the most interesting character to appear in a film this year.

The great irony of "Wild" for me is that while the panoramic views of the beautiful countryside become more breathtaking as the picture progresses, the more claustrophobic I felt. In other words, the more I learned about Cheryl Strayed pre-hike life, the more I wanted her to fly away. If her hike was to be therapeutic, I wished she could soar like the proverbial condor of "El Condor Pasa." "Wild" depicts a temporary cessation in the troubled life of a woman who simply had to "get away." As the film drew to its conclusion, I wondered what the next chapter in her life would be. But "Wild" is so great, I never believed I had to know. Truth is, "Wild" is so complete there's nothing else I want, or need, to know about Cheryl Strayed's journey. I'm very glad I saw this film.

By now, you've surely heard about, or seen the trailer for, Damien Chazelle's latest picture, "Whiplash." That's the one in which veteran character actor J.K. Simmons plays a loud, obnoxious, condescending jazz band director at a prestigious music school. If you're like me, you're not thrilled about seeing this one. A little of that screaming goes a long way. Please allow me to tell you how misguided your decision to skip this one is.

At first, Simmons (the father in "Juno") struck me as a jazz band version of R. Lee Ermey's drill sergeant character in Stanley Kubrick's "Full Metal Jacket." In both cases, the attitude is merely theatre, designed to drastically alter the mindsets of young men. But the difference is that Ermey's character attempted to make soldiers of men who might otherwise panic when faced with a life-or-death situation. Ermey's ranting and raving was, in a way, vital to the survival of our nation – at least that's the way he saw it. But Simmons? His Terence Fletcher is bellowing at music students – not soldiers. Yes, I initially found his character to be way over the top.

But I soon realized there was a method to his madness. Fletcher's life was changed when he read about Charlie Parker's drummer, who threw a cymbal at young Parker when he didn't think the future saxophone aficionado was playing up to his potential. From that moment, Fletcher made it his lifelong goal to berate greatness, if you will, from his students. Fletcher is not a guy who ever says, "Good job." He can't be pleased; he can only be impressed.

One day, he personally picks a freshman percussionist named Andrew to be an alternate player in his top jazz band. Fletcher sees enough potential that he subjects Andrew to his discordant teaching style in hopes that he may become the next Buddy Rich. What ensues is a fascinating game of one-upmanship, as these two strong personalities do battle against each other – Fletcher, to bring the musical genius out of Andrew; and Andrew, to keep from being insulted and dishonored in the process.

Still not convinced you oughta pluck down cash for this one? Let me tell you the two leads are out of this world. I wouldn't be surprised to see J.K. Simmons win (not just nominated, but win) the Supporting Actor Oscar – even though I think both leads belong in the Lead Actor category, but that's another discussion for another day. And Miles Teller (so convincing in last year's "The Spectacular Now") is every bit as robust in his role as Andrew. In fact, Teller has the same problem Tom Cruise had in "Rain Man." How do you turn in a persuasive performance playing the straight man against a triumph of acting? But in both cases (Teller's and Cruise's), they are able to match the exultation of the actors in the more glamorous roles. Teller certainly deserves a Lead Actor nomination.

I'd also be remiss not to mention both the script and the cinematography. Damien Chazelle's screenplay is succinct, a la David Mamet's screenplays. There are no "extra" scenes, no filler material, and the abrupt ending is perfect. Chazelle wisely opts to leave out the denouement scenes, in a story of two individuals who respect one another but don't particularly like one another.

And Sharone Meir's cinematography deserves to be nominated as well. The musical sequences are peppered with rapid cuts and edits. Remember Martin Scorsese's "The Color Of Money," in which the camera seemed to concentrate on the rapid motion and beautiful color of the pool balls? Scorsese made the relatively mundane act of two men shooting pool into a spellbinding visual treat. Same thing here. We're not simply treated to watching a twelve-man jazz band belt out a tune. Instead, the camera pops from close-up shots of sweaty, hard-working Andrew with perfectionist Fletcher, interspersed with quick shots of the beautiful, shiny brass instruments. Viewers become mesmerized, as the music seems to crackle right off the screen. It's a real masterpiece of filmmaking, without being "gimmicky," as the long tracking shots were in Alejandro Inarritu's recent "Birdman."

In short, "Whiplash" is the best film I've seen since Richard Linklater's "Boyhood" was out this summer. During awards season, I hope "Whiplash" doesn't become a forgotten memory, buried amongst all the big-budget over-hyped cinema of the year. This one's a gem, and I can't wait to see it again.

I've read that some biblical scholars don't consider the New Testament to be a series of books about Jesus, but rather a series of books about Paul. Sure, the four gospels take us through the life of Jesus, but the remaining books either document Paul's ministry following Jesus' death, or they are Paul's epistles. These scholars have a point. While Jesus is the central figure, his acts and his teachings are seen through the recently-converted eyes of his greatest disciple.

The same could be said for James Marsh's new film biography of physicist Stephen Hawking. Yes, Hawking is the central figure, but the story is told through the eyes of his wife, Jane Hawking. At first, I was bothered by the fact that Hawking's wife was given so much prominence in a film that should have dealt more with Hawking's scientific theories. But about halfway through, it dawned on me that this is not so much Hawking's story as it is that of his wife.

Now, why would Marsh choose this approach? First, the film is based on Jane Hawking's memoir, so it's automatically as much her story as it is his. But I believe Hawking is a difficult character to ask the masses to relate to. His brilliance exceeds the mental capacities of most viewers so much that another character must be used as a conduit to bring Hawking within our mental grasp, if you will.

Try to imagine a motion picture about Albert Einstein. A filmmaker could spend two hours attempting to explain the theory of relativity to the masses – a difficult, and not particularly interesting approach – or he could spend two hours disseminating Einstein's genius through the lens of another – a spouse, childhood friend, or professional colleague. Remember Milos Forman's "Amadeus?" A film biography about Mozart would have been fine, but it was Oscar-worthy when told through the jealous eyes of his less-talented rival Salieri. And the New Testament would have been fine had it stopped after the fourth gospel. But it only becomes tangible when filtered through the first great promulgator of his teachings.

