Consider, if you will, a spy movie in which we’re told midway through the movie that all of the twists and turns and intrigue that we’ve been immersed in actually don’t matter at all. What we have instead is the lowest stakes spy movie ever.

Should we be so surprised that Burn After Reading comes to us from the Coens, the diabolical team of brothers who also brought us:

Exhibit A: A heist flick that culminates in a wild manhunt including the feds, two escaped cons, and possibly the meanest ever motorcyclist with “Mom” tattooed on him, all of them hellbent on obtaining… a baby.

Exhibit B: A labyrinthine whodunnit in which the gumshoe risks death, dismemberment, and sex all for… a rug.

Fargo, The Man Who Wasn’t There, Ladykillers… I could go on, and honestly it takes some effort to stop, because I’m such a fanboy of their oeuvre. So if we admit that the Coens are just up to their own tricks again, why are people so ambivalent about their latest film? In my mind, there’s a lot here to like.

It feels a bit like a classical Greek tragedy, except funny. Its silliness (for example, character names like Oz Cox, and Ethan’s famously mannered monologues) masks this to some extent but it has a deeply cynical view of life and love — people in Burn After Reading are all too dumb or screwed up to ever be truly happy. The Greek tragedy motif is reinforced by the film returning a few times to a running commentary about the drama from two top CIA men in Langley. They preside over the action like a Greek chorus or the gods themselves from a Sophocles play (or Statler and Waldorf).  What all this adds up to is a sense that those in authority–whether god or country–may be all-seeing, but that doesn’t mean that they are any wiser because of it.

The Coens are riffing off of classic drama, but also the spy genre and film in general. Little things delight, like the classic spy computer font that is typed onto the screen to announce the setting, complete with accompanying digital bleeps. Or even smaller things, like the way that the room noise is intentionally changed in each shot as the feet march steadily down different labyrinthine Langley corridors and halls.

Then there are the phallic puns that abound in the film (from the Washington monument to George Clooney absentmindedly slicing carrots), and some outright sexual hilarity at the expense of a kluged-together contraption in Clooney’s basement.

Clooney himself is back in his “screwball Coen” acting mode, which largely consists of a cache of tics, but is beguiling regardless. All of the performances are made up of little details like these: Brad Pitt’s dye job, Richard Jenkins’ sad eyes, and Frances McDormand’s crazed ones. All of them, save Pitt, are Coen Brothers veterans and know exactly the right tones to hit; Pitt’s character is an entirely different creature, a beautiful creation, made all the more enjoyable by Pitt’s obvious delight to be playing so against type.

So sure, it may be meaningless, but why should that matter?

Question: why are stoners so fascinated with smoking pot? It’s not exactly cinematic because it’s a relatively dull activity to watch. The audience is kept at a distance during the event because the effects are all mental/chemical: the characters’ viewpoint is altered, but that doesn’t get translated to the viewers–we’re left to guess at what’s happening. Watching people smoke pot on screen is like watching the Food Network with the sound off. It’s like watching someone read a book and not being able to see the words–they’re wrapped up in something happening inside their heads, but all we can do is watch them as they sit there. It’s why there has never been a “nicotine-comedy” film, and the fetishized process looks exactly the same. Ok, I’m sounding like a grouch. There is a good deal of coughing, I’ll give it that.

I fully admit I don’t understand the attraction to stoner comedies–never have been able to sit through a Cheech and Chong movie, and I only like that Bob Saget scene in Half Baked, etc etc–but stoner action movies, which is what Pineapple Express supposedly is, now that’s something different. Pineapple Express, despite feeling slight in many places and a bit overlong, is the funniest movie so far this year, in large part due to James Franco’s performance as the friendly neighborhood drug dealer, Saul.

It feels weird to say that a performance of a stoned drug dealer, which is mainly played for laughs, is sensitive, detailed, and warm, but that’s exactly why Franco’s character is kind of brilliant. I think it’s also somewhat surprising considering the source–I never expected him capable of character-based comedy because of the other roles he has played, usually as Handsome Guy.

