Iron Man 3

As much as I've (mostly) enjoyed Marvel's superhero flicks, they're in serious danger of over-saturation. The Avengers' mammoth success last year means we're entitled to seemingly endless spinoffs. There's a new Thor coming in November; sequels to Captain America and Incredible Hulk aren't far off. These of course are lead-ins to The Avengers 2, set for a May 2015 release. Unless moviegoers tire of them, Marvel will mine this vein long after its quality peters out.

Currently doing boffo box office, Iron Man 3 shows the formula nearing critical mass. In 2008, Tony Stark's debut proved a pleasant surprise: exciting, witty, with a career-reviving turn by Robert Downey Jr. Iron Man 2 (2010) proved a solid follow-up, adding memorable villains and S.H.I.E.L.D. lore to the mix. This third installment offers little beyond over-the-top action, forcing Downey to carry it single-handed.

Tony Stark's (Robert Downey Jr.) still recovering from the events of The Avengers, suffering periodic flashbacks and anxiety attacks. Stark's life isn't made any easier when a terrorist called The Mandarin (Ben Kingsley) launches several mysterious terrorist attacks, or when smooth businessman Adrian Killian (Guy Pearce) puts the moves on Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow). Turns out Killian's involved in a high-ranking conspiracy with the Mandarin, using ex-servicemen as guinea pigs in a super soldier experiment. Tony's suit becomes temporarily grounded: he must rely on Colonel Rhodes (Don Cheadle) and an annoying kid (Ty Simpkins) to help unravel Mandarin's plot.

The best superhero movies achieve the right balance of sincerity and fun. Movies like Richard Donner's Superman, Tim Burton's Batman flicks and, well, Iron Man are grounded enough to invest the audience  without forfeiting their sense of wonder. Lean too far in the former direction and you get bloated pseudo-epics like The Dark Knight Rises and Watchmen, who try desperately to wring profundity out of mumbly bats and giant blue nudists. The other extreme is even worse: see The Fantastic Four, Superman IV or (shudder) Batman and Robin.

This is the best framework to analyze Iron Man 3, which otherwise offers little to discuss. Director Shane Black displays a hackish disregard for story or characterization. Despite one or two neat twists (namely the Mandarin reveal), the movie cribs its ideas from other action flicks, including The Terminator (Killian's fire-scarred resilience) and Black's own Lethal Weapon 2 (the dockyard finale). The action proves exciting but provides few unique thrills, all computer-aided flash that could be copy-and-pasted into this summer's other blockbusters. This reaches its nadir in the finale, when Tony amasses a team of Iron Men (ho, hum) to save the day. It's all sound and fury, only signifying another sure $1,000,000,000 in Marvel's bank.

Robert Downey Jr. keeps things float. To his immense credit, Downey remains fully immersed in Tony Stark, avoiding the money-grabbing dourness of, say, Johnny Depp in the Pirates of the Caribbean sequels. He's still bantering with Pepper and putting down villains with aplomb, showing character development as he distances himself from his playboy past. Too bad Black and cowriter Drew Pearce remake him into a faux-James Bond, infiltrating the Mandarin's HQ with a zip gun, then saddle him with a tech-savvy moppet escaped from a lesser Spielberg flick. Downey nonetheless keeps Tony's core appeal (snarky wit and flawed personality) intact.

His co-stars aren't so lucky. Gwyneth Paltrow is downgraded to bitchy girlfriend/damsel-in-distress until a plot-convenient twist. Don Cheadle is all but absent for the first 90 minutes, turning up as Tony's action sidekick for the last reels. Guy Pearce makes a thoroughly colorless villain, no match for Jeff Bridges, Mickey Rourke or even Sam Rockwell in charisma or menace. Newcomers like Rebecca Hall's (Frost/Nixon) scientist/ex-paramour and Miguel Ferrer's duplicitous Vice President make zero impression. Only Ben Kingsley shines, in an unexpectedly hilarious turn; to say he isn't what he seems is a massive understatement.

Iron Man 3 is thoroughly disposable. After achieving a solid balance up to now, Marvel starts tilting in the direction of mindless frivolity. Here's hoping they stop before we get Iron Man and Robin.