Young British actor Eddie Redmayne plays Hawking, and perfectly captures his genius, which becomes more focused as the years progress. At the same time, of course, Hawking's ability to communicate diminishes due to his motor neuron disease. Some critics have complained that Redmayne's performance isn't as strong as that of Daniel Day-Lewis's portrayal of artist Christy Brown, who suffered from cerebral palsy. I say Redmayne has, in a way, a more difficult task than Day-Lewis, because Hawking simply doesn't possess the fiery personality of Brown. Hawking is a fairly easygoing guy – especially considering his physical condition – and Redmayne does an excellent job of showing us his sly sense of humor, even without a voice. It's a great piece of acting, which is deserving of a Best Actor nomination.

Meanwhile, it would be a crime if the academy does not also nominate Felicity Jones as Best Actress, in what I consider to be the best performance anyone's given in any film so far this year. Jones perfectly captures Jane Hawking's tender and supporting love for her husband, coupled with the inner strength she summons to live her own life. She is, at once, the gatekeeper of her husband's growing legacy, the strength he requires to lead as "normal" a life as possible, and a woman determined to carve her own niche in this world. The understated nuances of Jones' acting are a joy to watch.

While "The Theory of Everything" suffers somewhat by never even making an attempt to explain Hawkings' teachings, that fault diminishes as the film progresses. Jane's independence and Stephen's stubbornness eventually lead to a split in their relationship and, eventually, their marriage. This turns out to be the most interesting section of the film, because their love and respect for each other never wavers, even as their lives begin to take on different trajectories.

"The Theory of Everything" is more a love story than it is a story about science. Don't expect to learn about what's inside Hawking's brain, but rather how it relates to those around him. Do expect to see a fascinating story about a modern-day genius and the independent woman who always has his back.

Benedict Cumberbatch is an excellent young British actor, who hits a home run in his latest film, The Imitation Game. Unfortunately, the film itself only makes it to second base. Morten Tyldum's The Imitation Game tells the fascinating story of British mathematician Alan Turing, who was hired by the British government to crack the Nazi code known as Enigma. Turing was later prosecuted for being a homosexual, and committed suicide in 1954. That's a lot of material to cover in one motion picture, and I wish Tyldum had stuck with the Enigma project.

Originally, Turing is hired as part of a team of crack mathematicians and code breakers, but it doesn't take long for the others to turn against him. Brilliant yet socially awkward (reminding me of young Stephen Hawking in The Theory Of Everything, which is a superior film), Turing has a habit of belittling those with whom he is assigned to work. He's simply not "one of the guys." Furthermore, he takes all conversation literally. Thus, not only can he not tell a joke, but he's not aware when others are joking with him. Colloquialisms are lost on Turing. This mental and social tug-of-war between Turing and his colleagues is one of the most interesting aspects of The Imitation Game.

When Winston Churchill himself puts Turing in charge of the project, he promptly fires those he considers inferior, then holds a contest to find someone to replace them. That person is Joan Clarke, remarkably played by fellow Oscar nominee Kiera Knightley. Although her hairstyle is too modern for a World War II story, her character breathes fresh air into a story just beginning to wear thin when she arrives on the scene. Clarke develops a crush on Turing, and this is where we first learn of the homosexuality that would eventually lead to his personal downfall.

Unfortunately, this takes place over halfway through the picture. Tyldum then spends so much time examining the homosexuality issue, the focus of the film abruptly changes. I believe The Imitation Game would have worked better had it either (a) made a statement about Britian's lack of respect for and understanding of homosexuals in the 1940s and '50s, or (b) given us an insider's look at how Alan Turing essentially invented the computer to break the Nazi radio code during the war. It has a hard time doing both. Personally, I found the codebreaking story more fascinating, and I wish more of an attempt had been made to help us understand some of the mathematics behind Turing's construction of the first computer. Then there's a side story about a possible Soviet spy working for Turing, but that plot strand is never developed.

Another complaint I have with the script is that it moves too frequently among three time periods – Turing's boarding school youth, the Enigma project itself, and the 1951 investigation into a break-in at Turing's home, which is used to bookend the story, albeit unnecessarily – which adds to the confusion. I would have like to have seen all the boarding school scenes (which actually introduce us to Turing's homosexuality) first, then the Enigma project scenes. This structure worked great in The Godfather Part II. It would have worked great here.

But all objections aside, Benedict Cumberbatch is exceptional as Alan Turing, fully capturing his genius and his social ineptitude. He's earned a well-deserved Best Actor Oscar, and probably should win it (but won't) over Michael Keaton's has-been actor in Birdman. Kiera Knightley also scores as Turing's sympathetic colleague.

As I continue to compare The Imitation Game to The Theory Of Everything, I can't help but wonder if a similar approach would have helped The Imitation Game. In other words, what if the story were told from Joan Clarke's point of view, the way The Theory Of Everything was told from the viewpoint of Stephen Hawking's wife? I can't say for sure whether that story construction would have succeeded here, but if I were the director I'd be willing to give it a try.

I love Stephen Sondheim's musical classic Into The Woods, so I was more than excited to see Rob Marshall's new motion picture adaptation. Not only is Into The Woods one of my favorite musicals, but Rob Marshall was the director who brought Kander & Ebb's Chicago to the big screen in 2002 – an effort which resulted in the first musical to win the Best Picture Oscar since 1968! In fact, since Baz Luhrmann's Moulin Rouge update in 2001, several major musicals have been successfully adapted to the big screen – including Chicago, Dreamgirls, and the unfairly criticized Les Miserables just two years ago.

