Jeff Nichols: Perfect Paranoia (Take Shelter)

Michael Shannon, Take Shelter, Sony Pictures Classics, 2011.

The creeping collective fear and loathing of Armageddon, mental illness and the future plays out in subtly riveting tones in new American master Jeff Nichols' ferocious new film, Take Shelter. Bolstered by a tour de force performance from one of our greatest contemporary actors, Michael Shannon, this is a movie that gets everything right.

Seeping into our consciousness like the chemical rain threatening the mid-western town we find ourselves in, Nichols commands every frame with a totality which is exhilarating and frightening. Shannon's husband/father becomes troubled by startling storm weather and jarring death dreams that plague him at every turn. His sweet, soft spoken wife (an amazing Jessica Chastain) and deaf daughter watch helplessly as he slides into a maniacal tail spin. But the great thing about the picture is its refusal to cave in to audience expectation. Nichols never articulates whether this is doomsday or a case of paranoid schizophrenia. That ambiguity, calling into question our own perceptions of reality, marks this as a masterpiece.

Dream and waking blend imperceptibly, punctuated by astute details of middle-American family life. Shannon's face is a mask of repression and fragility that cuts to the bone. Chastain's tenuity acts as a translucent mirror to Shannon's escalating furor. Adam Stone's cinematography is a thing of debilitating beauty, marking him as an artist to watch. David Wingo's luxuriously menacing score outlines the progression of the plot ethereally.

Nichols emerged a few years back with the austere Shakespearian redneck opus Shotgun Stories, one of the best American directorial debuts of the last decade. Like any supreme sophomore effort, Take Shelter combines the strengths of his first film and expands on them. I was reminded of Malick, 70s Spielberg, Polanski and Stephen King by the textural and thematic blossoming here. I was also reminded of some of my favorite movies of the past twenty years, especially David Fincher's masterpiece Fight Club (1999) and Mary Harron's sublime American Psycho (2000), both of which similarly skewed perception while touching on the darkness inherent in masculinity.

Take Shelter breathlessly exists as a propulsive piece of art in its own right. By mastering perfect paranoia, Jeff Nichols has announced himself as one of our country's most gifted auteurs.

George Clooney: The Order of Things (The Ides of March)

Ryan Gosling, The Ides of March, Columbia Pictures, 2011.

The title of actor-director George Clooney's new political drama The Ides of March is appropriately culled from Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, the ultimate classic of bureaucratic intrigue and status-mad betrayal. What we have here is a fascinating if uneven skewing of the stateside status quo, hoisted up by cleverly rhythmic dialogue and a dream team ensemble cast.

A pragmatic portrait of well oiled political machinery, Clooney takes inspiration from the powerhouse government melodramas he adores from the 1960s, namely Sidney Lumet's Fail Safe and especially John Frankenheimer's The Best Man, to play on his beloved liberal themes. Laid bare in all of their skulduggery, the chicanery of a decisive Democratic primary race towards the presidency sets a pace the director relishes. Overall an actor's dream, bristling with brilliant performances, the film gets just about everything right, while still coming out feeling underwhelmed.

Innumerable elements contribute to its strengths. Cinematographer Phedon Papamichael imbues the ordinary with a honey light, while composer Alexandre Desplat's score supports the spirit in a methodically fanciful fashion. Ryan Gosling locates his character's evasive focal point once again, surfacing just the right ambiguity to make him enigmatic yet touchable. Ace character actors Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Paul Giamatti spark a simmer at the picture's outset, as Evan Rachel Wood balances fragility, precociousness and ambivalence. Clooney himself renders palpable the vast complexities of a public figure in a refreshing way.

Even though nothing here is wholly original, it is woven together well. The human drama which cuts into the civic process sucks us in slowly, penetrating our minds in pinpoints. Clooney is one of our great old-fashion movie stars who also happens to be a hell of an actor. Through his several intelligent, precise films as director, he has shown a startling proficiency for stylishly old school movies. His debut, Confessions of a Dangerous Mind (2002), was a wild, woolly romp based on one of genius scribe Charlie Kaufman's weaker screenplays. His sophomore effort was the much lauded, intellectually stimulating, gorgeously shot historical film Goodnight and Good Luck (2005). His third feature proved to be his best so far, including this new film. The misunderstood screwball sports comedy Leatherheads (2008) took its inspiration from masters Capra and Preston Sturges, and was effortlessly entertaining.

