I don’t know if it’s the strength of Fitzgerald’s novel or Luhrman’s good understanding of it, but this is a far better adaptation than I was expecting.

In case you weren’t in an American high school, The Great Gatsby follows Nick Carraway (played here by Tobey Maguire), a bond trader moved to New York from the Midwest. He purchases a small house in West Egg, a suburb of New York City, and lives across the bay from his cousin Daisy Buchanan (Carey Mulligan) and her husband, Nick’s college friend, Tom Buchanan (Joel Edgerton). Nick’s neighbor is the mysterious Jay Gatsby (Leonardo DiCaprio), a playboy who’d be notable for the monstrous parties he throws each weekend were it not for the cryptic means through which he funds them.

Nick attends one of Gatsby’s parties, swept up with intrigue and confusion about his host — hearing rumors of his relation to the Kaiser; tales of his work as a spy; whispers of his past at Oxford — many of them from his new acquaintance Jordan Baker (Elizabeth Debicki), female golfer and social gossipista.

Eventually he runs into Gatsby, who appears at Gershwin’s moment of climax during Rhapsody in Blue. The two stir a friendship and small details of Gatsby’s history begin to drip out. He came from a wealthy family. He’s a hero of World War I. He’s…story after story. And, years ago, he was desperately in love with Daisy. But the war and school and other things kept them apart, leaving Tom to claim her. Gatsby’s convinced that, given some time with his lost love, he could convince her to leave her husband and marry him. It’s a solid plan, especially seeing as how Tom is not particularly discreet about his own affairs. But buried beneath this romance is…

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The Avengers has come and gone, and now we get to see Tony Stark (Robert Downey, Jr.) dealing with the trauma he apparently experienced in New York. He has insomnia, and it strains both his work on the latest Iron Man suit as well as his relationship with Pepper (Gwyneth Paltrow). His bodyguard Happy (Jon Favreau) is now head of security for Stark Industries. And, all around the world, there’s broadcasts from a strange terrorist figure named “The Mandarin” (Ben Kingsley).

The movie opens with Stark recounting a New Year’s Eve party way back in 1999. He’s at a conference in Bern, trying to bed a buxom botantist, Maya (Rebecca Hall) before the year’s turnover. He’s interrupted by pimply geek Aldrich Killian (Guy Pearce), who’s trying to start a think tank and wants Stark’s help. Stark blows him off, and if the use of Guy Pearce didn’t already suggest it, Stark states outright that it was the beginning of trouble.

Thirteen years later, Aldrich shows up at Stark Industries, again seeking support, though he does seem more interested in rubbing everyone’s nose in his success. He has created a new whatsit kind of technology called “Extremis” that allows the brain to regenerate tissue…and, somehow, make the patients melt things with their hands. (Dr. Curt Conners from the latest Spiderman films is going to be smacking his head with his tail when the inevitable crossover comes.)

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I’m not sure whether the appropriate genre for Pain & Gain is comedy or thriller, but I am sure that it’s a story that the cosmos made specifically for Michael Bay. There’s bulked-up dudes, strippers, midgets, stereotypical gay guys, Miami, explosions, slow-motion, and cocaine and the ’90s. Mark Wahlberg is Daniel Lugo, a fitness instructor with the kind of intensity and single-mindedness that makes you feel like he’s constantly comparing his body to everyone else — and addressing each one according to rank.

His boss is the slightly-schlubby John (Rob Corddry), owner of the Sun Gym in Miami. And his best friend is fellow gym-jockey Adrian (Anthony Mackey).

That the movie opens with Daniel getting chased by the cops is a revelation that we know things won’t end well for Daniel, but the reasons take their time to unfold. We learn that Daniel’s a self-proclaimed go-getter — obsessed with his image and the idea that through physical perfection the rest of the world will lie down before you.

His heroes are Rocky, Scarface, and Don Corleone, suggesting that his understanding of reality comes from the movies and even then, he’s only read the Cliff Notes. He takes a seminar with Johnny Wu (Ken Jeong), one of those motivational speakers who similarly preaches that nothing in life is worth learning if it can’t be written on a note card or reduced to a buzzword.

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The opening, a long tracking shot that follows motor stuntman “Handsome” Luke Glanton (Ryan Gosling), as he makes his way through the carnival, lighting cigarettes, pushing through the crowd, enterting the appointed tent, fastening his helmet, and buzzing in the cage with two others, is one of the best — and will likely remain among the best of the year. It’s an inspired choice that testifies to director Derek Cianfrance’s deliberation.

Luke is one of the major characters in this play, a distinction that he’ll share with Avery (Bradley Cooper), the lawyer-turned cop and Jason (Dane DeHaan), Luke’s son. Each of them will have their own act, with the scenes intertwining as the drama unfolds throughout 15 years. Luke will quit his job to stay with his son. He will meet a local mechanic (Ben Mendelsohn) who will teach him to rob banks.

