A bunch of stuff

Mirrors (Alexandre Aja, 2008) - D+

Really, really bad -- really bad -- and I'm stunned, since I had come to think of Aja as the most artful of the "Splat Pack," a genre wizard with an eye for genuinely haunting imagery; a horror director who actually pays attention to stuff like shot composition and the color palette. Still looks good, I guess -- the Laurie Holden jawbreaker sequence is one-of-a-kind, and the (obvious) use of reflections can be striking, though the resulting set pieces are often more confusing than Aja, I think, intended. The problem is the screenplay, which is hideously clunky and lazy: every line of dialogue is expository or explanatory, and most plumb the depths of horror flick cliches ("You think I'm crazy, don't you?" "I don't know what to think!"); several crucial story points are conveyed via conveniently placed newspaper clippings (the protagonist actually receives a package full of them at one point); worst of all, the movie never figures out what it's supposed to be about. It's got two things going on simultaneously, as best I could figure out: some sort of vague demonic possession plot, and a just-as-vague alternate universe story; the movie clearly thinks it brings the two of them together, but, uh, it doesn't. Twist ending is laughable, presenting the least creative ever vision of a parallel universe.

Man on Wire (James Marsh, 2008) - B

This is excellent, though not really for the reasons everyone says. I was struck by its portrayal of the sort of passion that can spur extraordinary collaboration -- the most stirring moments in the film aren't Petit's (admittedly incredible) tightrope walking but the footage of him and his cronies frantically, gleefully working out the head-spinning details of their WTC coup. Amazing what driven, adventurous people can accomplish. Also a surprisingly thoughtful exploration of the divide between morality and the law, and the notion of doing something illegal but not "wicked or mean"; listen for the police officer's awed response to Petit's escapades after he worked to put a stop to them, and the "punishment" meted out by the DA. Not really all that inspiring as a Portrait of an Artist: Petit comes off as infectiously enthusiastic but also self-absorbed and kind of crazy, and too much time is given over to gushing, vapid talking heads, like the girlfriend. But the logistics are loads of fun, Nyman's score is beautiful, and the insights are surprising.

Vicky Cristina Barcelona (Woody Allen, 2008) - B+

Woody Allen's more serious efforts this decade have all been about ambition in one form or another, and the contrast between the previous two, both thrillers about working-class strivers who get into trouble chasing dreams of wealth and comfort, and this one, about overprivileged Americans searching for other kinds of fulfillment, is fascinating. Allen is not, as some would have it, against commitment; rather, he's made a(nother) film about satisfaction, and the often self-destructive human tendency to grab for things beyond one's reach -- precisely the theme of Cassandra's Dream, and roughly of Match Point as well. And there's so much else that's interesting too, like the best performances of Javier Bardem and Penelope Cruz's careers, a remarkable discovery in Rebecca Hall (as the obligatory Woody stand-in), unexpectedly careful and lovely cinematography, and the droll voiceover that pointedly undercuts the film's woozy romanticism. On par with Match Point as the best Allen of the 00s.

Elegy (Isabel Coixet, 2008) - C+

Hoo boy. A touching if simple story defeated by unrestrained excess and shameless jerry-rigging. An aging playboy slowly discovers what he's been missing and learns love and companionship -- fine. But seriously, did he have to also be a world-renowned expert on hedonism (I am not making this up), just to drive the point home? Stuff like that. Still compelling for a while, exploring the paradox of how a man so devoted to commitment- and care-free living can simultaneously be so paranoid and jealous; for a while Ben Kingsley looks like he is less likely to kiss Penelope Cruz than devour her (which might be the point), but a character soon starts to emerge, and his gradual awakening is sweet. Then the ridiculously contrived, overwrought ending comes along and sinks the film -- the sort of cheap, out-of-the-blue, totally unearned stunt that can only come from the mind of a supremely arrogant screenwriter. I don't recall Coixet's My Life Without Me being this oppressive. Patricia Clarkson is still awesome.