In "Little Children," the arrival of a convicted child molester in East Wyndam, Mass., triggers outrage throughout the community. But in this movie’s reverse code, Ronnie the pedophile (Jackie Earle Haley) is practically one of the good guys.

We don’t approve of his behavior, of course, but we empathize with a tormented soul who’s hounded by high-minded citizens in a flurry of leaflets and sanctimony. And we understand who the real offenders are: people like Larry (Noah Emmerich), the obnoxious ex-cop who takes a bullhorn to Ronnie’s house at night, and Mary Ann (Mary B. McCann), a frosty homemaker who denounces the pedophile before her regular gathering of playground moms.

Director Todd Field and co-writer Tom Perrotta (who adapted his book of the same name) have rigged our sympathies, making us root for whoever offends these high and mighty New Englanders. And they’ve done this in the service of a hugely absorbing social drama that is, by turns, excruciating, sad and sardonic. We’re caught up in its emotional sweep, feeling compassion for all the pariahs, including Sarah (Kate Winslet) and Brad (Patrick Wilson), whose extramarital romance provokes gossipy tongues.

There’s something irresistibly compelling about the movie’s Olympian perspective — the movie employs a narrator (Will Lyman, the voice of dozens of documentaries) — which puts the flaws, graces and sins of suburbia into ironic context. (It should be noted, however, the filmmakers don’t subscribe to the notion that a little narration goes a long way.) There’s no essential difference, "Little Children" suggests, between Mary Ann, whose over-regimented life includes sex with her husband on Tuesdays, and Ronnie, whose idea of excitement is snorkeling among the kids at the local pool. At least Ronnie’s aware of his issues; his valiant attempts to keep them under lock and key are his version of moral behavior.

As with his 2001 movie, "In the Bedroom," Field takes moral stock of a New England community, though the earlier film, which presented the case for vigilantism, centered on one family’s response to an unpunished murderer. "Little Children" takes on subtler crimes, such as prejudice, self-deception and civic hysteria. And it’s wider in scope, following the grand design of films like "Crash," in which a collection of unrelated characters are connected by thematic forces.

What links the well-to-do residents of East Wyndam is a deep-seated frustration. The happiness everyone seeks — in jobs, marriages, relationships or sex lives — seems to be missing. They’re not so different from other communities, perhaps, but the movie shows how their protests and outrage against public scapegoats are plaintive echoes of their own personal turmoil.

Sarah seeks out Brad after her husband, Richard (Gregg Edelman), starts keeping virtual company with a porn site queen. Brad’s wife, Kathy (Jennifer Connelly), a documentary filmmaker, belittles him constantly for his failure to pass the bar exam. But it’s a mark of the movie’s benevolent spirit that we feel remorse when Kathy finally realizes how much she loves Brad — right at the moment her husband is busy elsewhere, caressing Sarah’s naked rump.

Winslet is extraordinarily good, transforming persuasively from a woman lost in herself to one radiantly in love. We’re moved by the internal struggles she undergoes before allowing herself to feel that ecstasy. As the overgrown kid who’d rather be skateboarding than hitting the law books, Wilson (Raoul in "Phantom of the Opera" and the torturee in "Hard Candy") exudes a perfect air of arrested development. And though she’s playing a one-note harpy — at one point, telling a book-reading group that Madame Bovary is nothing more than a "slut" — McCann plays that single tone with chilly precision. You can’t imagine this movie without her.

The most affecting performances, however, come from East Wyndam’s most feared household. Haley, a former teen star and original Bad News Bear, shows the debilitating struggle between Ronnie’s reflexive perversions and his humanity. And Phyllis Somerville is a subtle triumph as Ronnie’s mother, May, who refuses to be intimidated by the bullies outside her door. She never makes May’s actions, despite extraordinary circumstances, seem like anything more than mommy business as usual.