I hate to say it, but Into The Woods does not fall into this category. I found the film dreary, draggy, and quite frankly, boring. How can this be? It's the same dialogue, the same music, the same set, and the same costumes as we see on stage. But therein lay the problem. On stage, set designers create "the woods," and the actors move in and out of these woods. We use our imagination to pretend the woods are larger than what we see on stage. Here, the woods are huge. After all, these are the movies. Unfortunately, the woods all look the same. Marshall may as well have filmed a stage performance. Furthermore, the sky is always cloudy, giving the picture a dirty, dingy feel.

Into these woods, several classic stories interconnect, including Cinderella, Little Red Riding Hood, Jack & The Beanstalk, and Rapunzel. Tying all the stories together is the story of a baker and his wife, who are unable to conceive a child due to a curse placed on them by the witch who lives next door. On stage, characters from the various fairy tales bump into one another in hilarious fashion, and eventually all the loose ends are wrapped up and most of the characters live happily ever after.

But the film has one major flaw, and that is that the loose ends are tied up too soon. The sun finally shines on Cinderella's wedding day, as all the townsfolk join the celebration. I looked at my watch and realized we were only an hour Into The Woods, causing me to wonder what director Rob Marshall was going to do with the rest of the movie. On stage, Cinderella's wedding is merely a formality – a necessary conclusion to the story we all know, but certainly not the end of the musical. Here, Marshall gives the wedding scene such heft – and differentiates it from the previous hour's worth of material – that we feel like it's time to get up and leave.

At this point, the film version goes awry. The players begin behaving out of character for reasons never explained. For instance, how could the handsome prince consider Cinderella the love of his life one day, and then cheat on her the next? Why does Jack's mother die? (Her death is one of the funniest scenes on stage. Here, it happens so quickly, I wasn't even sure if she had died or not. And Jack's demeanor doesn't change one iota.) Another problem is Stephen Sondheim himself. You see, Sondheim is a lyricist. When he wrote the lyrics for Leonard Bernstein's West Side Story, the result was one of the best stage and screen musicals of all time. But when Sondheim writes his own melodies, the result is often wordy, tuneless ditties you won't remember two minutes after leaving the theatre. Again, on stage this is no big deal. In fact, it almost accentuates the material to feature the characters speaking and singing in similar speech patterns. But on screen, I had that, "Not another song!" feeling all through the third act – the way I did with Barbra Streisand's Yentl back in 1983.

I certainly can't knock the performances, although Anna Kendrick's remarkable turn as Cinderella is the only one that stands out from the rest. Her character seems genuine, and she gives Cinderella a few new dimensions, rather than simply fulfilling the role we think we know from the fairy tale. Three-time Oscar winner Meryl Streep has been nominated for another Best Supporting Actress Oscar for her role as the witch. She's fine, but she won't win. I could name at least a dozen Streep performances better than this one.

It's a disappointment to me that Into The Woods didn't adapt better to the big screen. That makes three films this season that I really wanted to like, and was disappointed at the outcome – Birdman, Inherent Vice, and now Into The Woods. Throughout the course of motion picture history, it often seems as though the best musicals are those written directly for the screen, such as Singin' In The Rain or Mary Poppins. Adapting material from another source is always risky. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't. As I've thought more about Into The Woods, I wonder if this isn't one of those musicals that simply wasn't meant to adapt to the screen. Remember Richard Attenborough's inexcusable A Chorus Line? That's another great, intimate show that simply doesn't work on the large easel of the motion picture screen. I fear that's what we have here with Into The Woods.

A couple years ago, there was a major motion picture called "Cloud Atlas." Never heard of it? That's because it bombed. It was a three-hour marathon of six non-intertwining stories, one of which held my interest. The least interesting depicted a futuristic world of cannibalism and idol-worship on the big island of Hawaii. I wrote at the time that Tom Hanks and Halle Berry are so bad in this story they seem like amateurs. The dialogue is stilted and ridiculous. I couldn't believe Warner Brothers had actually green-lighted this project.

Now I've seen something similar. Christopher Nolan's "Interstellar" is a three-hour convoluted mess of science fiction, with a potentially interesting story buried somewhere deep inside the dialogue. To wit, in the future, the world is approaching the end of its habitability. I don't know why. It has something to do with crop blight, but if the explanation was in the script, I must have missed it. NASA has developed a secret plan to explore other potentially viable planets. Impossible, you say? Ah, but there is a "wormhole" near Saturn, which allows astronauts to explore five promising alternatives for the salvation of humanity. (A wormhole is a theoretical means of quickly traveling through space and time, based on Einstein's theory of relativity. Think of it like Han Solo traveling at warp speed, only it's supposed to sound more plausible.) I'm not sure anyone ever explained why all five planets were able to appear in the same place at the same time, when in reality, they must have been light-years apart from one another.

The always-reliable Matthew McConaughey plays NASA pilot Cooper, and Anne Hathaway is Amelia, a scientist also aboard the rocket ship. In the best decision writers Jonathan and Christopher Nolan made, no romance is ever suggested between the two leads. I only wish they had done a better job of explaining what "Interstellar" is all about.

After landing on one of the planets, Cooper and Amelia meet up with another scientist, Dr. Mann, played by Matt Damon, who was stranded on a previous mission. In the strangest plot twist, Dr. Mann tries to kill Cooper for some unexplained reason. Up until this point, I believed I could suspend my disbelief enough to recommend "Interstellar." But why wouldn't two NASA employs be able to work together? Is it because Nolan wanted Dr. Mann's shuttle to explode while attempting to dock with the rocket? Could be. Unlike last year's excellent "Gravity," "Interstellar" is a loud, busy picture, overstuffed with special effects, unnecessary music, and screaming characters.