He will be pursued by Avery. Avery will rat out some crooked cops and eventually run for office. Luke’s son will befriend Avery’s without realizing their connection. And the results of that friendship and discovery of that connection will begin the cycle anew.

Cianfrance’s previous film Blue Valentine, also with Gosling, carried a similarly morose tone and followed another meticulously logical line of unfortunate events. For all the spontaneity of many scenes — the robberies and chases especially — and improvisational (sounding, at least) dialogue, he shows an immense amount of discipline. He knows the story he wishes to tell and does in a straight-forward and hard way.

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It’s Jurassic Park.

I still have my toy T-Rex from 1993 — and it still roars! I know pretty much all of Jeff Goldblum’s lines by heart and am working my way through memorizing Wayne Knight’s. I, like many others, am still pissed that Muldoon gets treated the way he does.

Jurassic Park was the first “big” movie (well, outside of Tim Burton’s Batman) that I saw in theaters. I was too young for Return of the Jedi and Indiana Jones, and I remember being at summer camp, talking to my parents on the one phone in the whole place, outside the administration center, hearing my mom and dad describe how amazing it was. Those damn three weeks couldn’t be over soon enough for me to get to the theater.

So it’s a personal, nostalgic favorite.

Unless you’ve been living in a bathtub eating spaghetti for the last 20 years, you already know the plot: eccentric billionaire John Hammond (Richard Attenborough) has discovered a way to clone dinosaurs. There’s an accident, and his investors are concerned about the safety of the park, so Hammond invites paleontologists Alan Grant (Sam Neill) and Ellie Satler (Laura Dern), as well as even-more eccentric chaotician Ian Malcolm (Jeff Goldblum) for a weekend stay. They discuss the philosophy of creating such a place, some kids show up, the dinos get loose and so does all hell.

Now it’s been converted to 3D, and pretty damn well.

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The first time I met Roger was in the Lake Screening Room. I had just moved to Chicago and done a few reviews at the AMC East and on Michigan and the old Kerasote. This was a guy I’d been reading all my life, writing down notes about which “Great Movies” to see, which overlooked gems I should seek out (like The Late Show and Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia), and even, occasionally, the odd book recommendation.

Anyway, I entered the small waiting room at Lake. No one else was there save for the projectionist, whose door was open and you could see him preparing the machine for the 12:15 show. I grabbed a quick sip from the drinking fountain and then took a few steps toward the men’s restroom. Just as I did, the door opened, and there emerged Roger. The guy I’d idolized for as long as I can remember, and he nodded to me, indicating that he was finished in there.

Another time, at the AMC East, we were screening Unstoppable to a packed house. Roger was sitting front row, on the aisle, as always, with his wife Chaz next to him. A handful of frat boys behind me realized whom he was and got excited, murmuring a flurry of questions and reassurances, “Is that Ebert?” “I think that’s Ebert.” “That’s gotta be him!” One of the braver ones got up from his seat, ambled down, and said, graciously to Roger, “Mr. Ebert, I’m a big fan of yours, and I just wanted to say thanks for your great reviews, and you’re really [inaudible].” Roger made a small motion with his hand that I couldn’t see. The frat boy came back to his seat and, giggled, said, “He gave me a thumbs up!”

Of course I didn’t really know Roger, not much outside of his writing anyway. I’d see him often, always sitting on the backmost aisle at the Lake room, glaring at you as you entered, but we didn’t talk much outside of some greetings. The most contact I had was when he rewteeted something from me, about Ernest Hemingway’s six-word story, “For sale: Baby shoes. Never used.” Roger misread what I had sent, saying that Hemingway felt it was the best thing he’d ever read instead of wrote. But no grudge held.

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When I told my girlfriend I was off to review to the new Stephenie Meyers movie and that, having seen one of the Twilight movies, I had low expectations, she responded, “It could be worse. She could have teamed up with Nicholas Sparks.” “Good point!” I said, and then, a half hour into the film, the two main characters kiss in the rain. Damn.

The Host opens with a voiceover by Donald Sutherland (or at least a very Donald-Sutherland-sounding narrator) stating that war, famine, poverty, and the like have been eradicated from earth. It has been taken over by an alien race of what I’d refer to as “Solar Centipedes” if the film hadn’t bashed the symbol of glowworms into my noodle.

The glowworms apparently are implanted into humans through a delicate process that makes you wonder how they were able to do it seven billion times (and how was the first one implanted?) and the quickest way to tell them apart from the regular humans is that the glowies have blue rings around their eyes — chances are you’ve seen something like them before in a better film. I’m certain.