Within these sprockets, Clooney has found the dramatic pulse of American politics. His fascination with the order of things is incredible. Style and substance are mastered by Clooney, who has never worked more freely than in a few key sequences; Gosling at a crucial turning point, his breakdown seen through a rainy windshield distorting his face phantasmagorically; and especially the rigorously shadowed meeting between Clooney and Gosling, their faces half drowned in darkness as they haggle over the direction of their imperial fates.

Martin Scorsese: Raw Icon ( George Harrison: Living in the Material World)

George Harrison: Living in the Material World, Home Box Office, 2011.

George Harrison was always the odd man out when it came to the Beatles. Not grandstanding like Paul, rebellious like John or random like Ringo, he was the dark man who always stood out in our minds, the eloquent rock poet obsessed with pushing the limits of the musical form and seeking out the truth about himself and this life. Martin Scorsese's new documentary is an incisive, gentle glimpse into the world, via archival footage and talking heads, of one of rock music's raw icons.

No super-stylistic flourishes or catchy technique here. Scorsese lays it all out matter-of-fact, elegantly tracing a music biography which mutates into a questioning of existence. For how portentous that sounds, its no wonder that a master like Scorsese cuts to the heart of the matter: a man struggling to reconcile fame, fortune and the material world with a quest for the meaning of it all. Harrison's story is so heavy with elements of great storytelling that the picture slips into our minds with the ease of a golden riff.

George continues a labor of love for Scorsese, that is documenting the musical experience of the 20th century as Scorsese has lived and felt it. Pop culture has never seemed so clean. His The Blues, No Direction Home: Bob Dylan and Shine a Light all enlighten us with the complexity that goes into creating great art. His George carries that torch with the lightest touch.

Emilio Estevez: Journeyman (The Way)

Martin Sheen, The Way, Arc Entertainment, 2011.

Brat packer turned overlooked helmer Emilio Estevez procures an apt filmization of self-discovery in his basic yet sporadically profound tale The Way. Affording his gifted father, actor Martin Sheen, his best role in some time, he utilizes the chance to comment on their own father-son relationship, father-son relationships in general, and life en masse.

The Way recalls the set-up for Billy Wilder's forgotten 70s comedy Avanti, but with a downbeat, uplifting tone. Certain points of this workman-like effort truly break through the celluloid surface, touching on common themes which in the wrong hands can be stifling and overdone. Estevez does just about everything right.

First off, the picture is an emotionally engaging, stylistically downplayed portrayal of a regretful, aging American man's transformative trek which attempts, sometimes successfully, to transform its audience. Secondly, it is a showcase for the burrowed, eclipsing talents of Sheen, an old-school actor so good we forget about him and the truth he has brought to many characters in his almost fifty year career. Estevez himself, Deborah Kara Unger and Tcheky Karyo give fine support.

Estevez came onto the scene as a gifted actor in his own right in the1980s, often overshadowed by his equally talented brother, Charlie Sheen. Although we've seen less of him as an actor, his vision behind the camera has produced such variegated and buried pictures as Wisdom, Men at Work, Rated X and Bobby. These films awarded us a glimpse into the gossamer trappings of criminality, labor, business and politics. Yet he never lost sight of the human factor inherent in the process. With his newest work, that element is front and center for a mildly cathartic but unforgettable creation. 

Jim Sheridan: Broken Home (Dream House)

Rachel Weisz, Dream House, Universal Pictures, 2011.

A fragmented melodrama/horror-thriller/haunted house/did he or didn't he picture which frustratingly does not come together, Jim Sheridan's intriguing Dream House is a delicious melange of style with little substance and no resonance.

A mediocre script with A-list talent sometimes works, but definitely not here, so lets not get into the sandy narrative. It's all derivative and unbuyable anyway. Instead we'll focus on the better aspects. The A-list cast is really very good. Daniel Craig, as always, invests himself completely in Will, a businessman who finds that he and his family have moved into an idyllic murder house. Rachel Weisz is warm as his doting wife Libby, and Naomi Watts is good if a little out of place as his shifty neighbor Ann. The underrated Marton Csokas is driven and forceful as Ann's husband, Jack. Elias Koteas is always welcome in any cast.

