Reviews

*Warning the following analysis contains a discussion of the entire film – including the ending.

This Seattle based film may be the most emotionally stirring documentary I have ever witnessed. I must admit to tears 2 or 3 different times over the almost 2 hours. Perhaps the most surprising element of this powerful documentary is its simple (almost mundane) subject matter: a group of regular people talking about the people they love.

The hook to most documentaries is some extraordinary event (historical or personal), or a look into a world that is exotic, foreign, surprising or unknown in some way – something we have never seen before. By contrast the subject matter of Inlaws and Outlaws, ordinary falling in love, is extremely well known to us all and the stories are told with few starling events, nothing shocking, nothing in fact that you probably have not heard (or actually experienced) before. Yet the stories carry an impact that is emotionally overpowering.

Inlaws and Outlaws documents the relationships of a number of couples, mostly gay and lesbian, and has each simply tell their story of love. What is extraordinary is the courage some of the couples displayed by laying their most intimate emotions before the camera. You leave feeling you have witnessed what is most beautiful in humanity.

Further, the film is frequently hilarious and always entertaining. The director, Drew Emery, has inserted poignant musical pieces (performed by a jazz singer and band in a night club setting) to set up each new segment and allows us to think about what has come before. Further, the musical device divides the talk into the different parts of the relationships. And the final scene where the singer performs "Our Love Is Here To Stay" and we slowly realize the crowd dancing is made up of the couples from the film provides an unexpected and perfect closing to their stories and this powerful film.

Some of the couple we meet: A lesbian couple who were brought up Mormon and fought internal conflicts stemming from religious and family pressures for years before finally coming together. They had been lovers since high school but one of the two decided to marry and fake a 'traditional' life. She could not, and found the courage to put aside her guilt and family disowning to be with her true love.

There is an older man whose lover recently died after 50 years together. They found it necessary to remain closeted their entire lives with many friends thinking they were brothers. Also having grown up in an abusive household he tells how his father would have literally killed him if his homosexuality was discovered. The depth and beauty of their relationship is clear as he talks of their life together, and it is impossible not to cry when he speaks of David's death.

There are a couple of older lesbian couples who tell simple yet beautiful stories of love. And it is these older couples that are most powerful and which brought me to tears. Why? Perhaps because you feel their love is most pure somehow. They have left behind social pressures such as marriage or children, have moved beyond superficialities of beauty or status, and have come together simply and purely for love. And any film that can project that kind of beauty and make you feel that pure goodness of love is more than entertainment, it is life inspiring and emotionally cathartic.

There is a sad and still raw story of a divorce initiated by a husband who accepted he was gay in his 40s after years of marriage and children.

And then there is the young lesbian couple that is held up as the hero couple of the film – the hero relationship (in social terms). No, not because their love is any more strong or they had to overcome anything more difficult; rather because their relationship is the most easy and accepted, the most 'ordinary' of the gay relationships. They met, fell in love and got married in a traditional ceremony surround by friends and family and live together happily as wife and wife. Their relationship is the point of the film – this is how it should be but how it is not. It is a human rights message of the radical ordinary – I dare you to see these loving couples and maintain their love deserves any less recognition than straight love; I dare you to find the difference between the heterosexual and homosexual relationships.

Should you see it? Absolutely, you will find what is most beautiful in humanity.

At the risk of sounding metrosexual – Gentlemen Prefer Blondes is fabulous. It is a Technicolor musical in the eye-popping spirit of Singing in the Rain. Gentlemen Prefer Blondes stars Marilyn Monroe as Lorelei Lee and Jane Russell as Dorothy Shaw, two showgirls on their way to Paris via cruise-ship – and there is your plot. Lorelei hopes to marry a rich man because he is rich and Dorothy is her friend – and there is your character development. Ernie Malone is a private eye hired by Gus Esmond's father to dig up dirt on Lorelei so he can forbid his son from marrying. Malone manages a photo of Lorelei in the arms of an old diamond mine owner Sir Francis 'Piggy' Beekman – and there is your plot twist. In the final scene (as if I need to say it) Lorelei and Dorothy walk down the aisle to marry – and there, of course, is your resolution. The film has all the substance of a cream puff; yet, it is fabulous.