Not surprisingly, most of the scenes involving mother and son are the toughest on the audience, whether for heartbreak, tension, comic irony — or all three. There’s something amusing but devastating about May’s advice to Ronnie not to mention his sexual problems at a first date. That ensuing dinner with Sheila (Jane Adams), a formerly wounded soul trying to get back on her feet, becomes one of the movie’s most touching and shocking developments. But the subtext, that Ronnie’s undergoing this ordeal — that’s how the date feels to him — to please his mother, the only woman who truly loves him, is the closest he can get to heroism. That’s enough to choke you up right there.

Little Children (130 minutes, at area theaters) is rated R for sex scenes, nudity and profanity.

A film review by Christopher Null - Copyright © 2000 Filmcritic.com

Well, a rose is a rose is a rose, and a film is a movie is a snoozefest.
Jill Godmilow's takings portrait of Gertrude Stein (Linda Bassett) and Alice B. Toklas (Linda Hunt) during their aeon together at 27 Rue de Fleurus in France is obviously the merchandise of much heartfelt leaning for the duo. Too spoilt it's disjointed, pedantic, and so overtly misanthropic that joke wonders how any viewer could leech out the be crazy within.
A small portrait of the duo, the bulk of

Waiting for the Moon

consists of vignettes from their daily rituals. Stein reads aloud from her wearisome pressurize to Toklas, who corrects it. They pick up an American hitchhiker (Andrew McCarthy) bound in behalf of the war in Spain and befriend him. They party with Ernest Hemingway (Bruce McGill). They tiff and make up. They wait for the moon to rise.

None of this goes much of anywhere, and the blear is not helped by Godmilow's uncompleted camerawork and create camera angles that make us fancy have a weakness for we're watching a play — a play in which the actors haven't rehearsed awfully much. That said, Dog is typically terrific in a unbend role, and Bassett, at least, is such a anechoic ringer for Stein that you can't help but feel she's been reincarnated.
If you're looking in search a great sketch of the Buried Generation, this isn't the movie you want, but Stein fans compel not credible long for to miss this rare chance to get her doppelganger in the relations substantiate.

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by John Gholson Mar 5th 2010 // 3:45PM

I surprised myself this week by completely flipping out over the unusual trailer for


Tron Legacy


. I didn't expect it to batter a chord with me in the way that it has, sort of awakening a bit of untapped, unknown


Tron


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that taps that personal vein for you — something that kicks you full-force upper in the middle of your solar plexus and knocks you unmistakable on your butt with nervousness. Here's what we've been talking about lately…

• Robert Rodriguez hopes to wow the crowds at SXSW with an exclusive first look at Predators.
• Mike Moody shines a light on this week's treasure trove of DVD releases, including 2012, Where the Wild Things Are, and a new-to-blu Clash of the Titans.
• Take a trip to Tex Avery's "Farm of Tomorrow".
• Zack Snyder is back! Check out the trailer for the 3D owl fantasy-adventure hoot Legend of the Guardians.
• Is Incarceron the new Harry Potter? It's magical and British and stuff!
• We take a look at the world's biggest amateur rocket.
• Jacob Hall loses his (figurative) virginity to the original 1982 Tron.
• George R.R. Martin's Game of Thrones is finally coming to HBO. Huzzah!
• Vote in our latest poll: Who should own Superman?

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It may be worth nine bucks to see the great young British actress Keira Knightley as a kill-crazed, blood-drenched pagan Tinker Bell, a pixie sprite with a battle ax chopping and hewing left and right. She bends it like Beckham with several pounds of cold steel and you think: Hmmm, that’s a young lady with spunk!

But if Knightley’s warrior Guinevere is absolutely the best thing in “King Arthur,” it’s not the only delight. The film boasts all the hallmarks of the ’50s historic epic save the presence of Tony Curtis: battles galore, tons of rolling mist standing for the vapors of myth, cool castles, gross Germanic villains, nobility, sacrifice, mud, sweat, tears and death, with less gore than one might expect, as the movie has been engineered to a PG-13 rating.