What keeps Pineapple Express and all Apatow-produced movies (and actually a lot of other comedies these days) from really standing out as a classic comedy is an over-reliance on ad libbing. Comedy can be funny when it is spur of the moment, when we can see that even the actors are surprised by something that has been said. But ad libbing can’t carry the weight of the majority of a movie’s scenes, especially ones that explain character motivations or plot (luckily, most of the plot found in Pineapple Express leaves out the “l”). I have no doubt that Seth Rogen may be a real hoot to hang out with, or share a joint with. But when I see him in the theatre, he needs to package himself a little more. There’s no reason for this movie to be almost two hours long, but it is; mainly because the actors have to fumble toward the point in each scene.

I had expected that Pineapple Express wouldn’t have this trouble. In my mind, it was going to be the Punch Drunk Love of stoner comedies. Turns out I was giving director David Gordon Green a bit too much credit. His first feature, George Washington, is one of my favorite films, and one of the most beautifully-shot. However, apart from a forest montage in Pineapple Express, his style–and the eye of his longtime Director of Photography Tim Orr–is desperately missed. While I understand that the entire movie couldn’t have been shot during Golden Hour, I had hoped that I would feel a bit more of his touch in this film. The actors are ably directed, the action scenes and gore work pretty effectively, but Pineapple Express doesn’t catapult itself into the realm of truly classic comedies, or even into some weird artsy stoner comedy genre subset. It’s not a failure by any stretch; I just had my hopes too high.

In what is becoming a calling card of Seth Rogen-penned scripts, there is another “McLovin” character in Pineapple Express; Red the middleman. Red bears the brunt of the abuse during the film, and his visage toward the end–complete with bullet holes, a neck brace, and a really terrible perm–is one of the few truly funny impressions that people will take away from this movie. And in that sense, it does go out on a high note–but I can’t help feeling that it missed achieving something more.

Sooooo, not sure if you heard, but a few big movies came out this summer. Where were we?

Iron Man is a great superhero movie, so much so that it’s an argument that the genre deserves a place amongst the other guilty pleasure genres like Westerns and Gangster flicks. Everything about it feels fresh, the CGI is some of the best you’ll see, it’s funny and hip, and Robert Downey Jr. doesn’t make anyone look foolish for doing a jig once his casting was announced (well, almost anyone: take off that ridiculous hat). But it’s been out for months now and you’re already like “Why is he talking about it now?” so let’s move on.

You might say that The Dark Knight is also a great superhero movie. You’d be wrong of course, because The Dark Knight transcends the superhero genre and stands on its own as just a great film. Actually, it’s one of the better films about philosophy that I’ve seen. “Philosophy?” Yes, Virginia. The Dark Knight is not so much about Bruce Banner’s heroic realization that sometimes the good guys have to wear black; it’s a chance to put Plato, Hume, and Nietszche up on screen and have their respective ideologies duke it out in a flurry of masks and makeup. Dead white guys haven’t been brought to life in such an engaging way since Weekend at Bernie’s.

I could go into each character–Batman, The Joker, and Two Face–and break it all down for you, but this isn’t a term paper and the movie has been out for almost a month now. Suffice to say, it works. I’m probably the smartest guy you know

Or try this alternate reading on for size: The Dark Knight is nothing more than an apologist film for the last eight years of GW Bush’s presidency; a two-hour long episode of 24, with capes and no Chloe. While probably not intended, aren’t the similarities alarming? To wit: The Dark Knight, once loved by the people he protected, becomes villified because the public doesn’t understand what it takes to keep them safe and keep evil off the streets. Also, he implements an unpopular mass surveilance system… for the good of the people. At the end of the film he must accept that he’s a misunderstood hero, and that if people only knew the truth of what happened… but that’s his cross to bear. Spooky, no?

Well I swear I had that conversation with my wife exiting the theatre, but because I’m lazy and only now getting to writing about this movie, that rag The Wall Street Journal beat me to it; read for yourself.

No matter which reading of the film you choose (and really, that’s the beauty of social sciences crit, we’re all right), The Dark Knight is the new black. And I’ve talked about it up till now without even mentioning Heath Ledger*

Oh, and please let’s not even bring up The Incredible Hulk. The ghost of Edward Norton’s talent thanks you.