Eventually, Cooper and Amelia venture into a black hole (yes, on purpose; don't ask why) where time appears spatially, allowing Cooper to visit his daughter in her childhood and warn her to lead humanity to explore other worlds. Ironically, we see this warning at the beginning of the film, before the voyage even begins. It doesn't make sense then, but for my money, it never makes sense at the end of the picture either. Somehow, Cooper doesn't age, yet his young daughter appears as an old woman at the end. Again, it has something to do with Einstein's Theory of Relativity – and therein lay the problem: Nobody understands the Theory of Relativity! All the longwinded scientific explanation of the cast (which eats up most of the dialogue) sounds like a bunch of existential mubmo-jumbo from the original "Star Trek" series. It's impossible to follow, due to its complexity, yet it's impossible to suspend disbelief, because the plot is so outlandish.

Coming on the heels of Alfonso Cuaron's far superior "Gravity" last year, "Interstellar" pales in comparison. Much as Stanley Kubrick did in "2001: A Space Odyssey," Cuaron managed to nail the silence of outer space. "Gravity" was a quiet, reserved film, which highlighted the loneliness of space travel. "Interstellar" is blaring and assiduous – like a semi-serious "Star Wars" crossed with the garbage science of "Star Trek." "Interstellar" is an old-fashioned Saturday matinée, revved up past power ten with top-notch actors, IMAX special effects, and a music score that just won't stop. "Interstellar" is so big and expensive, it was financed by both Paramount and Warner Brothers. It's movie-making on a grand scale. And at that level, it fails. It might have worked, had it simply been stripped down a notch or two.

And it's probably just me, but I have a problem with the name. Why would anyone choose an adjective as the name of a movie? Interstellar what? Where's the evasive noun? Probably sitting on the cutting-room floor with Einstein's Theory of Relativity.

Even the great Stanley Kubrick directed one dud – 1999's Eyes Wide Shut. Now it's Paul Thomas Anderson's turn. His latest, Inherent Vice is a mess. Anderson is currently, in my humble opinion, our greatest director. Not only have I liked every one of his films so far, four of them were my favorite pictures of their respective years – culminating in 2012's The Master, a tour-de-force for the late Phillip Seymour Hoffman. I was obviously intrigued and captivated about seeing Anderson's latest. And I couldn't be more disappointed.

Based on Thomas Pynchon's 2009 novel, Inherent Vice stars Joaquin Phoenix as a drugged-out hippy private investigator named Doc Sportello, asked by his on-again/off-again girlfriend to thwart a plot to send her wealthy real-estate mogul boyfriend to an insane asylum. In a seemingly unrelated case, a woman asks Doc to locate her missing sax-playing husband (Owen Wilson). The set-up sounds interesting. I was already thinking of a hippie-culture version of Chinatown. And who better to handle the methodic unraveling of a complex plot than Anderson. Boy was I wrong.

The knock against The Master was that it lacked a coherent structure – that it didn't have enough plot. Again, I personally was not bothered by this format, but it annoyed some critics and viewers. Anderson must have been listening, because Inherent Vice suffers from too much plot. I realize this film is based on a novel, but had Anderson simply stuck to one or two story threads, it would have been easier to follow. This is 1970 Los Angeles, and Pynchon & Anderson hit us with everything – and I mean everything – we can imagine. Not long after the opening sequence, we're introduced to a radical Black Panther, then a Chinese brothel masquerading as a massage parlor, a drug-smuggling ring, a protest at a Richard Nixon speech, a Ouija board, a coke-snorting dentist, a Nazi supremacist, and a no-nonsense LAPD cop, played to the hilt by Josh Brolin. There's so much going on in this picture, you'll need to take notes and design a flow-chart just to keep everything straight.

And the low-key acting doesn't help. Robert Altman was a master director of "real life" acting – where his actors didn't mug for the camera, had no big monologues, and didn't seem to realize they were even being filmed. I'm assuming that style was Anderson's goal here, but it doesn't work. Joaquin Phoenix, so forceful and dynamic as the neurotic World War II vet in The Master, mumbles his way through this material so dreadfully I wondered if he was even awake. I realize he's supposed to be a hippie, but even hippies rolled out of the proverbial bed once in a while. And I realize, Inherent Vice is a novel, but when a guy smokes as much weed as Doc, there's no way he could effectively function as a private investigator. Then again, after watching Inherent Vice I'm not sure he does effectively function as a private investigator. Doc reminds me somewhat of the title character in Barry Lyndon – he simply reacts to his surroundings, but rarely initiates any action on his own. Perhaps this material wasn't meant to be filmed.

Katherine Waterston (daughter of Sam) plays Shasta Fay, Doc's sometimes girlfriend. Yes, she's a hippie too; and yes, she mumbles too – although, unlike Doc, she smiles often, and her hair is kempt. Benicio Del Toro is serviceable as Doc's attorney friend, and Reese Witherspoon is fine as the Deputy District Attorney, but Owen Wilson doesn't seem to know which direction is north, and Martin Short is embarrassingly unfunny as the coke-snorting dentist.

The actor who makes the best showing here is Josh Brolin as Bigfoot Bjornsen, the hard-nosed LAPD cop. He's convincing, although we've seen him play this sort of character so many times now that his mere presence in this picture is somewhat underwhelming.

Again, I wonder exactly why a great director would imagine that this material is worth filming in the first place. Not only are most of the characters incapable of comprising a coherent thought, but the screenplay itself is devoid of any coherent thoughts. Paul Thomas Anderson is a great director, making Inherent Vice all the more troubling. Anderson isn't some novice. I hope he's merely bit off more than he can chew. No crime there – I'd rather see a director overreach than under – but that doesn't make me ever want to see it again, nor recommend you do likewise.

During the 1940s & '50s, going to the movies required a commitment of an entire evening. You'd be treated to a newsreel, a cartoon, a short, previews, and then a double-feature, which included a "B" movie (typically just over an hour long) followed by the main feature (one featuring A-list actors and the top screenwriters and directors of the day). How different from today's multiplex dogma of showing just one feature as many times as possible throughout the course of a day.