Atonement

I saw Atonement (2007) during its theatrical run and remember being disappointed. Rewatching it now, I'm more apt to be generous. Joe Wright's adaptation of a masterful Ian McEwan novel isn't perfect, but conveys McEwan's exploration of perception, guilt and creativity with striking clarity.

England in the mid-'30s. Precocious preteen Briony Tallis (Saorise Ronan) observes several incidents with her sister Cecilia (Keira Knightley) and servant Robbie (James McAvoy) that she interprets as sexual assaults instead of innocent flirtation. One night, someone molests Briony's friend Lola (Juno Temple) - an act Briony blames on Robbie. Robbie joins the BEF when World War II breaks out, getting caught up in the retreat to Dunkirk. Cecilia has become a nurse, pining for his return. Briony (now Romola Garai) also works as a nurse, realizing Robbie's innocence and hoping to right her mistakes.

Beneath Atonement's genteel trappings lies a disturbing character study. Briony dominates the film, a striking presence both physically and personally. She's a narcissist who enjoys the power to shape events. She finds an outlet in fiction but proves. A mix of honest misunderstandings and conscious desire (she entertains a crush on Robbie) makes her view Robbie as a deviant. Adult Briony still arrogates herself the right to "change" others, whether patients in a hospital ward or patch up Robbie and Cecilia's tattered romance. She views her writing as a "kindness," assuaging her guilt by creating a storybook ending for those she's wronged. It's a chilling portrait of literary "God complex" gone mad.

Understandably, writer Christopher Hampton downplays the expected class warfare themes. Robbie's basically a member of the family, with Cecilia's parents paying for his education. There are more pressing issues than Upstairs Downstairs drama. There's Morris (Benedict Cumberbatch), a charming chocolate maker who brings news of impending war; Lola, a precocious waif not so mature as she thinks; Robbie and Cecilia, initiating a tentative romance. But everything comes back to Briony, never realizing that her meddling carries actual consequences.

Wright's direction employs several neat tricks. Dario Marianelli's score brilliantly employs clacking typewriters, driving home the theme of someone writing events. Wright shows key events from Briony's perspective, before backtracking to show what "really" happened. This device could be hokey, but it's used sparingly enough to work. This also keeps us invested in Robbie and Cecilia's budding romance, unthinkable if either was a pervert. Robbie's fall from grace strikes a poignant note: his erstwhile benefactors turn on him, while Briony coldly observes. This ends a masterful opening hour on a perfect note.

Atonement stumbles afterwards. Wright encrusts his war scenes with David Lean grace notes, even borrowing imagery from Doctor Zhivago (a field of massacred children, Robbie's eyes illuminated by pinpricks of light), but everything seems rushed and perfunctory. The much-ballyhooed Dunkirk tracking shot is technically stunning, but really doesn't advance the film. Compared to the first hour's craftsmanship, Robbie's plight in France feels anemic, with the actual war kept off-screen and Robbie's squad mates (Daniel Maze and Nonso Azonie) barely ciphers. Worse, Cecelia all but vanishes, throwing the narrative off-balance.

Wright regains an even keel showing Briony's "penance" as a nurse. Briony struggles mightily to be practical, yet she can't sublimate her individuality to nursing - nor curb her desire to shape the lives of others. Accompanied by the gruesome sites of maimed Tommies, it's a striking sequence. The reveal of Lola's attacker proves less effective: given Wright's dual perspective trick elsewhere, it's an obvious cheat. But Wright delivers the finale with such gut-wrenching power that we forgive most of these faults. We just wish Atonement was half-an-hour longer to properly flesh out some story points.

Top acting honors go to the Briony Trio. Saorise Ronan got a well-earned Oscar nod, revealing Briony's studied arrogance and childish vulnerability. With her piercing blue eyes and impassive demeanor, she's a striking screen presence. Romola Garai ably handles the thankless chore of anchoring Atonement's middle third; she gets one standout sequence, comforting a dying French soldier (Jeremie Renier). Finally, Vanessa Redgrave closes things out with a heart-wrenching monologue. It's one of the best intergenerational acting teams in memory, each leaving an indelible impression.