*He really is incredible and deserves all the awards in the world.

You’ve already seen it, so this entreaty will fall on deaf ears. But I will tell you anyway: Save your $8.50 and use it to see Iron Man instead.

There was about half an hour where I wasn’t sure I hated Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull and then…it all just kind of clicked and I realized that I really missed the Nazis. No, seriously.

The film is missing a key element: stakes. In the first film of what was–and should have remained–a fine trilogy, Indiana Jones has a clear objective: find the Ark of the Covenant and keep it out of the hands of the Nazis, who want to use it as a radio to God. The audience understands that: Nazis + the Ark = Uh-Oh. We now have a rooting interest in Indy to get there first. In the third film, simply substitute the Holy Grail for the Ark of the Covenant (sticking with power-hungry Nazis who want to live forever) and you get: Nazis + Holy Grail = a Third Reich that lasts even longer than 1000 years. Let’s go Indy and dad!

But the George Lucas and David Koepp script for the latest film neglects to inform audiences why they should root for Indiana Jones. Instead, we are given a lame storyline about a crystal skull that has some type of powers…of what kind we’re not certain…and the Soviets want it because…something about mind control…and if someone takes it to its resting place he gets its power…which is…what? I watched the movie and I don’t understand what the hell the crystal skull is.

Lucas wants me to disregard the hazy plotting, and just remember that Commies are bad and that we like Indy. And, while I think that for some people that’s good enough, it just wasn’t for me for two reasons: 1. This isn’t the 1950s–the Reds don’t scare me, Pops. 2. Indiana Jones is likeable because the first three movies were good–how many times do you hear someone say, “Man, the movie may have been crap, but Val Kilmer sure was likeable as Batman!”?

Thus, all the action sequences–and there are many, including a motorcycle chase, a car chase and a tank chase–feel lifeless because the audience does not know what’s at stake if Indy loses. Apparently, the Commies are going to…do…something…with this…Crystal Skull…which is…what exactly? With a simple, comprehensible story I might actually get on the edge of my seat as Indy tumbles over that waterfall because I know that the fate of the free world rests on his shoulders. I might jump when “the living dead” (is that what they were?) pop out of the temple’s walls because only Indy can deliver the skull to its resting place. But I didn’t. I just wondered why Indy decided to go traipsing off to Peru at 65 instead of retiring to his den to write a book about how he saved the world from Nazi domination…twice.

What was I saying?

Do you like seeing monkeys perform kung fu to break up expository scenes? Do you like movies that are so excited to get to the next scene that the directors literally show you part of that scene before the first one is finished? Do you like smoking crack? Then go see Speed Racer. I saw it 8 days ago and have just awoken from a serotonin-induced coma brought on by 70s-animation and shitty editing to type out this meager warning: Don’t…go…see…Speed…Racer…but…Christina…Ricci…looks…strangely…hot…in…it.

I didn’t say it was a newsflash. The duo stars in Baby Mama, and actually it’s a little surprising that (1) it took this long to pair them on screen and (2) Lorne Michaels is nowhere to be found (but plenty of SNL & 30 Rock alums are). They have changed very little about their “Fey-as-straight (wo)man and Poehler-as-jester” routine, except when did Fey’s cheek become so … scarless? I spent a chunk of the film playing Where’s Waldo with it. [I'm only slightly ashamed of that.] Anyway, Tina Fey’s signature scar may be difficult to spot, but luckily the same cannot be said for the laughs.

The plot is classic Odd Couple: Fey plays a sophisticated executive who somehow is able to be heard over the ticking of her biological clock. Unfortunately, her womb is a rocky place where the sperm bank’s seed could find no purchase. Enter a backwoods Poehler — Fey’s womb for hire — and her common-law husband Carl (Dax Shepard). Hijinks ensue as Poehler moves in and, as any fish out of water would, creates quite a mess.