Most prominently Gentlemen Prefer Blondes has fantastic songs and musical performances (most famously Monroe's Diamond's Are a Girl's Best Friend.) Though for my money Russell is the better musical performer. For me it is like Chicago where Catherine Zeta Jones, the brunette co-star, out performed (and out sex-appealed) the blonde, top-billed star. Rene Zellweger was that blonde in Chicago.

Next, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes is surprisingly sexy for 1953. Further (and I'm not sure about this) it displays more skin (both male and female) than any film that preceded it. The dresses Monroe and Russell wear in the opening scene still shock. Plus there are many cleverly placed and innocently spoken double-entendres (such as the girls discussing the bugle in Esmond's pocket while he watches them perform). And most startling is the homoerotic dance number featuring basically nude male dances representing the US Olympic team. This is also the best song and dance number in the film – it is the sexy bookend to Monroe's Diamonds Are a Girl's Best friend toward the end of the film. (It would be interesting for a pop-culture historian to discuss if the homoerotic elements in Russell's song were at all obvious to the 1950s audience – or if society as a whole was too closeted to even acknowledge it. I'm betting on the latter, otherwise I cannot imagine it getting past the censors.) Director Howard Hawks makes the interesting choice to present Monroe's character as self-consciously superficial and proud of it. A fitting choice, in that the film itself is self-consciously superficial – there is nothing (internal to the film) to consider after watching it. Monroe famously states, "It is just as easy to love a rich man as a poor man", and that is all the film is about – her marrying the rich man.

There is, surprisingly, quite a bit to consider external to film – both culturally and within film history. Primarily is how boldly and without emotional conflict Monroe's character espouses her life theory – get rich by marring a rich man, love be damned. Lorelei is unapologetic and open about her pursuit, disclosing her intentions not only to Dorothy but also to Esmond (and his Dad). The feature song and dance number "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend" is Gentlemen Prefer Blondes version of Gordon Gekko "greed is good" speech in Wall St. (I'm sure historians could make a number of boring points about capitalism vs. socialism and 1950s cold war policy at this point.) Further Hawks makes sure Lorelei does not learn anything along the way. She does not fall in love with Esmond, nor does she find anything admirable in Esmond aside from his money. In a very odd way she is an unapologetic woman of her convictions, telling both her finance and his father, I'm marrying in for the cash and don't you think I'm worth it? But you really need not think beyond the screen to enjoy this film. It is pure candy – so just lean back, smile and take in the Technicolor sweets.

Should you see it? Fabulously on the big screen.

A fairly ridiculous upstairs downstairs silent film romance/cast-away adventure.

There are two parts to this film – the first two hours and the last 20 seconds. Those final 20 second color all which come before it in a most surprising manner.

But first, the initial two hours. We begin in Victorian England. Virtuous, intelligent, hard working servants must wait on inept, frivolous and decadent aristocracy. Lady Mary Lasenby, Gloria Swanson's character is the most conceited of them all – haughtily lounging, extravagantly bathing in rose scented water and obnoxiously ridiculing Crichton, the intelligent and industrious butler, about her morning toast.

After establishing this social dynamic, De Mille turns everything on its head by having the group's ship wreck on a deserted island while out on a pleasure cruise (a la Gilligan). Castaway on the island the 'law of nature' prevails over Victorian hierarchy and Crichton is soon established as the group's leader because of his bravery, industriousness and intelligence. Crichton is the leopard-skin wearing king, building a little village on the island equipped with numerous contraptions even The Professor would marvel at. Further, previously vain and bratty Lady Lasenby falls in love with Crichton. They are to marry, but mid "I do" a ship arrives to save them. Instantly, before the first English sailor has disembarked to rescue them, the Victorian hierarchy demands all of them return to their previous roles. After years as the leopard-skin king Crichton is instantly the butler again. Victorian social rules supercede Crichton's natural skills and he must return a servant; Victorian social rule supercede Lady Lasenby's love, and she knows they can never marry. To drive home the point of how disastrous their marriage would be despite their love, Lady Lasenby's friend, who stooped to marry her chauffeur, arrives to see Lady Lasenby penny less and shunned, the proof of society's condemnation of those who break the rules.

And here is where the first movie ends – a tragic love story about the constraints of Victorian society - not unlike Age of Innocence or many other comedies of manners.