"B" movies were often horror films, Three Stooges shorts, westerns (in the early years), or serials (such as Andy Hardy or Charlie Chan), the main features would be the expensive musicals, dramas, and other big-budget productions. "B" movies were even made by separate studios. MGM and Paramount would never stoop to producing "B" movies. Whereas "B" movies were produced by the long-defunct Monogram Pictures, Republic Pictures, and others. While the "B" movies were usually shot on shoestring budgets, and often featured actors unknown to most Americans, some of them have become classics. One such "B" movie classic is Edgar Ulmer's 1945 flick, "Detour." Starring Tom Neal as a drifter hitchhiking his way across the country, "Detour" takes his character, Al (no last name required), through a series of missteps which serve to tighten the proverbial noose of classic film noir around his neck until the (basically) decent man is faced with spending perhaps the rest of his life behind bars. First, Al is picked up by a pill-popping bookie who accidentally dies when Al is driving. Fearing the police will assume Al killed the bookie, he steals the car and the man's identity. We can call this Mistake #1. Mistake #2 occurs when he picks up a female hitchhiker named Vera, a woman with no apparent moral standards, who blackmails Al by threatening to turn him in for murder. As Vera, Ann Savage gives one of the greatest femme fatale performances ever. She's hard-blooded, ruthless, and (dare I say) savage. Suffice to say, Vera is not the kind of girl you'd bring home to mama. And I loved the fact that, contrary to almost every other picture of the day, the woman was the smartest character in the film. Years after I first saw "Detour," Ann Savage's achievement is still fresh in my mind.

While the production and camera-work leave a lot to be desired, "Detour" is one of the greatest examples of film noir ever. It features all the staples of the genre – dark shadowy sets, murky black & white lighting, a no-nonsense voice-over narration, and generally good characters pulled by outside forces into a web of deceit. Film noir protagonists often operated just outside the law, on the fringes of society. These weren't men who typically had a lot of friends. And when the protagonist was a cop, he was typically a plainclothes investigator who was at odds with the boys at headquarters. Think Glenn Ford in "The Big Heat." These weren't the "white hat" heroes you'd find in the "A" movie, or main feature.

"Detour" masterfully draws upon these tenets of the film noir style to present, through a highly personal story featuring very few characters, a world devoid of hope and promise. Now before you ask, "Why on earth would I want to see this?," I must tell you that "Detour" is a lot of fun to watch. I suppose we know early on that things will not end well for Al, the lead character. But getting from the opening scene to the somewhat inevitable conclusion is a 68-minute thrill ride unlike almost any ever put on celluloid.

Edgar G. Ulmer was a relatively unknown director. "Detour" is his claim to fame. And it's so good it makes me wonder what Ulmer could have done with a big studio budget. We'll never know, of course, but the Library of Congress was smart enough to tag "Detour" for preservation in the National Film Registry – meaning we'll always have access to this Buried Treasure.

J.C. Chandor's A Most Violent Year takes place in 1981 New York City – the year New York suffered more murders than in any other. Without knowing a thing about A Most Violent Year, I looked forward to a police procedural or a mafia thriller, dealing with the homicidal apex to the desperation of the recession of 1980. But I was wrong. Very wrong.

Oscar Isaac plays Abel Morales, owner of a New York fuel oil company, in the midst of purchasing property along the East River which would position his company as a major player in the regional fuel oil market. Simultaneously, a rival firm is attacking Morales' truck drivers and stealing their fuel. Morales' wife, Anna, is descended from a mafia family, and she offers their assistance. But Abel Morales is a good and decent businessman, and he resists. At first. As the driver attacks amplify, Morales' salesmen and even his family are soon targeted by the rival businessmen. Meanwhile, an assistant district attorney, played by David Oyelowo of "Selma," is investigating corruption in the local fuel oil industry, including Morales' firm. And the deal to purchase the East River property becomes dubious when his bank backs out of financing it. All this is set against the backdrop of the 1981 New York murders. The murders themselves are not the story, but we hear about them anytime one of the characters turns on a radio.

Now this set-up may sound like a glorified TV movie, but A Most Violent Year is so much more. As the tension in Morales' life builds, director Chandor draws us into the story the way Martin Scorsese does. We find ourselves pulling for an honest businessman in an increasingly dishonest world. We wonder how long it will take until he involves his wife's mafia family – or worse, takes matters into his own hands. This could be a story about one man's downward spiral, but with a resolution that will surprise and delight you. And you'll love the thrill ride along the way – culminating in a chase scene through the bowels of New York's subway and rail systems. It's as riveting as Gene Hackman's chase scene in The French Connection.

The performances are top-notch, beginning with relative newcomer Oscar Isaac in the lead role. A year ago, he played a folk singer in the Coen Brothers' Inside Llewyn Davis, a small, above-average picture which got buried in the onslaught of excellent films released at the end of 2013. Isaac really shines here. He should have received a Best Actor nod, but I'm sure his day is coming. Coincidentally, Isaac is slated to appear in the new Star Wars picture, which hits theatres next fall.

Jessica Chastain is also excellent as Morales' wife – a decent-hearted lady who wishes her husband were a little more daring in his business dealings. Her character is more than the standard "wife" character we've seen many times before. She's intimately involved in the business, and she's not afraid to stand up to adversaries. An almost unidentifiable Albert Brooks plays Morales' lawyer Andrew, again intimately involved in the business, but more than just the "straight man" character we've seen before. And I love how Chandor's script allows us to become acquainted with various characters in Morales' life and in his business – a truck driver and his wife, a salesman, the teamster boss who pushes for Morales to arm his drivers, a couple of Morales' business competitors, and so forth. Each character is well-drawn, and serves an important role in this supremely interesting story.

I also like the look of this picture. It's a bit of a modern-day film noir, cast in dimly-lit interiors, with characters who speak in hushed tones about important matters, occasionally bursting into the sunny yet unpredictable and unnerving outside world.