Caleb Deschanel's cinematography is a beast of ferocious pleasure, his dance of shadow and light adding a sheen of mystery to a plot seriously lacking in that department.  John Debney's score is playful yet genuinely creepy. I always love when a filmmaker steps out of his comfort zone and tries a new genre. For the last 25 years, Sheridan has become known as the Irish workingman's director. His plaintive, simple biopics and domestic dramas were all well done and lauded, including My Left Foot, The Field, In the Name of the Father, The Boxer and In America.

With Get Rich or Die Tryin', he stepped out of his comfort zone and succeeded. It was an honestly well done picture, with Sheridan's touch just the thing it needed to take it to another level. His remake of Susanne Bier's Brothers was a return to his old visual style and emphasis on domesticity. With Dream House, he triumphs stylistically, while as a whole, it is the least film in an impressive, individual body of work.

Jonathan Levine: Tightrope of Tedium (50/50)

Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Seth Rogen, 50/50, Summit Entertainment, 2011.

Up and coming director Jonathan Levine treads a tightrope of tedium and for the most part, succeeds, in the entertaining new picture, 50/50. A painfully rote plot line is resuscitated thanks to clever dialogue (by comedy producer turned first time scripter Will Reiser), top notch acting and sensitive direction.

A young man living in a house it doesn't seem he could afford in reality with his public radio job, is diagnosed with cancer. The way this plays out is depicted in a lot of completely cliched characterizations and sequences which only work because of the talent heralding them. When these sort of pictures get made by people with artistic merit, we have to marvel at the fact that it's not what a film is about which determines its value, but how it is about it.

Ultimately, the entire affair is a showcase for the incendiary talents of Joseph Gordon-Levitt. His performance as Adam is a tender, ferocious thing of beauty. Anjelica Huston matches him along the way as his clinging Mother. She is a powerhouse in what is the juiciest role she's had in years. The rest of the cast fill in their roles well, Seth Rogen perfect if typecast as Adam's schlubby dirt bag buddy Kyle, Matt Frewer and Phillip Baker Hall exceptional as Adam's treatment pals, and Bryce Dallas Howard and Anna Kendrick both good as the opposite women in Adam's life.

Levine, who broke out about five years ago with the original indie horror film All the Boys Love Mandy Lane
which he followed with the interesting pseudo-indie film The Wackness, makes a confident studio debut with this two hankie early Oscar baiter. A heavy reliance on acting and audience expectation pays off, with a fairly intelligent, well-meaning popcorn flick.

Gus Van Sant: Youthful Bodies at Rest and in Motion (Restless)

Mia Wasikowska, Henry Hopper, Restless, Sony Pictures Classics, 2011.

The meet-cute/disease sub-genre gets a much needed jolt of joy in American master Gus Van Sant's sublime new film, Restless. The deceptive simplicity of the premise is brought forth with a spellbinding immediacy which endears us to the DOA blueprint. Van Sant is among an elite group of helmers who are the only ones capable of making hipsters likable.

Henry Hopper and Mia Wasikowska are perfectly cast as our January lovebirds, both misfits in their Pacific Northwest hometown. They are frustrated teenagers, quirky and from fractured families. He has a Japanese kamikaze pilot imaginary friend. They meet-cute at a funeral, and their sweet courtship is defined in smart, clipped dialogue and lingering medium shots.That we are swept up in its dreamy web attests to its directors courage and power as a film artist.

Van Sant emerged in the 1980s as a force to be reckoned with. His three masterpieces (Drugstore Cowboy, Elephant and Paranoid Park) are devastatingly astute maladies about youth, love and death, his favorite themes. From mainstream (Good Will Hunting, Finding Forrester, Milk) to pseudo-indie (My Own Private Idaho, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, To Die For) to the daringly personal (Mala Noche, Psycho, Gerry, Last Days), he has carved his name into the cinematic consciousness with his utter control of his craft, his instantly recognizable style, and the hypnotic effect of his cumulative effort. He and Larry Clark have located the heart of American youth in all of its fragility and terror.

Which makes him the only director, aside from Clark, who could have turned the typical into triumph. Jason Lew's pared down script, Harris Savides' intoxicating visual mines and Danny Elfman's roving score all back up Van Sant's vision breathlessly. The wisdom of his eyes, fixed on these youthful bodies at rest and in motion, is the main thing. Paying homage to Hal Ashby and his favorite director, Bela Tarr, he transports us with the mystery of his mastery.