Fey and Poehler aren’t rangy actors — there were some tense moments in the theatre when they were called upon to show something other than buffoonery — but for the most part this movie stays right in their wheelhouse. What makes the two entertaining is their easy chemistry together. Fey has always seemed like Poehler’s Big Sister: tolerant, lovingly admonishing; in Baby Mama, Fey literally does have the opportunity to be a mentor for Poehler’s trashy surrogate mother, and (wouldn’t you know it?) she learns something about herself along the way. Poehler, on the other hand, has plenty of room to stretch her ghettotrash personality here, and while she’s always ironically detached from it, it’s still endearing.

The fantastic comedic cast is rounded out by Steve Martin, Greg Kinnear, and the PC guy from the PC/Mac commercials, and I’m always pleasantly surprised to see Brian Stack acting — his turn here as a Methodist man slowly warming to the idea that his surrogate mother is a Wiccan is inspired — because this is still one of the funniest sketches on Late Nite with Conan O’Brien. I could’ve used more of his character in this movie. In fact, I hope Baby Mama II is his story.

Baby Mama wanders slightly into You Got Mail territory when Fey’s corporation moves into a small burg in Philly that looks like it would out-Portland Portland. (In fact, now that I think of it, Oscar [Romany Malco] should move there and petition for his freedom, because I’m not sure what his role is in the movie but it seems like he’s Tina Fey’s smart-talking male slave.) The strange thing is, the corporation is about as hippy-Green as could be; for example, the CEO rewards his employees with “five minutes of uninterrupted eye contact.” Elsewhere, Jamba Juice is vilified.

What’s the message that they’re sending there? I look to Hollywood for tips on what to like/stop liking… am I supposed to stop shopping at Trader Joe’s now? Or am I supposed to do the opposite — stop worrying and love the grassroots conglomerate? I’m seriously confused here. If Baby Mama was just an NBC TV show I’d assume it was their way of working their green peacock/Earth Day thing into the movie, but since it’s not, I don’t know what to think. Jeff, anyone, please help…

Let’s just get this out of the way: Yes, Jason Segel goes full frontal in the film. Apparently, he’s been watching one too many Harvey Keitel movies. That this much-talked-about scene happens near the beginning actually ends up working well thematically (though probably not intentionally) as it clues the audience in to a key component of this Judd Apatow production: What you will be watching for the next 90 to 120 minutes is purely pornographic. I don’t mean the sometimes-exposed breasts, or the language that not-so-subtly evokes a conversation between truckers over the CB after a cocaine-fueled night at the strip club, or even Jason Segel’s penis. Rather, it is the plot which is pornographic. Consider the steps:

1. Boy loses Ridiculously Hot Girl (Kristen Bell of “Veronica Mars” fame) to English Bloke.
2. Boy goes to Hawaii to get his mind off of aforementioned Ridiculously Hot Girl, where, surprise, Ridiculously Hot Girl and English Bloke are staying at the same resort.
3. Boy meets Equally Hot Yet Less Bitchy Girl (Mila Kunis), who falls in love with him despite the fact that he’s a walking pile of sorrow and shame, and makes Ridiculously Hot Girl regret her decision to bed down with a wanker.

All that’s missing is a pizza delivery man at an all-girls Catholic school (I hear that’s Apatow’s next project).

Now, it’s worth mentioning that most Hollywood scripts have been written by balding, overweight men in their mothers’ basements, and thus are inclined toward the fantastical, but Judd Apatow productions seem to revel in this cinematic pie in the sky because, well, have you seen his wife? Have you seen him? He must just be incredibly lucky, right? Wrong–he’s funny, which according to most women is the most attractive quality in a man (they also say size doesn’t matter). Thus far the common thread to all Apatow movies have been the idea of the lovable loser, just as Apatow himself seems to be. First it was Steve Carell in the 40 Year Old Virgin as, well…a 40 year old virgin. But he’s self-deprecating and nervous and shy, which Catherine Keener finds all too adorable. He then becomes the 41 year old sex machine. Then it was the pudgy, immature guy that impregnates a one-night stand in Knocked Up. But he’s also funny and fresh and has the best of intentions, so Katherine Heigl gives him a shot. Right on its heels came Superbad about two high school nerds that talk dirty but are embraced for their wit and “realness”.