The only thing I didn't like about A Most Violent Year is its title. Much as the 1987 film Dirty Dancing had nothing to do with pole dancers at strip clubs, A Most Violent Year has nothing to do with violence, per se. In fact, I don't really understand what necessitated placing the story in 1981. The fact that New York's murder rate peaked that year is immaterial to the story.

A Most Violent Year is going to be a sleeper amongst Oscar contenders like Birdman, Selma, The Theory Of Everything, and others. But it's well worth a look. They don't make movies like this much anymore, and I'm glad J.C. Chandor has. It's one of this year's best films.

I generally like stories which unfold deliberately – those which don't give away all the details up front. I respect directors who intentionally dole out information on a "need to know" basis. I'm often drawn to films whose stories might begin in the middle of a long overarching plot line. When I first saw German director Wim Wenders' 1984 English-language achievement, "Paris, Texas," I was hooked from the start.

In the only leading role of his career, longtime character actor Harry Dean Stanton meanders through a vast, lonely desert, apparently confused, and disconnected from the real world. He stumbles into a bar and promptly faints. Thus begins one of the most interesting sagas I've ever seen on screen. Stanton's character, Travis, turns out to be the father of a boy he abandoned four years earlier. With the help of his brother Walt (Dean Stockwell), Travis returns to Los Angeles to reunite with his son, Hunter (a very unaffected and pragmatic Hunter Carson). But Travis suffers from severe amnesia. He doesn't know how he ended up in the stark desert of West Texas, nor does he remember Hunter – at least at first.

As Travis' memory slowly returns, Stanton delivers the best acting of his career. With very little dialog, we witness Travis reconnecting with the life he left behind for one reason or another. Stanton's facial expressions allow the backstory to unfold at an intentional pace, brilliantly orchestrated by Wenders, revealing just enough information to give us time for every little nuance to sink in. After viewing old home movies at his brother's house, Travis takes Hunter to Houston to find the boy's mother, Jane (Nastassja Kinski, in the best performance of her career), who now works as a striptease artist at a peepshow. The long scene of Travis speaking to Jane through the one-way mirror is a thing of cinematic beauty. Stanton speaks slowly and calculatingly, as he discloses the story of their tragic relationship. It's a poignant apology, if you will, which also serves as the catalyst for reuniting Jane with her son.

As in many Wenders films, the primary character is disconnected from the hustle and bustle of modern life. His world is a world of vast, persistent deserts, which seems to operate in perpetual slow-motion. Even the Los Angeles scenes are bleak and dreary. In one of the best Los Angeles scenes I've ever witnessed, Travis walks across a footbridge over one of the area's many interstate highways. He passes a man screaming at the top of his lungs about an encroaching end-of-the-world scenario. No one is listening, Travis walks right past him, and the man continues his tirade. Both Travis and the screaming man are disconnected from one another, and from the outside world of soccer moms, businessmen, and overworked citizens.

Wenders' longtime cinematographer, Robby Muller, presents the West Texas desert as the world in which we exist, and the city scenes of Los Angeles and Houston are merely overpopulated versions of that barren desert. Ry Cooder's deft slide guitar music plays throughout, further epitomizing the vast emptiness of the cinematography. "Paris, Texas" presents a vacuous world, into which is infused a deeply touching story of lost love.

"Paris, Texas" was the unanimous choice for the coveted Palm D'Or (or top prize) at the 1984 Cannes Film Festival. Next to David Lynch's "Blue Velvet," it is my favorite film of the 1980s. Yes, "Paris, Texas" moves at a very deliberate pace. It's obviously not for everyone. But what a beautiful change of pace from the obnoxiously overbearing superhero cinema of today! Take a break from life, and spend a few hours with this subtle yet moving story. "Paris, Texas" is this month's Buried Treasure.

Throughout the long trajectory of his career, Robert Altman was known for interweaving multiple plots and characters within the context of a given theme. Think the brotherhood of the country music community in "Nashville" or the detachment of contemporary California life in "Short Cuts." But in 1999, Altman tried something a bit unique – he directed a motion picture with a plot. One plot. One story. A comparatively small cast of characters. It was called, "Cookie's Fortune," and it's this month's Buried Treasure.

With a clever screenplay by Anne Rapp, "Cookie's Fortune" tells the story of Willis (Charles S. Dutton), a handyman wrongly accused of murder in a small Mississippi town. His widowed employer (Patricia Neal) commits suicide at the outset, and her daughters decide to disguise the shooting as a murder in a vain attempt to preserve the family's reputation. Since Willis had just cleaned the widow's guns the night before, his fingerprints are all over them. And there you have the most plot structure you'll ever find in an Altman film.

What follows this sullen and morose setup is Altman's funniest picture since "M*A*S*H" in 1970. You see, everyone in the town knows Willis couldn't possibly commit murder. The jailer (a young Chris O'Donnell) consistently leaves the cell door open, and the sheriff (a fantastic Ned Beatty) plays cards with him – in the cell! You see, Beatty's character knows Willis is innocent because, "I've fished with him" – which seems to be his quintessence test for everyone he knows.

But, as in every Altman film, there's one character who doesn't quite fit. One who takes things more seriously than the others. Remember how pathetically dangerous Robert Duvall's Major Frank Burns seemed in "M*A*S*H" (as opposed to the maniacal buffoon Larry Linville played on the long-running television series)? It was as though the Major Burns character walked on the set from another movie – just to give the audience a jolt; to let us know this is war, and war is real.

In "Cookie's Fortune," Glenn Close plays Camille, the theatrical and mildly deranged daughter of the deceased – a slightly more comical version of her wicked turn in "Fatal Attraction." Camille is the smartest character in the picture, but she's also the one who doesn't belong; the one who, in a panic attack, might just turn this lovable comedy into a dreary exercise in unhinged madness. Fortunately, Altman is a skilled enough director to not allow this to happen, but my does he dangle it closely (pun intended). Had Glenn Close played her role ever so slightly more unsettled, the entire film would have been ruined. Altman walks a fine line allowing Camille to exaggerate her pomposity, but then her function seems to be to remind us that this is murder, and murder is real.