And the film has a gimmick. This isn’t your father’s Knights of the Round Table song resung for the umpteenth time but a whole new tack into the material. The conceit is to locate the authentic Arthur, not the Lerner-Loewe Welshman yakkety-yakking “Camelot” to Julie Andrews amid the sunlight of a suspiciously over-illuminated Dark Ages. No Lancelot-Arthur-Guin triangle, no sword in stone, no Merlin the Magician, no Mordred the bad boy.

Instead the production is located in the 500s, when a crumbling, shrinking Roman empire is retreating from its farthest flung outposts, leaving chaos and carnage in its wake. One of the farthest flung of those outposts is Hadrian’s Wall, separating Roman Britannia from pagan Britannia. There, a noble Romano-Brit officer named Arthur (Clive Owen, kingly and powerful) attempts to deal with the coming madness, made all the more threatening by the approach of yet a third antagonist, the forces of Saxony, blond, brutish invaders from Germany who threaten to overcome the island and turn it, er, Anglo-Saxon.

So one point the movie makes almost incidentally is that nobody comes from where they are, and that everybody comes from somewhere else. Many of us are slavish admirers of what’s called Anglo-Saxon culture as if it were the indigenous culture of Britain and the West, but it wasn’t. The Saxons were just another, earlier wave of invaders, and like all invaders their weapons were terror and rape. Stellan Skarsgard, playing the Saxon king Cerdic, looks like Yosemite Sam with a serious case of constipation.

Anyhow, in the fight to repel the invaders, Arthur has his knights. But Lancelot, Gawain, Tristan and so forth are not fair-haired Etonians in search of Christian purity. They are Sarmatians — that is, Central European mercenaries who have been compelled by the Romans to put in 15 years’ service. Their enlistment is about up, and a return to the steppes is haunting their imaginations, as is the pleasure of at last giving up the perpetual state of war in Britannia in which they’ve lived. In the language of today’s army, they’re short.

In other words, the movie offers what might be called the Arthurian Ur-text: a vision of the original reality, now long-forgot and all but irrecoverable, that was later gilded by more romantic tellers from other times and traditions, until it became so glamorized it had lost all contact with the harsh brutality of the real.

That’s the theory. In practice, “King Arthur” basically encompasses two stories, somewhat awkwardly conjoined. The first is of a rescue mission that Arthur and his knights must partake, even though all have been promised release from obligation, to rescue a Roman nobleman living beyond Hadrian’s Wall and thought to be in danger. As always, politics intrudes. The big shots in Rome don’t care about this fellow but about his son, a favorite of the pope (who at this time is more powerful than the emperor). This initial story almost feels like a reprise of director Antoine Fuqua’s last film, the underrated “Tears of the Sun,” in which a U.S. Navy SEAL team was inserted into a civil war (in Africa) to extract a vulnerable citizen. In “King Arthur,” the knights are the SEALs of A.D. 550, elite warriors with highly refined combat skills. It’s on that mission that they encounter the teenage Guinevere, who has been captured by the Roman nobleman. She’s the daughter, it turns out, of the tribal leader Merlin, a longtime antagonist of Arthur.

But he sees that the pagans — they’re called Woads here — and the Romans can make common cause against the encroaching Saxons. And indeed, it is thought that the one true Arthur did such a thing: He unified Roman and Celtic troops and faced the Saxons 12 times, finally at the Battle of Badon Hill, where he turned them back and won for “civilized” Britain a 40-year respite, which might be seen as the antecedent of the storied peace and justice of Camelot, however brief it was.

In any event, as Fuqua tells the tale, the second half of the film is much stronger. Arthur must put away his blood enmity with the Woads and form an alliance with them to fight the Saxons, even as the perfidious Romans (personified by a smarmy bishop) are fleeing for their lives.

As he has proved many a time, Fuqua is a superb action director, and he always finds an unseen spectacle around which to build his big action set pieces. One recalls the famous Battle on the Ice of Sergei Eisenstein’s “Alexander Nevsky” as the knights — plus Guinevere, a gifted archer — face a mass of Teutons charging across a frozen river. I’m as sick of computer imagery as you are, but the legerdemain by which the ice cracks and sends the proto-Nazis to a cold, watery grave is masterful.