James McAvoy gives a powerful turn as a smart but perpetually frustrated youth. Despite being periodically tapped as the "next big thing," McAvoy's career hasn't really caught fire - though his role in X-Men: First Class leaves us hopeful. Keira Knightley is tolerable, despite employing clipped verbiage that makes her sound like a tetanic Celia Johnson. Benedict Cumberbatch (War Horse) makes the most of brief screen time; Juno Temple (The Dark Knight Rises) plays Briony's unfortunate friend.

Atonement rewards multiple viewings. Despite occasional missteps, it's a unique, deeply affecting drama with fascinating thematic material. Maybe reading McEwan's novel since my first go-around helped me appreciate it better. It certainly couldn't hurt.

Straw Dogs (2011)

Rod Lurie's Straw Dogs (2011) passed largely unnoticed by critics or audiences. With good reason: it turns Sam Peckinpah's controversial masterpiece into a boilerplate thriller. It's bland, inoffensive and forgettable, three words that neither fans nor detractors have ever applied to Peckinpah's original.

Screenwriter David Sumner (James Marsden) movies with actress wife Amy (Kate Bosworth) to the latter's hometown of Blackwater, Mississippi. While writing a World War II epic, David hires contractor Charlie (Alexander Skarsgard) to refurbish his house. Charlie's a charming roughneck who happens to be Amy's old flame. David's haughtiness alienates Charlie and his friends, while Amy's disgusted by his unwillingness to stand up for her. Then David encounters Jeffrey (Dominic Purcell), a local simpleton whose feelings for an underage cheerleader (Willow Holland) has tragic consequences. Said cheerleader's father (James Woods) organizes a lynch mob and... erm, haven't you seen the original?

The 1971 Straw Dogs still generates passionate plaudits and intense hatred. Its defenders (myself included) celebrate Peckinpah's film as an intense, gripping allegory of man's propensity for violence. Critics blast it as an exploitative gore fest whose visceral thrills undercut the point. That's not even touching the debates over misogyny (or worse) generating from its portrayal of Amy, especially the unnerving rape scene. Few films are as radically polarizing.

Any classic remake also suffers not by direct comparison to the original but its influence. Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho has been imitated so many times that Gus Van Sant's "shot-for-shot" remake feels like superfluous onanism. Even John Carter, not exactly a remake, perversely suffers from the original Edgar Rice Burroughs stories inspiring Star Wars, Avatar and a million lesser sci-fi flicks. Thus with Straw Dogs: what shocked in 1971 falls just this side of mundane today, subsumed by a million lesser movies. Familiar title aside, it feels like just another thriller.

Lurie does himself no favors, either, by gorging on cliche and condescension. Relocating from Cornwall to Mississippi allows Lurie to play on Deep South stereotypes propagated by everything from Deliverance to Squidbillies. Everyone in Blackwater has nothing better to do than watch TV, drink booze and attend football games. That most of them turn out to be violent, rapacious louts won't shock anyone: hasn't Hollywood been teaching this lesson for over a century? The friendly black Sheriff (Laz Alonso) in an otherwise all-white town further points up Lurie's simplistic worldview.

Indeed, making the hero a screenwriter besieged by flyover yokels feels like some sick Hollywood joke. In fairness, Lurie probably meant David to be an unlikeable antihero, but the unpleasant subtext lingers. Early on, David tells a redneck slob that he writes films the redneck wouldn't recognize, as if Southerners consider war movies as inscrutable as Satantango. Then he walks out on a church sermon and mocks Charlie's Christianity. But the capper comes when David explicitly explains the title for us dummies in the audience. After this, it feels less like David's a smug jackass than the director is.

The story follows Peckinpah closely, touching all the plot points, character relations and cat mutilation. But everything's inexplicably neutered. This Amy is more assertive and self-reliant, making her taunting Charlie and Co. more inexplicable. The rape scene's still here - shorn of violence, nudity or visceral impact. So why bother? As if justifying his aforementioned arrogance, Lurie indulges in laughable montages (the rape intercut with David shooting a deer! Rapping hammer counterpointed with rapping keyboard!) that play like Jay Sherman's student film. The climactic violence is as nasty as ever, but without credible setup it's just another action scene.