Still, Altman never loses sight of the fact that "Cookie's Fortune" is a comedy, dark though it may be. The script is peppered with well-drawn characters, and the acting is first-rate – particularly Ned Beatty as the sheriff, and also Liv Tyler as Camille's desperado niece, whose boyfriend just so happens to be Chris O'Donnell's maladroit jailer. Altman is a master handling these intertwining characters, as he doles out information in small enough doses for us to completely process their connections, and for us to understand the soul of the town in which they regale.

Unfortunately, "Cookie's Fortune" was released during the spring doldrums – that period between the Oscars and the summer blockbusters, when the studios trot out the fare they don't think anyone will pay to see. By the time the Oscars rolled around that year, the talk was all about "Magnolia," "American Beauty," "The Cider House Rules," and "The Green Mile." "Cookie's Fortune" was simply a forgotten footnote to American cinema in 1999. And that's a shame. You need to seek out this one. It's funny, touching, and intelligent – and easily one of Robert Altman's ten best films.

Amy Adams is currently our greatest American actress. Two years ago, she should have won Best Supporting Actress for her small but important role in Paul Thomas Anderson's "The Master." She wasn't even nominated. Last year, she was a shoo-in for Best Actress with her commanding performance in David O. Russell's instant classic, "American Hustle." Not only did she lose the award, she lost it to Cate Blanchett in Woody Allen's "Blue Jasmine." Naming anyone the best actor or actress in a Woody Allen movie is something akin to saying one of the guys in One Direction is a better singer than the others – it may be true, but who cares? Now Adams is starring in Tim Burton's "Big Eyes," an accounting of 1960s artist Margaret Keane, whose paintings of children with disproportionately large eyes became famous when they were fraudulently "stolen" and publicized by her husband, Walter Keane. You see, Walter Keane always wanted to be a great artist, but he simply did not possess the talent. What he did possess was an ample (nee overflowing) supply of salesmanship. Keane was the type of guy who could sell snow shoes to a polar bear. In the old west, he would have been the huckster who traveled from town to town hawking the latest elixirs from the back of his wagon. He'd then skip town before anybody realized his potions were phony.

Meanwhile, his wife, Margaret, was the painter Walter always wanted to be, but her docile temperament prevented her from tooting her own horn. She was meek on the outside, yet quietly confident (at least of her art) on the inside. Enter Walter Keane – but with the caveat that he claim her paintings as his own. By the time he convinces Margaret to cooperate in the scam, it's already too late. However, this is the late 1950s and early 1960s – a time when women were not readily accepted in the art world, and a time when no serious art critic or connoisseur would even listen to a woman talk about art. And the Keanes were struggling newlyweds; heaven knows they needed the money.

Then the paintings (and Walter Keane) became famous. Very famous. And poor Margaret desired the credit for her own paintings. Walter would not agree. He absolutely loved living in the public spotlight. Can you see where this is going? I thought I did too, but this picture culminates in a courtroom scene that's more thrilling than most. And watching Adams' Margaret Keane gain strength throughout "Big Eyes" is a true joy. I know I sound like a broken record when I say Amy Adams is perfect in this film, but Amy Adams is (once again) perfect. She hits all the right notes. Her acting accomplishment rivals those of Felicity Jones in "The Theory of Everything" and Reese Witherspoon in "Wild," as the best I've seen from any actress this year.

And what a departure from her bold, self-assured con artist role in "American Hustle." Many actresses are associated with a certain type of character. Audrey Hepburn always played the classy lady. Jane Fonda always played the righteous woman. What's Amy Adams? Anything she wants to be! For my money, she's our best actress since Meryl Streep.

And who better to play the conniving art peddler Walter Keane than Christoph Waltz – a man who's already won Best Supporting Actor Oscars for the past two Quentin Tarantino films – "Inglourious Basterds" and "Django Unchained?" Waltz could probably waltz through the Walter Keane role in his sleep (pun intended), but he manages to give Keane an added dimension of deceitfulness that provides the catalyst for Margaret to leave him and dissolve their marriage.

And what a fabulous job of directing from Tim Burton – one usually so engrossed in his own stylish morbidity that his stories often become afterthoughts. Not so here. Burton uses a minimalist touch with "Big Eyes," which allows his actors the ability to shine through a somewhat predictable tale. It's Burton's best picture since 1994's "Ed Wood." Let me close by stating that I know next to nothing about art. By contrast, my love of, and knowledge of, music helped the recent "Whiplash" hit a home run for me. Here, I was lost amongst a theatre full of viewers who probably knew more about art than I. I loved this film. From my experience, I can tell you not to avoid "Big Eyes" simply because its subject matter may be of no interest to you. See this one! You'll be glad you did.

Most of us think of Blake Edwards as a director of comedies. After all, his "Pink Panther" series provided us with some of the funniest movies ever made, and his Dudley Moore comedies ("Micki And Maude," and particularly "10") are classics too. But Edwards was also capable of churning out more serious fare. The best of these films was a hit in 1962, but has long since been forgotten.

"Days Of Wine And Roses" begins innocently enough, as young public relations director Joe Clay goes on a first date with Kirsten Arnesen. While Kirsten is young and innocent, Joe makes his living in post-war corporate America. When my dad first began his sales career, during this same time period, his best friend warned him he had joined a "drinking fraternity." Sure enough, Joe introduces Kirsten to social drinking, they have lots of fun, get married, and have a daughter.