But then you have the final scene in the last 20 seconds. Previously we learned Crichton is leaving for America and says marring Tweeny, the maid, to escape the unbearable condition he has returned to in England. Cut to the final scene. There is a startling change of scenery – a little wood house out on the American prairie. Crichton is just coming home from plowing the fields of their farm and Tweeny is out to meet him. They embrace and kiss, the film ends, and the poignancy of De Mille's final statement reworks everything in the previous two hours. De Mille's statement is about the promise of America, and its effect is more powerful than just about any political speech I can recall. Crichton is happy and will be happy because here in America we reward based on natural ability and hard work. We have seen what Crichton is capable of, and De Mille wants us to imagine his accomplishments in a land that will allow him to flourishes. It is American democratic propaganda second only to It's a Wonderful Life in effectiveness. An astounding political accomplishment considering America is not even a thought in this film until the final scene. The single stationary shot of Crichton walking from his field to his wife is a stirring, persuasive tribute to the American dream.

Regardless of whether you buy the propaganda or not, it is worth a viewing to see how effectively De Mille presents it.

This film is also noteworthy because it is the first time De Mille directed Swanson, a collaboration made famous by Sunset Blvd.

Should you see it? If only to compare it with It's a Wonderful Life as an endorsement of the American dream.

Love is a better than you expect silent film romance.

There are a few remarkable qualities a film lover will encounter in Love. Foremost is how little the emotional impact of Love has faded over the years (relative to other silent films). Often silent films are enjoyable because they have aged and we can delight in their quaint or old-fashioned sensibility, laughing while comparing how much movies and pop culture have changed. Love, however, has largely maintained its original affect, which is particularly amazing given it is a sentimental tear-jerker romance, a genre that ages, perhaps, lest well. These eighty years later we still can related to the feelings of both Captain Count Alexei Vronsky (John Gilbert) and Anna Karenina (Greta Garbo) while we root for their love. Of course there are plenty of moments, originally dramatic, that are now laughable, but over all the film has age well. (Most odd is the depiction of Anna and her son's love. Today it plays with disturbingly incestuous overtones. I do not know how it played in 1927.)

The second striking feature, also related to how well this film has aged, is how beautiful Greta Garbo appears. Like many elements in silent films, standards are beauty may not translate across generations. Actors and actresses considered amazingly beautiful in the teens and twenties may no longer satisfy the modern movie star equivalent. Garbo, however, is still strikingly, obviously beautiful.

The final striking feature is a bit of trivia – there are two endings to Love, an American ending and a European. The difference in endings is striking in that the same divergent choices would probably be made today. The European ending is bleak, tragic and emotionally effective, as Anna steps in front of the rushing train rather than live without her lover and son. Further, it is the ending in the original text, Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. The American ending is predictable, saccharine and laughable. Americans in 1927, like American today, want their romances to end with all the loose ends tided up, all the obstacles overcome, and all our couples marring to live happily ever after.

Story Synopsis: Love is based on Leo Tolstoy's Anna Karenina. Anna Karenina meets Captain Count Alexei Vronsky in a terrible blizzard late one afternoon and he helps her to shelter. He is instantly smitten, but she rejects him. Vronsky helps Anna back to the Czarist court and her husband, Senator Alexei Karenina. Vronsky too is part of the court, the top assistant to the Grand Duke. Vronsky and Anna continue to meet at various events: official functions, dances, wolf hunts. Eventually they fall hopelessly in love. The court is abuzz as it is obvious to all who see Vronsky and Anna that they are attracted to each other. Karenina cold and authoritarian, warns Anna of court gossip and commands she at least be inconspicuous and avoid public scandal. Anna and Vronsky try a number of times to stop seeing each but their love is overpowering. Eventually they abscond to Italy, rejecting their former lives to live as lovers. Anna, however, cannot bare being away from her son. When she returns Karenina refuses to allow Anna to visit her son again. Further, Anna finds out that Vronsky is going to be dismissed from his military post because of their affair. Realizing how awful that would be for Vronsky she makes a deal with his commander: if she leaves St. Petersburg forever Vronsky will retain his post. She decides to leave on the next train, sacrificing her happiness for Vronsky's. But Anna cannot bear the thought of leaving both her lover and her adored son. Instead of riding her train into exile she steps in front of it to her death. The ending is sudden, shocking, and effective. A surprisingly poignant ending to a film of pleasant surprises.