The final fight pitches the fire and strength of the combined Arthurian-Woad alliance against the Germanic throngs. It’s beautifully filmed as the skies fill with fire arrows, like SAMs rising against our jets over Baghdad in the recent fracas, and the forces close and clash, and the delicate Knightley goes all Samurai on her opponents, while atop their horses the surviving knights function like M-1 tanks raking through the battlefield.

You might fault the eternal cliche by which, in the middle of thousands of fighters, the two kings locate each other and settle their differences steel on steel, as the minions around them cooperate by clearing a nice little free space. On the other hand, you might as well just sit back and enjoy the fight.

Fuqua has a real weakness for calendar art compositions and I would argue that this was kitsch, except that I have the same loathsome weakness. So a lot of “King Arthur” is a kind of macho battle porn of posture, weapon and uniform: The knights are forever rearing up their steeds before charging, pennants flapping behind them, long swords drawn and glistening, armor alight with the illumination of the battle fires, all this in rapturous slo-mo, all of it framed and romanticized even further by the ghostly layers of mist floating everywhere. If this is the sort of thing you like, you’re really going to like it here.

I wish the film were technically — oh, what’s the word? — “better.” We don’t really get much sense of personality beyond archetype, and for a movie that pretends to a higher realism, it’s still plenty jammed up with macho bluster and romanticism. Guinevere and Arthur? Well, not a love story for the ages as they’re both so busy slashing and bashing they don’t have much time to relate. Knightley is probably too good an actress for this sort of thing, though she makes a great battle faerie. Ioan Gruffudd who plays Lancelot, the smartest and most loyal of the knights but also the most conflicted, really doesn’t feature in the workings of the story. He’s just there, and more attention goes to the sexy beast Ray Winstone as someone named Bors, more man-mountain than cavalry trooper, who gets most of the best lines.

King Arthur (125 minutes, at area theaters) is PG-13 rated for intense battle scenes.

He still sees dead people, only now they’re the best thing in the movie.

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M. Night Shyamalan gets great spurts of energy when he visualizes the dead, in this case victims of a plague of suicide sweeping the Northeast in his new film, “The Happening.”

If you like suicide, here’s your main ride. All others, steer clear. As Shyamalan imagines it (as usual, he wrote, directed and produced it and appears in a cameo, just like whatshisname), a strange airborne toxin is loosed upon the region, beginning in New York’s Central Park at exactly 8:33 in the morning. The superb cinematographer Tak Fujimoto (who also shot Shyamalan’s “The Sixth Sense” and “Signs”) manages to capture the exact weight of the wind as it presses against the foliage of that leafy glen, and soon people have stopped moving for a few seconds and then hastened to find methods of self-obliteration.

Elliot Moore (Mark Wahlberg) and his wide-eyed wife, Alma (Zooey Deschanel), plus a friendly couple’s child, Jess (Ashlyn Sanchez), take to the road in a tide of refugees.

Shyamalan, unlike the directors of the far better “Birds,” “War” and even “Dawn,” isn’t entirely sure what kind of movie he’s making, and he shuffles through personalities looking for one that interests him. “The Happening” stutter-steps its way in this direction and that to a disappointing ending.

A little bit of Slovene philosopher Slavoj Zizek goes a long way. In the verbose profile docu “Zizek!” there’s a a load of esoteric, eccentric theories, and little context within his globetrotting life story. While the barrage of ideas may be off-putting because of the masses, U.S. distrib Zeitgeist could score quick, modest coin at upscale venues prior to more appropriate tube sales and cult homevid.