And you know what? I bought into all of that. I could see what Catherine Keener liked about Steve Carell, why Katherine Heigl would choose to date a man-child, and why two teenage girls–who could be with any number of members of the football team–chose instead to hang out with two guys that they found to be funny. Improbable though these victories for the protagonist underdogs were, they were not flukes. Unfortunately, in Forgetting Sarah Marshall, I just don’t understand what Mila Kunis finds in Jason Segel. To be honest, he’s probably better looking than any of his predecessors. And more professionally successful, as well–he plays a composer. But there’s one thing he just doesn’t have going for him: He’s just been dumped, and he’s miserable. Thus, every scene between him and Kunis drags on as so:

Segel: I’m so miserable because I’ve just been dumped by Ridiculously Hot Girl. Will you love me instead?
Kunis: Oh, I’m sorry, but I have to play hard-to-get for at least my next 15 minutes of screen time.
Segel: But I’m so miserable. My life is off track. What I really need is another woman to get my mind off of the last woman I dated. Can’t you be that woman?
Kunis: Hmmm…go ahead and continue talking. I’ll just nod my head and smile.
Segel: I really like you.
Kunis: Okay, your desperation has really got me turned on. Let’s go at it.

And this works? The dividing line between a love story and a porn film is often the believability of the romance. Segel is the least funny character in the film, he spends half his screen time with Kleenex in hand, and he seems to have little to say to women. I believed that Kunis would fall for him about as much as I believe that there’s a Playboy bunny out there who cruises the interstate, giving rides to hitchhikers (pun intended).

Having said all that, this film is the funniest I’ve seen since the last Apatow production I saw and is extra special in the theater, where the audience’s laughter feeds off of itself. Hey, no one said pornography wasn’t entertaining. I give it 8 millimeters out of a possible 10.

Aah, another charming, droll romantic comedy from across the pond, in the tradition of Death at a Funeral, Four Weddings & a Funeral, and The Englishman Who Went Up A Hill But Came Down For A Funeral… Wait, what? This came from us??

Yep, call it our American Invasion. Finally it’s our chance to take something the Brits invented, perfect it, and sell it back to them. And in fact, Run Fatboy Run opened at #1 in the UK, taking in £2,010,250–which translates into roughly $5 kajillion US dollars.

And so, triumphant, expecting Fatboy-mania, it opened in America… and finished 13th at the box office. 13th. Behind College Road Trip. Was it just pacing itself for the marathon? Keepin’ a bit in the ol’ tank for the long haul? No. Try to find it in theatres in a few weeks. Won’t be there.

So what happened? It’s a likable enough movie with the charismatic Simon Pegg, the frail but inimitable Thandie Newton, and the kind of grossly ripped Hank Azaria. An aside: voice actors should not look like that with their shirts off. It makes me uncomfortable.

With all that talent, the only way the film could go wrong is if it leaned on all those inspirational movie cliches that get lampooned in Will Ferrell movies. And that’s exactly what happens; Fatboy is Rocky, except if Adrian was getting nailed by Apollo Creed. With a script writing credit attached to Michael Ian Black, who actually put out one of the best comedy albums of the last few years last year, it’s a little disappointing to have nary a trace of his unique brand of absurdist humor. Maybe the blame belongs on the shoulders of David Schwimmer, the rookie director, who really only succeeds here when he stays out of the way and allows Pegg space to do his thing.

So maybe we haven’t quite perfected the British comedy yet. But with all that pounds sterling rolling in, just don’t tell the Brits.

I think he’ll be more pleased with Gondry’s latest effort, Be Kind Rewind. With the top-heavy movie cycle, in which box office receipts plummet after the opening weekend, Be Kind is probably already old news. There are a few reasons you should press the rewind button and go see it. The biggest reason: it’s ingenious.

