Pixar and everything else - them's the breaks when it comes to judging computer-animated fare these days. Although Pixar has rightfully earned themselves the lead among studios, and by a significant margin, it's all too easy to then marginalize the performance of others.

DreamWorks has certainly raised their game beyond pure pop-culture recitation with the inventive and entertaining likes of Over the Hedge, Kung Fu Panda, and Monsters vs. Aliens (and Aardman or no, I'd even include the winning Flushed Away among their finer efforts). For every Open Season, Sony has given us a Monster House (okay, so that's just one-for-one at the moment). And every time that Fox bequeaths to unwilling audiences something like Space Chimps or Everyone's Hero, Blue Sky has nothing to do with it.

Fox/Blue Sky, however, is the precise pairing that gives us the visually engaging and moderately amusing outings like Robots, Horton Hears a Who!, and the Ice Age films, with the latest of which -- Ice Age: Dawn of the Dinosaurs -- falling right in line with that modest-yet-reliable tradition.

Essentially there are two kinds of gangster movies: those made during the time when men wore hats in real life and those made during the time when men wore hats that came from wardrobe. The first type are usually in black-and-white, punchy, nervy and full of wisecracks. The second type are usually longer and more violent, but slower-paced and nobler of purpose, as if the hats suddenly carried an extra weight, an extra sadness. What Michael Mann has achieved with the new Public Enemies is an often fascinating, striking combination of the two.

I walked into the new film, convinced that it could never top lean, mean B-movie classics like Max Nosseck's Dillinger (1945) or Don Siegel's Baby Face Nelson (1957) in which these gangsters were initially immortalized. But it equals them, capturing some of their raw energy and allure and clocking in as a longer, but equally fast-moving and adrenaline-pumping example. Somehow Mann only manages to use the extra time for flash and spectacle, and hardly any for depth or detail, but that only helps to speed things along. Happily, he also avoids the typical origin story, and plunges right in.

The French writer Colette, born Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette (1873 - 1954), lived one of those witty, charming lives you've read about, doing things like performing at the Moulin Rouge and having affairs with Josephine Baker, while marrying several rich husbands. She wrote, among many other things, what would become the famous musical Gigi, which Director Vincente Minnelli turned into a dull, immobile Oscar-winning hit in 1958. The English film director Stephen Frears would have been 13 when Colette died, though at that age, he had most likely never heard of her. But now, 55 years later, the two have teamed up for the new movie Cheri, based on Collete's 1920 novel about a passionate affair between an aging courtesan and a spoiled younger man.

Frears seems like the right man for the job. After all, his similarly sexy costume drama Dangerous Liaisons (1988) was another Oscar-winning hit. And in his Mrs. Henderson Presents (2005) he dealt with issues of sexuality and censorship on the stage, so he seems prepped to make something really sexy and full of wit and charm, especially given that he's re-teamed with his Dangerous Liaisons star Michelle Pfeiffer. It's a win-win scenario that quickly turns lose-lose. For some reason, Cheri is dead on arrival, a cold fish. It just lies there, too lethargic to be funny and too timid to be sexy, but not deep enough for any real drama.

By: James Rocchi (reprinted from The Toronto International Film Festival, 9.13.08)

Based on journalist Mark Boal's real experiences following bomb disposal experts in Iraq, The Hurt Locker isn't just a welcome return to big-screen action from director Kathryn Bigelow (who has wrung both fame and infamy from her art with Near Dark, Strange Days and Point Break). It's an assured, confident, swaggering piece of moviemaking that manages to not only evoke every war of the 20th century but also, despite the claims by makers and some reviewers that it's an 'apolitical' film, speaks very specifically to the Iraq war. Even so, plunging us into the thick of things alongside the highly-trained men (and they're all men here) who defuse bombs for the Army, Bigelow and Boal avoid the speeches and postures and long, contemplative talks of home front films like Stop-Loss and In the Valley of Elah by staying in Iraq, and they shun the loopy, loony formal experiments of Brian De Palma's Redacted. Boal and Bigelow stay laser-focused on one group of men with a singular mission, and make us live in the constant possibility of death. Viewed from half a world away, a bomb is a political concern; viewed from less than a foot away, a bomb's just a high-stakes exercise in problem-solving, where making a mistake means a final, terminal education in the physics of expanding gases.

I'm not ashamed to say that I cry at the movies. Not frequently, but occasionally a story and its characters will grab hold of me to the extent that I'm completely caught up in the emotions and feelings being expressed. Films as disparate as John Ford's The Searchers and Wong Kar-Wai's Chungking Express have caused me to weep with joy, relief, and sorrow.

Despite a relentless barrage of scenes evidently designed with the sole goal of jerking tears, Nick Cassavetes' My Sister's Keeper did not make me cry. It is, however, one of the most glorious-looking terminal cancer pictures I've ever seen. Cinematographer Caleb Deschanel (The Black Stallion, The Natural) paints the oft-mundane proceedings in an otherworldly glow, as though the transition to the next life had already begun. That's the guiding principle of the movie as a whole; even though an inflammatory and emotionally wrenching issue serves as the linchpin for the plot, great pains are taken to soften the blows so as not to inflict lasting damage upon the viewer.

Frankly, that latter point, much more than whether I personally shed tears, is what prevents My Sister's Keeper from escaping middlebrow territory. Cameron Diaz and Jason Patric are splendidly noble as Brian and Sara Fitzgerald, whose daughter Kate (Sofia Vassilieva) is diagnosed at a young age with leukemia. Brian and Sara conceive another child with genetic modifications so she can serve as a donor to her sister. Anna (Abigail Breslin) (*) seems fine with all the body part donations until Kate's condition worsens to the point that she needs a kidney transplant. Then 11-year-old Anna marches into the office of well-known lawyer Campbell Alexander (Alec Baldwin) and demands medical emancipation from her parents.