The actors seem out of sync with the material. James Marsden smartly plays up David's obnoxious side, but his conversion to action hero isn't especially credible. Kate Bosworth struggles with a character torn between Susan George's skanky original and PC feminism. Alexander Skarsgard plays Charlie as a low-key, likeable guy who inexplicably becomes a predator. Save James Woods, embarrassing as a hambone hick, everyone gives performances that are professionally fine, but dramatically off-key.

As remakes go, Straw Dogs isn't bad enough to be insulting like Van Sant's Psycho or the 2002 Four Feathers. It's disposable junk, mindlessly killing two hours before you filter it out of your brain and move on to something more substantial.

The Great Gatsby (2013)

Something went fundamentally wrong with The Great Gatsby at the conceptual stage. Coming from Baz Luhrmann, it's no secret that the movie's loud, gaudy and overblown, a paean to self-indulgent excess. But Gatsby's a truly agonizing monstrosity, making Moulin Rouge and Romeo + Juliet look like Separate Tables - or the '74 adaptation look like Citizen Kane. Imagine the worst music video ever stretched out to two-and-a-half hours, claiming to be an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.

Copy and paste plot summary: Stock broker Nick Carraway (Tobey Maguire) makes the acquaintance of Jay Gatsby (Leonardo DiCaprio), a mysterious millionaire who throws swanky parties on Long Island but never attends himself. Through Nick, Gatsby reunites with his old flame Daisy (Carey Mulligan), trapped in an unhappy marriage with snobbish, unfaithful Tom Buchanan (Joel Edgerton). Tom gets suspicious, digging into Gatsby's past, dredging up ties to organized crime. Tragedy strikes when Tom's affair with lower class Myrtle Wilson (Isla Fisher) results in an accident.

The Great Gatsby starts dialed up to 11 and somehow gets more obnoxious. Luhrmann demolishes our senses with every cheap cinematic trick imaginable. There's caffeinated editing, swooping faux-camera work and laughable CGI, rendered in eye-exploding 3-D. There's text superimposed on the screen, sped-up photography intercut with gratuitous slow motion, sloppily inserted stock footage and incongruous hip hop music. Gatsby's parties are indescribably tacky: he first appears with Rhapsody in Blue blaring on the soundtrack as fireworks explode behind him, and that's the most subtle image. If Federico Fellini saw Gatsby, he'd advise Luhrmann to tone it down a notch.

Sadly, Luhrmann offers little beyond this sensory assault. For two acts there's nothing but exorbitant costumes, gauche art direction, gaudy exotic dancers, orgies and Beyonce tunes. And it drags on for a painful 143 minutes. There's no effort to make the story or characters credible: Nick's re-envisioned as a budding novelist, relating his story in flashback to a shrink (Jack Thompson). Gatsby and Daisy's connection becomes a tragic romance rather than a desperate fling. Did Luhrmann even read Fitzgerald? Source fidelity extends to plot points, some cribbed dialogue and the obvious symbols delivered with ice mallet subtlety. That damned eyeglasses billboard appears at least a dozen times, always in extreme close up. We get it already!

In the third act Gatsby transitions to dark drama. Here we get the meatiest scenes: Gatsby outlining his true back story, Tom confronting Gatsby, a tragic accident and subsequent murder. Unfortunately, Luhrmann pitches the human element at the same hysterical level. If the imagery and music feel comparatively restrained, the acting goes into frothing overdrive. Characters foam, scream, throw things and chew scenery. Even quiet moments are punctuated with affected gestures and pantomime posturing. But what did you expect? This movie thinks so little of its audience that it stops to explain who Kaiser Wilhelm was.

Leonardo DiCaprio tries, God bless him, to make Gatsby credible. He fails miserably. DiCaprio is just too bland, the character too poorly written to register. Tobey Maguire provides Nick an insufferable faux-naivety; his line readings make him sound mentally challenged, surely not the intent. Carey Mulligan (Drive) is more likeable than Mia Farrow but Joel Edgerton provides cringe-worthy cartoon villainy. Jason Clarke (Zero Dark Thirty) and Isla Fisher see their roles reduced to nothing. Jack Thompson (Breaker Morant) turns up for no reason.