American Ending: Years later Vronsky happens upon Anna and her son. Vronsky has maintained his high military post, Anna's husband is dead, mother and son are together, Anna and Vronsky still love each and will surely soon marry now that they have re-found each other. And we have "happily ever after'.

Ray is fantastically entertaining, wonderfully acted from top to bottom, and is just a damn good story told well. It is biopic of Ray Charles spanning his life from age 8 in the segregated south to his world-renowned success in the late 1960s.

Interestingly The Aviator and Ray share many similarities: both are biopics of the famous, both are fast paced, absorbing and thoroughly entertaining, both stories are punctuated by numerous renown successes (the creation of airplanes in The Aviator, the creation of songs in Ray) and both main characters have their Achilles heel (mental illness in The Aviator, heroine addiction in Ray). Ray, however, succeeds in the critical area of character, precisely where the The Aviator fails.

Ray succeeds by staying focused on Ray as a person in a story, rather than as an icon in a spectacle (which is how Martin Scorsese treats Howard Hughes). Of course you realize that the story is about Ray Charles, most poignantly when you hear his familiar, brilliant music; however, the film is at its best when you forget about the real life Ray Charles and are absorbed in the on screen performance, (and you are continuously absorbed).

Scorsese, on the other hand, is continually pointing outward from the film asking us to think about the real world icons inhabiting the screen. He sets up a wax works and wants us to say "Oooow look, there's Catherine Hepburn. Owww look, there's Spencer Tracy." Scorsese does little in the way of character development, relying, I suppose, on the biographic knowledge we already have to fill in where he has only broadly sketched. Ultimately The Aviator is a surface film, a superficial action adventure. Ray is genuine, insightful, well-structured cinematic story telling. (See The Aviator in January 2005 of this blog for the extended Aviator rant.)

Ray's story is both incredibly interesting and skillfully composed. Director Taylor Hackford uses intermittent flashbacks to Ray's ultra-poor childhood in the segregated south as his central dramatic device. The flashbacks give Ray depth, helping to explain why the Ray of our story has become the man he is.

There are two childhood tragedies Ray carries with him throughout the story. The first tragedy is Ray's blindness, and his mother's insistence that he become educated and independent despite his handicap. Ray is determined to live up to his mother's expectation that the world "not make a cripple out of him". We see Ray's intense insistence not to be taken advantage of in many scenes: most viscerally when he jumps the table onto the manager whom he thinks has shorted his salary, most personally when he demands autonomy to create, own and control his music, and most significantly when he is the first black musician to boycott segregated auditoriums.

Della Bea's demand (Ray's mother) that he become self-reliant developed Ray's tough confidence, resulting in Ray's successes. Conversely, Ray's emotional inability to confront his second childhood tragedy, his brother's death, instilled the trigger of his near self-destruction. As an 8-year-old boy he stood by helplessly as his younger brother drown. The grief and guilt of this tragedy are always just beneath the surface for Ray as he is unable to forgive himself for his younger brother's death. We see him start using heroine to dull his emotional pain, but he is eventually hopelessly addicted. Hackford clearly ties Ray's emotional pain with his heroine use. Kicking his habit becomes his last struggle; Ray suffers painful withdrawal treatment in the film's climax. In the final stages of his recovery Ray, in a withdrawal delusion, confronts his childhood ghosts. He is upbraided by his mother that they "made a cripple out of you any way" referring to his addiction, while his little brother breaks all our hearts (and has us reaching for the tissues) when he sweetly assures Ray his death was not Ray's fault. Ray recovers and we know he has established the inner peace he needs to rebuild his family and continue with his fabulous music career. It is a subtle and beautiful climax.

Finally, Hackford smartly closes with a quick, well constructed, quiet dénouement. We read a synopsis of the rest of Ray's life, successes and contributions - and the film ends, allowing a silent moment for us to exhale and say, "wow".

A fantastic ending to a fantastic film.

Should you see it? You'll love it.

Director: Mike Nichols Closer is a mean-spirited, vicious, and ugly love story. Love story? It is as if Mike Nichols has taken the sunny fantasy that is the typical movie love story and turn it inside out, exposing all that is loathsome and sordid in human relationships.