As the Clay's casual drinking descends into a life of full-blown alcoholic despair, both Jack Lemmon (as Joe) and Lee Remick (as Kirsten) turn in the best performances of their careers. Joe eventually loses his top-notch sales position, then bounces around from job to job, before reluctantly going to work in his father-in-law's landscaping business. Joe and Kirsten manage sobriety for a while, but the lure of readily-available alcohol is simply too strong. Joe eventually gets sober through the then fledgling organization Alcoholics Anonymous, while Kirsten (a teetotaler at the film's outset) does not.

Simply put, this is a film about alcoholism. Not the "closet" alcoholism portrayed by Ray Milland in "The Lost Weekend," nor the "death wish" alcoholism of Nicholas Cage in "Leaving Las Vegas." No, this is a warning-shot about the fine line between social drinking and disease. This may not sound like entertainment, per se; but consider it a very well-acted and well-written monition. While certain time-and-place aspects of "Days Of Wine And Roses" are dated, its message carries as much heft today as it did over a half-century ago.

Lemmon should have won a Best Actor Oscar, if for no other reason than his scene of futile anguish when he breaks into his father-in-law's greenhouse one night for a hidden bottle of alcohol. The personal torment he conveys here is a heartbreaking plea for help – to no one in particular, save for himself and his creator. As a side note, Gregory Peck won that year's Best Actor Oscar for "To Kill A Mockingbird." It was one of those "congratulatory" Oscars, where the academy honors a longtime great, more for his or her body of work than the specific performance in question. Ironically, Lemmon himself would win such an Oscar eleven years later for the less-impressive "Save The Tiger." Screenwriter J.P. Miller adapted "Days Of Wine And Roses" from his own Playhouse 90 teleplay of 1958. Miller added some new material, Jack Lemmon in the title role, and voila! A classic was born.

One of the enduring ramifications of this picture was the explosion in popularity of Alcoholics Anonymous. Founded in 1935, AA was still in its germinating state when Blake Edwards released "Days Of Wine And Roses." The timing couldn't have been better. The end of prohibition in 1933, coupled with the return of the often hard-drinking WWII soldiers in 1945, and a new economic and cultural prosperity in America in the 1950s, resulted in an outbreak of alcoholism never before witnessed. Many Americans searched for a cure, yet coveted anonymity due to the social norms of the day. Because of its relevance, and again because of Jack Lemmon's masterful acting accomplishment, I believe "Days Of Wine And Roses" should have won the Best Picture Oscar for 1962 – rather than David Lean's beautiful, yet long and somewhat draggy, "Lawrence Of Arabia." As our local newscasts never tire of reminding us, alcoholism (and drunk driving, in particular) is still a problem over 50 years after the release of "Days Of Wine And Roses." Even if you've seen it before, it certainly deserves another look. And that's why it's this month's Buried Treasure.

The late 1990s were a great time for Hollywood motion pictures, but there were three Buried Treasures during this period which I'd like to highlight the next three months. Let's begin in 1997. This was the year "Titanic" scored that rarest of hat tricks – It was the year's box office champ, it was critically acclaimed, and it won the Best Picture Oscar. But Hollywood churned out some other great feature films that year too: Curtis Hanson's thriller, "LA Confidential," Ang Lee's "The Ice Storm," and Paul Thomas Anderson's breakout picture, "Boogie Nights." Veteran Actors Peter Fonda and Robert Duvall turned in their best performances ever in "Ulee's Gold" and "The Apostle," respectively. And Matt Damon and Ben Affleck shot to stardom in "Good Will Hunting." Lost in the shuffle was perhaps the best David Mamet screenplay ever filmed. Coming on the heels of his successful big screen adaptation of his play "Glengarry Glen Ross" in 1992, Mamet's 1994 offering "Oleanna" was a rare bomb – both critically and at the box office. He was due for a hit. And boy did he score – with critics and (by Mamet's metage) with filmgoers. Unfortunately, few people remember "The Spanish Prisoner," and it deserves a second look.

Campbell Scott (son of George C.) stars as Joe Ross, a corporate engineer who has developed a new industrial process. The plot revolves around an elaborate scam to steal the intellectual property behind this process. Initially, this may sound boring, but remember this is David Mamet. Not since Hitchcock's "North By Northwest" and Polanski's "Rosemary's Baby" has a writer/director so excelled at presenting average Americans immured in machinations over which they possess no control. "The Spanish Prisoner" falls under the same umbrella as Mamet's directorial debut, 1987's "House Of Games" – the story of an intricate con game to swindle money from a wealthy author. The parallels between "House Of Games" and "The Spanish Prisoner" are many, although I prefer the Campbell Scott vehicle, if for no other reason than the hustlers are after intellectual property rather than the more standard money or tangible goods.

Playing about as radically against type as possible, Steve Martin turns in one of the best performances of his career as a wealthy traveler who meets Ross on a corporate retreat in the Caribbean. Martin does an excellent job building trust yet still seeming as though he may be hiding something. He asks Ross to deliver a book to his sister when he returns to New York. Turns out, the sister doesn't really exist (a confidence game known as the Spanish Prisoner), Ross unknowingly opens a Swiss bank account, and unknowingly buys a one-way ticket out of the country. Thus begins a sophisticated swindle involving Ross' boss and an FBI agent who was present at the corporate retreat. But Ross is no dummy. He knows Martin's fingerprints are on the book he gave him, which initiates his reaction to the scam.

This is classic Mamet. A labyrinthine plot entrapping a common man into an axiomatic contrivance of grand proportion. The story unfolds layer by layer, in a deliberate yet headlong manner, as Mamet reveals only what we need to know, when we need to know it. And if you've never heard Mamet dialogue, you're in for a treat. His characters speak in choppy, staccato sentences, always reaching for just the right words – often saying more in their silence than in their verbiage.

There are no wasted scenes in "The Spanish Prisoner." Everything we see and hear will mean something eventually. It's a tight, alluring story, and a true joy to experience. "The Spanish Prisoner" is one of those films you'll want to re-watch immediately upon its conclusion.