Another Year (2010, Mike Leigh)

When Another Year, the latest film from British director Mike Leigh, is over, you feel like you’ve truly gotten to know the characters at its center. It does what too few films allow us to do: it allows us room to breathe, to observe, to grow comfortable with the people and places that we’re set to watch for two hours. Not that it’s a particularly cozy film, though it has more than its fair share of human warmth and decency. At its core, there are Tom (Jim Broadbent) and Gerri (Ruth Sheen), an aging, though not complacent, couple. He’s an archaeologist, she’s a psychiatrist. They spend their free time gardening, cooking for friends, and generally being lovely people.

The Troll Hunter (2010, André Øvredal)

On October 13, 2008, the shocking footage documented in The Troll Hunter was delivered to Filmkameratene AS, who have now distributed it around the world, no doubt as an act of conscience. What one witnesses in The Troll Hunter will change one’s perception of the world, especially if one is Norwegian. You see, Norway has trolls. I don’t mean those obnoxious jackasses who post on Internet message boards–though I’m sure Norway has those too–but real, honest-to-god trolls. If you’re able to get through this film without experiencing anything less than an utter rocking of the foundation upon which all of your beliefs are foolishly based, then you, my friend, exist in a state of ignorant bliss I wish I could reclaim. If trolls, giant, lumbering trolls, are real, then you start wondering: was The Host really a horror film, or a brutal docudrama? I shall refrain from even touching upon the subject of Godzilla and his many monstrous foes and allies, for fear that my already loosely hung sanity would unravel entirely.

Somewhere (2010, Sofia Coppola)

He speeds around the track, completing lap after lap. It is done mechanically, joylessly. And when he’s done, he gets out of the car and just stands there, looking lost. He is Johnny Marco (Stephen Dorff), a movie star who has given up everything for fame, which turns out to be nothing, anyway. The film’s first shot, of the car endlessly circling the racetrack, is the perfect representation of Johnny’s life: a series of meaningless interactions through which nothing is gained nor anything accomplished. He makes popular movies and he has the paparazzi nipping at his heels, but he doesn’t feel anything. The car’s going fast, but where is it going? There are two scenes in which he hires a pair of twin strippers to dance for him in his room at the Chateau Marmont. They perform highly choreographed dance moves, matching and mirroring one another, with little to no actual nudity or striptease. Any sexiness there might have been is extinguished by their expertly practiced routine; there’s no spontaneity or joie de vivre. It’s about as alluring as watching two little girls put on a show in their backyard. During the first of those two routines, Johnny even falls asleep.

Black Swan (2010, Darren Aronofsky)

 

Some of the most thrilling pieces of cinema I’ve seen all year are the scenes in Black Swan where Natalie Portman is dancing. Darren Aronofsky intuitively follows her with his camera, tracking every pirouette, every toe-step. The camera whirls around her, often in one fluid take, creating a series of utterly exhilarating images. Aronofsky famously rehabilitated Mickey Rourke’s career with 2008’s The Wrestler, and while Portman doesn’t need the same kind of career rehab, Aronofsky shines a new light on her, revealing cracks and nuances we’ve never noticed before. Portman has always seemed perfectly nice and respectable, but in Black Swan, she cuts open a vein of hurt and bewilderment that one would not have thought possible.

Greenberg (2010, Noah Baumbach)

Roger Greenberg (Ben Stiller) is not a happy man. Recently released from a psychiatric hospital, he’s housesitting while his brother and his family take a trip to Vietnam. Left alone, Roger grows attached to the family dog and becomes fascinated with their housekeeper, the disarmingly pleasant Florence (Greta Gerwig). He writes letters expressing his frustration with everything, from traffic noise to Starbucks. In one letter, he even goes on a rant which he notes will be the subject of his next letter. Years ago, Greenberg was in a band, a band that almost made it big, at least on the independent scene. They were offered a record deal. But Greenberg rejected it, banishing himself and his bandmates to perpetual obscurity, and became a carpenter instead. Happiness terrifies Greenberg. Whenever he gets too close, he pushes it away. He knows how to be miserable. That’s easy. But happiness? That takes some work.

Monsters (2010, Gareth Edwards)

Like last year’s surprise hit and unbelievable Best Picture nominee District 9, Monsters, the debut feature from Brit director Gareth Edwards, takes the hot-button illegal aliens issue very literally. Where District 9 had a bunch of poor ghetto trash extraterrestrials slumming it up in Johannesburg, Monsters has a cluster of oft-unseen creatures migrating through Mexico. And unlike District 9, Monsters is done with a modicum of intelligence and admirable (possibly to a fault) restraint.

You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger (2010, Woody Allen)

Do you know the last year there wasn’t a new Woody Allen movie? 1981. That’s right, since 1982, he’s directed a film a year, something which has made him both a cinematic treasure and a bit of a cautionary tale. Just take a look at the last five years, and the last five films, of his career: the glorious Match Point, a career highlight which transformed the NYC vet into a European transplant; the sort-of-amusing Scoop; Cassandra’s Dream, a middling drama; the low-key success Vicky Cristina Barcelona, with an outstanding Penélope Cruz; and last year’s Whatever Works, Allen’s irritating return to New York starring Larry David, the king of irritation. The reason this workaholic approach to filmmaking makes Allen a legend is that he has indisputably staked out his own cinematic territory, with its easily recognizable visual language and dialogue. The reason that same approach makes him a cautionary tale is that, unlike his hero, the similarly prolific Ingmar Bergman, he appears totally unable to separate the wheat from the chaff.

Alice in Wonderland (2010, Tim Burton)

I think it’s time for Tim Burton to retire the Tim Burton style. Three years ago, he made his best film, Sweeney Todd, which was a toned-down sort of Burton film but still very much of his sensibilities; there were the great sets, the sunken-eyed make-up, the wild hair, all the morbid eccentricities. But, like another of his films, Ed Wood, it was surprisingly mature. All the fun of a Tim Burton movie, but with real pathos. This is not to say that his usual style hasn’t resulted in some great movies: My Beetlejuice VHS was one of my most prized possessions as a kid, and Edward Scissorhands remains a favorite. But he’s run it into the ground, and the candy-colored nightmare Alice in Wonderland is close to its worst possible application.

Cop Out (2010, Kevin Smith)

I saw Cop Out not because I was expecting it to be good, but because it’s a Kevin Smith movie. With the exception of Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back–which isn’t bad, really, it’s just an extremely “in” in-joke–I’ve enjoyed all of his movies. Yes, I even liked Jersey Girl. So I felt obliged to see this one, likely to be Smith’s first mainstream success. I tried to like it, I really did. It just wasn’t happening.

Edge of Darkness (2010, Martin Campbell)

In the first seven-and-a-half minutes (I checked) of Edge of Darkness, Mel Gibson’s daughter has puked her guts up and suddenly–I mean, really abruptly–been shot through the chest with a shotgun. This all occurs in about the last minute of those seven-and-a-half minutes; the other six are home movies of the soon-to-be-blasted-in-half daughter as a child, dead bodies surfacing to the ocean, and Mel Gibson being a loving dad and kick-ass cop. It’s that kind of movie, aimed at one of two demographics: The over-40 female who remembers when Mel Gibson used to be a heartthrob instead of a cuckoo Jew-basher, or the 20-something male who wants to see him some action. I don’t think either will be pleased with what turns out to be a dramatically inert conspiracy thriller in which the conspiracy is given so little due, and remains so shrouded in confused storytelling, that it’s hard to get a real sense of its implications for, well, anything. Which is what a conspiracy is all about.