Their latest victim is Melanie Stryder (Saoirsa Ronan), a plucky teen who tried to avoid capture by leaping through a window. Fortunately, the glowworms have some magic healing spray to bring her back to life and implant one of their kind, known as “Wanderer” into her neck. But Melanie resists, and in one of the worst decisions of the film, is in constant voiceover arguments with Wanderer.

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I had a soft spot for 2009′s G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra, and I have a soft spot for this, even with its flaws. If you remember the end of the last film (and never mind if you didn’t), Zartan is impersonating the President of the United States in one step of Cobra Commander’s grand plan for world domination.

I think this is supposed to take place right after the last film, but no matter. All you need to know is that the President is not the real President, and the Joes are not aware of it. They’re busy raiding a nuclear arms facility in Pakistan — a mission devised by Zartan (Arnold Vosloo/Jonathan Pryce) to wipe out the Joes when they call for transport after the mission.

All of them, save for Lady Jaye (Adrianne Palicki), Roadblock (The Rock), and Flint (D.J. Cotrona) are killed. Fortunately Snake Eyes (Ray Park) is away on another mission training with Jinx (Elodie Yung) and quite possibly the worst actor in the entire film, RZA as the aptly named Blind Master.

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Silly, silly fun. There’s not much of a plot — The Croods are a family of cave-dwellers whose home is threatened by earthquakes; the dad Grug (Nicolas Cage) is over protective; the daughter Eep (Emma Stone) is curious; they meet up with a smarty-pants guy named Guy (Ryan Reynolds) who teaches them the secret of fire, among other things; and they set off to find a new home.

Grug, whose mantra is “Always be afraid!” immediately dislikes Guy while Eep is immediately attracted to him, and in the background are the rest of the Croods, who have their moments but are played for jokes; maybe they could have been something more, but before they can, the earthquake chases them off. There’s two running gags that persist the entire film, and there’s some ugly character design, but those are the biggest flaws.

And they’re easy to overlook because everything else looks so good. Granted, this doesn’t need to be in 3-D, as the lusciousness of the backgrounds, from crags to forests to plains to dried-out oceans encircle and captivate on their own, without added gimmicks. More fun is the creature designs, which must have had even the animators laughing. Each one is a Darwinian nightmare, conjured by a gaggle of mad scientists.

There’s flying turtles, land-whales, two lemurs attached by a single tail and a flock of birds that look like toucans, though their mouths open right below the eyes. Cute at first, then they swarm on one of the land-whales and pick it clean.

Despite that, the emphasis is clearly on the visuals, as are the gags. The talents of Cage, Stone, and Reynolds, as well as Cloris Leachman and Catherine Keener, aren’t necessary. None stand out, but then there’s little the film requires of them. Of course we have the requisite familial tensions and affirmations of love between those who need to hear it — they aren’t earned and slow the movie down considerably whenever they’re brought up, but they’re not often and don’t last long.

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Die Hard on a White House.

That’s basically it right there. You have your former law enforcer — here his name is Mike Banning (Gerard Butler) and he used to be Secret Service assigned to protect the President (Aaron Eckhart). During a snowstorm, Some Damn Thing hit the Presidential Limo’s windshield and fishtailed the car nearly off a bridge. Banning was able to save the President, but not his wife, and since the President can’t stand to be reminded of that night, he has Banning reassigned.

Okay, then you have your terrorists commandeering a building — here they attack the White House in a cargo plane the same day the President (whose name is Benjamin Asher, and whom I’ll be referring to as Asher for the remainder of this), Vice President, and Secretary of State are meeting with the South Korean Prime Minister.

As the gang retreats to the Presidential Bunker, one of the PM’s aides reveals himself as Kang Yeonsak (Rick Yune), a North Korean terrorist with a backstory that blah, blah, blah. He shoots a lot of people in the head and wants to blow up things. That’s all we need to know.

You have your former law-enforcer invading the building — in this case, Banning storms the White House after Kang’s goons take out every Secret Service man and Marine on the premises.

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Lest we forget, Spring Breakers writer/director Harmony Korine is the guy who got his start writing Larry Clark’s Kids, a film whose characters drank, did drugs, had sex, beat up strangers — all very adult things — and was slapped with an NC-17 rating and a heap of controversy because its characters were all, well, kids. Eighteen years later, the kids aren’t much older, they engage in the same activities, and yet it’s a comedy.

Apparently Korine decided to write and direct a movie about Spring Break because he missed out on it in his youth. So why the sudden change of opinion? Is it because Spring Break is just that — a break from real life where we can expect, if not forgive, hedonistic expression and temporary neglect of duties and responsibilities?