Whatever Works' title is the mantra of inveterate curmudgeon Boris Yellnikoff (Larry David), as well as that of Woody Allen, whose latest – and first to be set in his beloved Manhattan since 2004's Melinda and Melinda – hews as tightly to his trademark preoccupations as Of Mice and Men's Lenny clung to his rabbit. Casting David makes sense, as the Curb Your Enthusiasm star's crotchety on-screen persona more than slightly recalls that of Allen's. Yet rather than an inspired meeting of kindred minds, their collaboration does little except reinforce the notion that Allen's creative well has long since run dry, his films now split into either inert, heavy-handed, detached spectacles of pretty people doing naughty things in foreign locales (Match Point, Vicky Cristina Barcelona), or leaden comedic larks in which notable names embody Allen's archetypal kvetching role.

An erudite string-theory professor and all-around misanthrope with suicidal tendencies and an extensive vocabulary, David's Boris grumps and grouches like countless other Allen protagonists, right down to his guiding philosophy that the world is a cold, random place full of regret and misery, and that any rare chances at happiness should be seized.

Surveillance may involve three separate interviews about the same event, but Rashomon it most certainly is not. Ascertaining the truth through multiple narratives is certainly central to Jennifer Lynch's long-delayed follow-up to 1993's polarizing Boxing Helena. The three accounts provided, however, aren't juxtaposed or in real conflict; rather, they coalesce to form a tale about the fateful affairs that led FBI agents Anderson (Julia Ormond) and Hallaway (Bill Pullman) to a middle-of-nowhere New Mexico police station to investigate a horrific crime. That offense is initially shrouded in mystery, with details elucidated slowly through the agents' briefing and subsequent interviews – conducted simultaneously by Anderson and local cops, and monitored via closed-circuit video feeds by Hallaway – of the surviving eyewitnesses: traumatized 12-year-old Stephanie (Ryan Simpkins), defiant junkie Bobbie (Pell James) and combative officer Bennet (Kent Harper). It's the set-up for a rather routine procedural. Yet in a development that will stun no one who's seen Boxing Helena or any of her father's films, Lynch isn't interested in straightforward genre mundanity, and even during Hallaway's first appearance – his face twitchy, his speech halting, his eyes nervous and his comportment slightly askew – there's an underlying sense that this ordinary reality is somehow off-kilter, corrupted.

Harold Ramis has worked in comedy a long time, and his career has taken many directions. With his work on the Ghostbusters (1984) script and his straight-man performance in the film, he managed to allow Bill Murray room to move and riff within the confines of a visual effects-heavy summer blockbuster. As for the meticulously crafted classic Groundhog Day (1993), I hesitate to call any movie "perfect," but it comes close. But then there were phoned-in hits like Analyze This (1999) and Analyze That (2002) that seemed too tightly wound and too slavishly dependent on plot to be very funny.

Ramis' new film Year One, on the other hand, comes closer to the spirit of his directorial debut Caddyshack (1980). I'm not saying it's quite as funny or as brilliant, but it's in the same spirit. It cares thankfully little about its plot or its character arcs, or historical accuracy; it's a bit flabby and careless, but it's also gleefully stupid, and it has the ability to knock you off guard and make you giggle helplessly.

I love watching Sandra Bullock, who is enjoyable even in the lamest of films. And sadly, there are so many lame movies starring Bullock, and so few that I would enjoy watching more than once -- Infamous is a rare exception. After I saw Speed, I said that I thought Bullock could be this generation's Carole Lombard, but unfortunately the actress has not yet found her Howard Hawks or Ernst Lubitsch. The Proposal is yet another Bullock-starring formulaic romantic comedy with little to offer except sparkling performances, and not just from Bullock.

Margaret Tate (Bullock) is the terror of the Manhattan publishing office where she's editor-in-chief, and even her charming assistant Andrew (Ryan Reynolds) is scared of her. Her Achilles heel turns out to be that she's ... Canadian, and she's about to be deported for a year due to some visa problems. So Margaret hurriedly declares that she's engaged to Andrew, who's American. You don't have to have seen Green Card to guess the rest of the story.

Stop me if you've heard this one before. A womanizing cad doesn't believe in true love, even though he makes his living writing novels about it. He sleeps with one beautiful woman after another, never getting attached, always pleased when the women leave before he wakes up in the morning. But his whole world is turned upside-down when, out of nowhere, he actually falls in love with one of them.

Yes, it's the ol' "education of a douchebag" story, going by the title Mercy this time around and starring Scott Caan, who also wrote the screenplay. (It's actually his third script; he directed the other two himself, and the first, Dallas 362, won the jury prize at CineVegas in 2003.) One is tempted to find autobiographical elements in Caan's swaggering character, especially since his real-life father, James Caan, plays his dad in the movie, but I don't know if that's accurate. But it might be the more charitable interpretation, since without a personal connection there's no reason to tell a story this generic.

It's at the release party for his third novel that Johnny Ryan (Scott Caan) meets Mercy (Wendy Glenn), a gorgeous, slender brunette who, unlike most heterosexual women (or so we're led to understand), is not instantly bowled over by Johnny's smooth cocky charm. Nor, it turns out, does she like his writing. This wouldn't normally bother Johnny -- he prefers women who can barely read anyway -- but in this case it's troubling because she's a New York Times book critic. Now with two reasons to pursue her (the usual one, and her negative opinion of his work), Johnny redoubles his efforts to get close to her.