I don't unconditionally hate Baz Luhrmann: heck, I enjoyed the much-derided Australia. His style's no less overwrought there, but wedded to a swooning epic romance it's enjoyable as pastiche. The Great Gatsby is nothing but crass vulgarity disguised as dizzying art. However appropriate that seems for Fitzgerald, in practice it's a catastrophe of Billy Jack proportions.

The Great Gatsby (1974)

The Great Gatsby is one of my favorite novels. F. Scott Fitzgerald's rich masterpiece functions on multiple levels: a deconstruction of the American Dream, a condemnation of high society decadence, a tragedy showing the price of obsession. Yet the five extant film adaptations are forgettable clunkers, from a '20s silent version to the hip-hop inflected G. (2002). I've been roped into seeing Baz Luhrmann's gaudy-looking adaptation this weekend. Forgive me for doubting the Moulin Rouge! auteur's appropriateness for this literary classic.

The most famous version is Jack Clayton's 1974 take. This Gatsby is a petrified rendering of the novel's most obvious aspects, well-made but dull. Strict literary fidelity at the expense of the cinematic results in a pedestrian exercise.

Stock broker Nick Carraway (Sam Waterston) makes the acquaintance of Jay Gatsby (Robert Redford), a mysterious millionaire who throws swanky parties on Long Island but never attends himself. Through Nick, Gatsby reunites with his old flame Daisy (Mia Farrow), trapped in an unhappy marriage with snobbish, unfaithful Tom Buchanan (Bruce Dern). Tom gets suspicious, digging into Gatsby's past, dredging up ties to organized crime. Tragedy strikes when Tom's affair with lower class Myrtle Wilson (Karen Black) results in an accident.

The obvious problem is that Gatsby's too damned literal. Francis Ford Coppola's script remains painfully reverent to the source material, trying unsuccessfully to render Fitzgerald's rich interior world. The book requires Nick's fly-on-the-wall narration; the movie drowns in it, his unnecessary presence weighing down every scene. Gatsby clumsily tells Nick his background, other bits filled in by mechanical flashbacks. Characters endlessly declaim exposition and recite Fitzgerald's prose without conviction. The show takes on a Classics Illustrated feel, rigidly faithful but lifeless.

The literalness extends to the imagery. Fitzgerald's poetic symbolism reads beautifully on the page, conjuring up misty visions of midnight parties, bygone opulence and broken dreams. In the directness of film, touches like Daisy's green light (accompanied by an abrasive musical sting), the billboard eyeglasses and amorous jello moulds seem gauche. The Wilsons' ratty gas station feels more appropriate to Bonnie and Clyde than upscale Long Island; how on Earth would Tom and Myrtle have met? Through clunky presentation, Gatsby forfeits credibility the novel effortlessly earns.

It must be said Clayton mounts a beautiful production. The sumptuous costumes, parties and upscale mansions are gorgeously presented by David Lean's collaborator John Box. Backed by Nelson Riddle's jazz-infused score and its appealing leads, Gatsby provides the glamorous spectacle expected of a '20s period piece. Yet this beauty undercuts Fitzgerald's satirical intent: you don't ridicule the rich by making them desirable. I could imagine Luchino Visconti or Billy Wilder nailing Gatsby; Clayton misses the point.

Robert Redford gives a commendable interpretation. He handles the mealy-mouthed script with conviction, suggesting Gatsby's hidden depths and inner turmoil through pointed delivery and meaningful glances. At the same time, having someone with Redford's screen baggage play a character designed as a cipher feels awkward. A sharper adaptation might have resulted in one of Redford's best performances. Instead, he's respectable rather than impressive.

Mia Farrow's fine, but Daisy proves too much of a featherweight to generate interest. The best that can be said of Sam Waterston is he gives a useless part dignity. Lanky Bruce Dern feels miscast as a snotty, football-playing blue blood. Karen Black (Family Plot) makes the strongest impression, investing Myrtle with desperation and low cunning. Scott Wilson (In Cold Blood) has some powerful scenes that seem imported from another movie. Howard Da Silva (Meyer Wolfsheim, a Jewish gangster) previously appeared in a 1949 adaptation.

The Great Gatsby is a handsomely mounted bore. Here's hoping that the new version gets the story right - though I'm not holding my breath.