For the kids in Kids, every day of their lives was Spring Break, and if it’s the only thing you have in your life, its consequences are going to be catching up very soon. However wild the girls may go in Cancun, there’s at least some grudging respect for responsibility. Or maybe Korine is aging in reverse?

At 18, when he wrote Kids, he was just coming out of his teens, and being that close to the source, he ws tired of it, ready to take it down. Now he looks back on it with a sense of nostalgia, trying to relive all those moments he missed out on, perhaps.

Whatever the reason, Spring Breakers is just a lot of fun.

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Stoker is a film at odds with itself. On paper, it’s a slick piece of neo-gothic thrills, parading its Jane-Eyre/Mysteries of Udolpho (and more) influences, with red rooms, sinister-seeming relatives, fogged-out basements, and driblets of blood.

More plot-fully speaking, you have the mysterious death of a loved one, in this case the father Richard Stoker (Dermot Mulroney), who leaves his immense estate to his wife Evelyn (Nicole Kidman) and daughter India (Mia Wasikowska). Soon after, Richard’s estranged brother Charlie (Matthew Goode) shows up, taking a break from one of his frequent trips around the world. Charlie tries to reconnect with his brother’s family, seeming to seduce Evelyn but eliciting only hesitation and curious dread from India.

All three play their roles well, with Kidman wandering through her lines as in a daze, transfixed by the appearance of a younger, sleeker version of her husband. Mia is exactly the opposite, dissociated from everything and body. But the clear standout is Goode, who finally has found a role that utterly suits him — however specialized it may be. Kind and pleasant with a chilling, menacing undertone, you’re just waiting for him to explode.

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On the one hand, there’s a revenge thriller with shootouts, car chases, detective work, and a dynamite climax. On the other, there’s a woefully underwritten love story that can’t think of anything else but to have the leads stare at each other. And not the meaningful kind of staring either — Farrell spends about five-eighths of the flick with this sad/confused expression that looks like he caught his mother in bed with a clown.

Farrell plays Victor, an up-and-comer in a gang led by Alphonse (Terrence Howard). What the gang actually does is not entirely clear, but they appear to be connected to a cocaine-dealing group of British-Jamaicans, at least until Alphonse suspects them of assassinating one of his men and orders the whole lot killed. In the ensuing shoot-out, Victor is wounded, and we follow him back to his ramshackle highrise apartment, where he spends his days watching videos of his wife and kid and ogling the girl in the next building over (Noomi Rapace).

The girl, Beatrice, lives with her somewhat hard-of-hearing mother (Isabelle Huppert) and is haunted by the scars on her face left by a car accident with a drunk driver. She and Victor share pregnant waves to each other until Bea works up the courage to ask Vic out.

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What the Hell is going on? Who’s in what car? Which one is the bad guy? These are the questions that arose during the first fifteen minutes of A Good Day to Die Hard‘s car chase. That the action confuses more than excites is a bad, bad sign.

The movie opens in a Russian prison where billionaire Yuri Komarov (Sebastian Koch) is awaiting trial for…um…potentially snitching out the bigwig Chagarin (Sergei Kolesnikov). From the outset, it’s not clear who is actually the bad guy — Chagarin explodes when Komarov refuses to give him a certain file, so maybe he’s the bad guy, but then Komarov is a billionaire — and one who plays chess in prison at that — doesn’t that automatically mark him as the bad guy?

But then we switch to a night club, where Jack (Jai Courtney) assassinates Anton (Roman Luknar). Is Jack the bad guy then? Apparently not, since we’re now in America, where John McClane (Bruce Willis) is at the airport, heading to Russia to bail out Jack, who’s his son. Evidently Jack works for the CIA, which now condones public killings.

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Side Effects is the perfect response to Broken City and Promised Land, two films that offered great potential but drowned themselves in shallowness, eschewing dimension and complexity to make the bad guys really bad while taking their message as inherently superior. In short, they were two films that purported a moral they never got around to discussing. Side Effects does not.

And it is not largely because it’s not an “issue” film — it’s a thriller, and the mystery is compelling, the performances are convincing, and the end is satisfying for its distinct lack of finger wagging.  Soderbergh keeps the story unceasingly human, and when the guilty party is revealed, their reasons and actions are sound. Names are given faces — Soderbergh does not hide behind the trope of a faceless evil corporation, as the trailer would let you believe.

Jude Law plays Dr. Jonathan Banks, a psychiatrist who takes it upon himself to treat the disturbed Emily (Rooney Mara) after she slams her car into the wall of a parking garage. Her husband Martin is recently paroled for fraud, and his return has sparked a suicidal turn in Emily. Banks puts her on a new drug, and things get much worse.

That’s about as far as I can go without spoiling anything– Banks gets embroiled in the consequences and tries to figure out what the Hell is going on.

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