Conversely, the cinematography is stunning and beautiful, and mirrors the claustrophobic boundaries of the plot. It feels as if the camera's landscape is almost exclusively tight-framed shots of the four character's faces. In the way Hitchcock would work within sever, self-imposed restricted landscapes (a lifeboat (Lifeboat), a courtyard (Rear Window)) Nichols self-imposed limitation is his casts' expressions, never venturing far from each face. And it works spectacularly. His cinematic method is mirrored by Julie Roberts' character, Anna's, photographic portrait style. Anna creates tight framed, large-scale portraits of faces in various expressions of pain. And in Closer it seems if you stopped the film from rolling each minute you could extract another gorgeous still portrait from the frame to hang along side Anna's work.

As far as the story, it is a script with boundaries as tight as the cinematography. I cannot think of a line spoken in the film by anyone but the 4 characters involved in these ugly, criss-crossing relationships. It is hard to recall even another human entering a frame of this film. Closer is a nasty, claustrophobic, four-way character study, with each character given equal weight. The four characters, who all meet in various ways and all by chance, betray each other with the others over the course of the film. Jude Law's Dan ends up the most broken character by the film's end, having lost both women to Clive Owen's Larry. Larry, who refers to himself as a simplistic and caveman (both true), comes out on top of the power struggle. Larry is also the most reviled character having destroyed both Anna and Dan by the film's end with his vicious, vengeful control. Anna is the weakest character, referred to a number of times as a coward. Easily manipulated by Larry, Anna succumbs as Larry possession. She is deeply unhappy, but unable to fight against Larry's relentless will.

Portman's Alice is the least damaged by the events in the film, perhaps because of her youth. (Alice is 24 by the end of the film's 4-year time span.) Alice alone is able to escape. In the final scenes Alice frees herself of all emotional ties to Dan and physically escapes back to New York. The final scene showing Alice walking confidently down Time's Square is a powerful image of strength, and more importantly personal reinvention. New York, of course, is the symbol of personal freedom, the city to which countless people have fled to forget the past and emerge a self-invented new person. And if there was ever a situation someone would like to scrub herself clean from, it is the grime of this film. The fact that we find out in the next to last scene that she was living a lie in London under a made up name makes her rebirth in New York all the more complete, and the break from this past all the more clean. Conversely, the three characters that did not escape seem all the more trapped and destroyed.

Uniquely, Nichols has no main character, no sympathetic point of view to serve as a lens into the films. Additionally, the most despicable character, Larry, does not meet his dramatic justice, but instead has assumed power over Anna, and has left Dan damaged and alone. Neither devise is extraordinary in itself; however, such devises are more common in crime films, and Closer, if told traditionally, would be romantic comedy (here, a romantic comedy told with the sensibility of Reservoir Dogs). It is as if Nichols is getting his own vengeance against the typical saccharine, Hollywood love story, showing an amount of sordid darkness equal to the standard amount of romantic sunshine.

At this point I must put Closer to my test for disturbing stories: Is the film's importance, intelligence, artistry, acting (or some other feature) fine enough to justify the horrid subject matter? For my money the answer is yes, and I have surprised myself by the answer. The most compelling reason to see this film is the artistry. The claustrophobic limitations of the story (the four human characters) and cinemagraphic limitations of landscape (the four human faces), the stark, vulnerable performances, all are stunning and worthy of viewing.

Should you see it? Yes, but with the warning of the ugliness found within its fames.

The reason this film exists is to delight in watching Bill Murray. Actually, I am sure Wes Anderson would not agree as he has labored to create an entire world in The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou, inhabited by singular characters interacting in a very busy plot. (Sofia Coppola got it right in Lost in Translation where she placed Murray within a sparse canvas and allowed us to delight in Murray almost distraction free, creating a much better film as a result.) So let me back up and say watching Bill Murray is the primary reason I would give to see The Life Aquatic, and even if it were the only reason, it would be enough.