Subject is a bearded, sweating, antisocial, eminently quotable bear of a man who throws out ideas in a heavily accented lisp. Zizek’s work fuses Marxism and the thinking of French psychoanalyst Jacques Lacan (1901-1981), who put a post-structuralist spin on Freud. Further twists are his encyclopedic knowledge of pop culture and extreme pronouncements: “My big worry,” he frets, “is not to be ignored, but accepted.” Zizek speaks to a rapt Buenos Aires crowd, plays cautiously with his “narcissistically amused” son and talks. And talks. Tech credits are average, highlighted by Molly Schwartz’s stylish animated interstitials. Vancouver fest title “Slavoj Zizek: The Reality of the Virtual” is a different film on the same subject. November 16 New York bow will be on Beta SP, with subsequent 35mm blowup possible.

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Chris Taylor walks us through the features for the new AC1000 unit in this trailer for Supreme Commander 2.

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Reviewed by Dennis Schwartz

A curious black-and-white musical Western by the same team of director
Noel Smith and producer Bryan Foy that worked on Dick Foran’s musical Westerns.
The lively screenplay for this B Western, interjected throughout by bursts
of singing, is by Tom Blackburn. It’s set in an economically strapped Texas
just after the Civil War when Yankee investors have saved the state from
financial ruin by gobbling up big chunks of grazing land. One of them is
Judd Hastings (Ray Teal), who meets with the governor in Austin and is
told the law is on his side to dispossess the nesters on his land but Texas
doesn’t have a militia to enforce the law. Hastings returns to his big
spread in the cattle town of Questa and issues a dispossess order stating
if the nesters do not leave immediately their livestock will be confiscated.
Hastings has hired 40 goons led by tough-guy Keeno to clear the nesters
off his land. The governor, hoping to avoid trouble sends his special envoy
Mike McGann (Dennis Morgan) and his partner Shiloh (George O’Hanlon). 

McGann arrives when Keeno’s men are chasing after nester Ben Curran
(Philip Carey), who is leaving but can’t accept the loss of his cattle
or being shot at. Sizing up the situation, McGann sides with the poor nesters
over the greedy cattle baron but tries to keep a gunfight from breaking
out between both sides. The singing cowboy and cocky ladies man also attracts
the attention of Hasting’s nice single pretty daughter Marian (Amanda Blake)
and the feisty senorita Queli (Rita Moreno), the daughter of Mexican nester
Felipe Rojas. 

McGann’s brilliant efforts to avert a range war fall short because
Hastings refuses to release the cattle he confiscated, but after a few
battles it leads to a rousing climax that includes a stampede as the good
guys prevail and law and order is restored. 

Man of letters-director Jeremy Brock exploits his own backstory as a vicar’s son and one-time assistant to Dame Peggy Ashcroft for this warm if slightly fumbled coming-of-age dispatch. With his antisocial clergyman father (Nicholas Farrell) and snooty do-gooder of a indulge (Laura Linney), it’s hardly wonder 17-year-crumbling Ben (‘Harry Potter’ sidekick Rupert Grint) is a chary, poetry-article type whose pungency is an ongoing round of church functions and unrequited longing. Unlikely salvation is at deal out, however, when he replies to a supporter-wanted ad in the Christian cleave to and finds himself companion and dogsbody for a dotty advanced in years actress (Julie Walters), who’s soon gap his sheltered consciousness to the glories of Shakespeare and sundry more worldly experiences – not least when she insists on him driving her to the Edinburgh festivities for a verse reading, metrical though he doesn’t have a licence…

Sociable fare, it has to be said, but the component parts are done reasonably fairly. Grint has a satisfyingly line in pained forbearance and looks a good immature trait actor; the repressively dainty climate is convincing; and Linney, despite struggling somewhat with the accent, brings a sly comedic touch to her uptight suburban hypocrisy. Walters, on the other hand, just straps in and blasts nutty. Thin it ain’t, but those who like her doing her thing will definitely get high on this. Indeed, it’s all trotting along happily enough until Brock has to engineer a last-sway confrontation between the rival women and makes a right hash of it. A shame, really, up to now if this mild-mannered, somewhat fusty, damned British entertainment is unhurried to dismiss, it’s noiseless stubbornly hard to execrate.