Gondry takes a standard movie cliché, connecting the dots: (Step 1) A neighborhood institution is going to get torn down, thus (Step 2) the people need to save said institution with their brainpower so that (Step 3) corporate culture will be defeated by the uniqueness of the neighborhood. In this case the institution is a video store (read: not a DVD rental location, but a video store) and the people with the brainpower are a numbnuts (Jack Black) who accidentally erased all the tapes and a slow-witted caretaker of the store (Mos Def). When a slightly kooky customer (Mia Farrow) demands a now non-existent copy of Ghostbusters, the pair decide that the only option is, well, to make their own condensed version, with Mos Def as Bill Murray and Jack Black as “everyone else”. To their bewilderment, the flick becomes a hit and they soon attract a cult following, inundated with requests for re-made versions of everything from Driving Miss Daisy to The Lion King.

While they’ve just hit upon a method to save the store, they need to make more films in order to get enough money. To do that, they need more help from the community. And here is what I admire about this film: What’s started out as two guys making an atrocious rehashing of Ghostbusters swells to a neighborhood-wide exercise in self-expression. Suddenly, the local kids and town crazies that have been renting the most films are also starring in them. It’s a big middle finger to the idea of artistic ownership. As soon as they’re released, Paramount or Universal or Warner Bros. don’t own these films–the audience does. So, which is better: Robocop the way it was edited or the way we remember it (a half man/half machine kicking ass in Detroit with a funny accent)? Carrie with Sissy Spacek or with that bitchy girl from high school who you want to dump tomato sauce on at the climax? Boogie Nights with…well, that one’s easy.

We love films because we can identify with certain characters, situations or themes; we can place ourselves in them, if only metaphorically. The giddy fun that comes from Be Kind Rewind is watching people literally place themselves there. How odd that a populist lesson about film’s inability to be divorced from its audience should come from one of the leading cinematic thinkers of this decade.

At this point I think it’s safe to say that almost everyone who has seen Cloverfield agrees that it’s a rollicking good time; one of those popcorn movies where every jolt and twist is made all the more enjoyable by watching it in a packed theatre. That in itself is a major marker in our country’s progression beyond September 11th, as Cloverfield is the first movie that asks us to engage the event as drama, unpacked of all of its helplessness and heartbreak. In a way, it resembles the original Godzilla movie, a film that also used a monster as a stand in for a devastating attack. Ultimately, Cloverfield allows us to move forward by accepting 9/11 for what it was: a horrific attack by forces that we could not adequately understand and were powerless to stop.

The initial scuttlebutt about Cloverfield was that J.J. Abrams had decided, upon traveling to Japan, that America needed its own Godzilla movie. But the similarities between Godzilla and Cloverfield are more than monster-deep. When Gojira was released in 1954, Japan was still reeling from the nuclear attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki that led to the end of fighting in the Pacific Theater nine years earlier. Creating a powerful, fire-breathing monster that comes from outside Japan’s borders to wreak havoc on its shores was a way of dealing with the pure terror that they must have felt after the atom bombs’ detonations. Through the course of the movie, the audience is invited to meet, fear, and finally conquer the monster, thus conquering their own post-WWII fears as well. Film as therapy. The horror contained and the collective psyche now repaired, Godzilla can even become an ally in future films, its power now harnessed by the people it used to terrify.

Cloverfield follows the same structure, and comes at roughly the same point in our national history, almost seven years after the terrorist attacks on New York and DC. Its decapitated Statue of Liberty is as clear a stand-in for the fallen Twin Towers as can be; the monster of unexplicable origin an apt representation of the new era of warfare that 9/11 ushered in.

This is a sea-change from how Hollywood has dealt with 9/11 since the attacks. The first few movies to be released post-9/11, Zoolander and Serendipity, had the World Trade Center digitally removed from the New York skyline–it was “too soon” to mention them. Spike Lee and Martin Scorsese (in 25th Hour and Gangs of New York, respectively) chose to pay respectful homage. It wasn’t until 2006 that Hollywood directly confronted Sept 11, with World Trade Center and United 93. Both were somber affairs that were more interested in erecting two-hour long monuments to our losses; neither attempting to move beyond solemn respect to engage with what was happening beneath the surface of our national psyche.

Cloverfield is a sign that America is ready to move forward, past our mourning and on toward the future, and just like Japan over 50 years ago, we will do it with film. Yes, the monster in the movie lives on–which is fitting because we are still figuring out how to fight on this new front. But I am an optimist, and I have to like our chances in the sequel.