There is much plot in this film, too much in fact, and very little of any consequence. To summarize, as the film opens Murray's character, Steve Zissou, is taking questions before an audience who has just watched his latest nature documentary. We soon learn that Zissou has had a storied past of film-making and celebrity – sort of a Jacque Cousteau rock star. But for the past decade his popularity and film making ability have been fading, along with his bank account and neglected ship. The rest of the film is the cursed adventure of the making of his next, and perhaps final documentary. The project's purpose? To find and kill the Jaguar Shark that killed his long time partner. "What scientific purpose would killing the shark serve", asks a staid biologist from the audience? After much thought Zissou comes back with, in matter-of-fact deadpan, "Revenge". The moment is hilarious and representative of what's in store. Which is a black comedy of disaster after disaster made light and hilarious, by Murray's apathetic, listless deadpan. The move is 1/3 Jaws, 1/3 Fargo, and 1/3 The Big Lubowski (with a dash of absurdist Rambo thrown in during the boat hijacking scene.) You wonder why Anderson went to all the trouble of creating this fat plot (I have not mentioned Owen Wilson as Zissou's (possible) abandon son, Cate Blanchette as the disillusioned reporter, or Angelica Houston as the feed-up lover). Why create this singular world, down to such fine details as inventing spectacular aquatic species? What is most worthy in Life Aquatic are throw away moments between the band of quirky characters: William Dafoe and his insane allegiance to Zissou and The Team, Goldblum as Alistair Hennessey, Murray's arch-rival and foil, sitting on his perfect ship in white robe and flip flops talking with Zissou about how much it will cost to save his ship and crew, the banker stooge telling Goldblum we "f'king stole it" when asked about why they have his espresso machine. The characters are fantastic, unique, and so damn funny. And Anderson has set-up interactions which perfectly exploit their quirkiness.

But in the end Life Aquatic is too adrift in its own insular creativity to speak outside its frame. You laugh uproariously but are not touched; no thoughts are provoked. Is this a failing in an absurd comedy? Yes, but only because it seems Anderson intended more. (It would be ridiculous to level this criticism at purposely shallow (though hilarious) films such as Airplane or the Naked Gun.) But in Life Aquatic it seems the final scenes are intended to be emotionally cathartic for our protagonist, Zissou, - to make us realize Zissou has an empathetic emotional core (triggered by the death of his (possible) son) beyond what his deadpan suggested; however, it didn't work.

Ultimately it is a film where the characters win (with the possible exception of Wilson's) and the story fails.

Should you see it? Yes indeed, to delight in Bill Murray.

Finding Neverland (2004) Finding Neverland is lovely child's play. It depicts the creation of the play Peter Pan by its author Sir James Matthew Barrie. The film opens with us watching Barrie's most recent play, an awful flop. Soon after he befriends a family of 4 boys recently bereaved by the death of their father, meeting them in the park as he struggles to write a new play. The remainder of the film depicts how the relationship Barrie forms with this family becomes the inspiration for his next play, Peter Pan.

Barrie tries to bring the gaiety of imagination to this family, especially to Peter, the boy most grieved. As Barrie plays with the boys, inventing game after game of imaginative adventure we are privileged with the wonder of Barrie's private Neverland. Neverland (a place where dogs are bears, pirates and Indians roam, and believing in something makes it so) is a private imaginative space Barrie has been creating for years, perhaps since his own boyhood; or perhaps it is the imagination of his boyhood never lost, while the rest of us adults have. And this is Barrie's blessing and curse. Like Peter Pan, he is an adult never having completely left childhood - lost in adult society. But the magic Barrie invents for these children by sharing Neverland nourishes the boys and their mother back from their despair.

The genius of this film, like the genius of Peter Pan, is the audience's uncertainty and wonderment about whether this is a kids' story or one written for adults. And of course Peter's answer would be – there need not be a difference.

It is difficult to write about this gem of a film without it sounding completely saccharine. But the director succeeds by coaxing outstanding performances, and employing his magical visual expressiveness (showing the world Barrie and the children have imagined) with subtly and at the perfect times. Where other storytellers would have produce sentimental slop, every pang of grief, or expression of care or childish wonder rings genuine.

Which is not say there are not many emotionally charged, tearful moments - there are. Scenes, such as Barrie telling the youngest boy he must believe the kite will fly before it will, when he tells the oldest boy he had suddenly grown-up in the instant just past before his eyes (when George wants to know the truth about his mother's illness), and the lines in Peter Pan explaining how the first laugh from the first baby broke into 1000 pieces, each one becoming a fairy, all cause tears to well. Like I said, it sounds like absolute emotional swill. And probably in the hands of a different director and without Johnny Depp's performance it would have been. But for my money the emotional tenor remains genuine throughout. (The exception being the film's dénouement after the boys' mother dies of tuberculosis, in which Depp and Julie Christy make nice to raise the boys together. This is the one moment which felt like a Hollywood tack-on.) Johnny Depp has chosen another perfect role for himself (or is it he performed perfectly another role?). He is quietly one of the smartest actors on screen today. Dustin Hoffman seems to be enjoying himself immensely playing Charles Frohman the American financial backer to Depp's Barrie. And it is very fun to see Julie Christy as Mrs. Emma du Maurier, the authoritarian, proper Victorian grandma.

Should you see it? If you need your heart warmed Finding Neverland will leave you toasty.

The good news is Martin Scorsese's 3 hour film is visually spectacular and completely engrossing from start (almost) to finish. Unfortunately, like any other big Hollywood adventure, the film is ultimately unsatisfying, superficial, and in this particular case, oddly incomplete. If you at satisfied with a biopic that gives broad brush strokes of character, focusing much more on actions than motivations, it is quite possible to love this film. It is a bio-adventure story racing along briskly, jumping from one astonishing accomplishment to another, then from one disaster to another, then back to triumphant sullied by the tragedy of Howard Hughes's incurable insanity. Famous names are thrown around as supporting characters, most prominently Cate Blanchett Katherine Hepburn, (a performance I loved despite mixed-reviews). But even here Scorsese is relying, I suppose, on us bringing our own biographic knowledge to flush out Hepburn (and Ava Gardner), as there is little depth in the on screen portrayals.

Ultimately this is what disappoints – Scorcesse decision to make this much more an adventure story than a character study. We are shown, engrossingly I must admit, Hughes's brash confidence as he makes the most expensive movie ever made (and than just as it is finished extremely late and extremely over-budget, he insists on shooting the whole film again because talking movie have made a big splash while Hell's Angels was being created), builds and flies the fastest plane ever made, builds and flies the largest plane ever assembled, crashes and burns (literally) during a spy plane test flight, and recovers to establish TWA airlines and take on the far larger, government connected, dominant airline of his day (Pan-America). (Side Note: Alan Alda, as the corrupt Maine senator in Pan-Am's pocket, steals the show as far as I am concerned.)

But what disappoints is precisely Scorsese's decision to make an action driven story rather than a character driven story. And it disappoints immensely, not because Scorsese botches the adventure (he doesn't, it's totally engrossing), but because he passes on the chance to flesh- out these amazing characters (Hughes, Hepburn, Gardner) and gives us instead fleshless figures. Icons, not people. The film disappoints because you have wonderful periphery actors (such as those playing Hughes' money man, and engineer) and they have little acting to do. And what disappoints most terribly is the fact that Scorsese is a master of depicting and humanizing complex characters. It is difficult not to feel completely cheated when the director who brought us Jake LaMotta in Raging Bull has a character like Hughes with as much internal terrain to explore, and instead of treating Hughes like LaMotta, Scorsese treats him like Indiana Jones. And here in lies the tragedy of The Aviator

The story synopsis: after a brief tableau of Hughes from childhood, the story depicts Hughes's life beginning in 1928 as he is audaciously filming a WWI epic called Hell's Angels. The film is colossal, over budget, and years in the making. But the film, as Hughes's other projects, is eventually finished and lauded by the world. He is similarly audacious and successful building airplanes, airlines, and taking on Senators. Tragedy strikes when he crashes and almost dies during a spy plane test run. The further tragedy of his mental illness hits hard after his crash recovery, and he spends weeks locked up in a windowless room by himself and completely out of his mind. Hughes must summon the will to return to public life when he is subpoenaed by a senator for war profiteering. He is victorious in his fight against the senator and returns to building aircraft, getting the Spruce Goose off the ground in the film's climax. This climatic triumphant is short lived, however, as Hughes's mental illness impinges on his victory. We are left with the reality that Hughes will continue to have this roller coaster of a life, with sever dips related to his mental state and world-renowned highs for his immense accomplishments.

Should you see it? Go with the low expectations you normally bring to an action movie.