Harold and Kumar after accidentally taking out Santa Claus -- with a shotgun.

Babies taking ecstasy, Ukranian mobsters, womanizing celebrities pretending to be gay, mens’ privates being frozen to a pole, claymation animation, Santa Claus taking a shotgun shell to the face, killer waffle-machines, car chases and 3-D cocaine snow-storms aren’t everyone’s idea of a traditional Christmas film. But then again the “Harold & Kumar” franchise never really was crafted with the majority in mind, instead catering to the audience craving a comedy a little more raunchy and radical than common, bland PG-13 offerings. (key example: this film’s counter-programming this weekend, “Tower Heist”) This critic is one such example, although that doesn’t necessarily mean I go to movies seeking the above criteria. I don’t.

That said, “A Very Harold & Kumar 3D Christmas” has its doses of sweet, although its awareness of traditional Christmas cinema doesn’t bode well for the sincerity of them. With these films we’ve tracked the stoner duo’s misadventures, and set several years afterwards, it appears they’ve settled down. The newly-married Harold is now a successful Wall Street executive, where Kumar’s life is about as static and blown (literally) as it was before. But when, I kid you not, a magical joint brings the two back together, they must scramble to replace the “perfect” Christmas tree Harold’s menacing father-in-law provided — that is, until the joint put it all into flames. Literally.

This quest for a simple tree turns into something much wilder, pushing the boundaries of the R-rating often. But “Harold and Kumar” slyly subverts a lot of trends we as a culture hold dear — simple family gatherings, our penchant for 3D, anti-Wall Street sentiment, pro-Wall Street sentiment. Nothing is held sacred here, and although the movie never really says anything meaningful about whatever its tackling, it holds a defiant middle-finger up to it nonetheless.

John Cho and Kal Penn are in top form as the titular duo. This series has brought them nothing but goodwill, landing Cho a spot in “Star Trek” and, in a bizarrely wonderful twist of fate, scoring Penn a spot in the White House. In bit roles, Patton Oswalt as a drug-dealing mall-Santa, Danny Trejo as the fearsome father-in-law who sets it all into motion, and Neil Patrick Harris, returning as himself for the third straight time in the series. Harris electrifies this franchise as he consistently has.

“A Very Harold & Kumar 3D Christmas” has a massive amount of shenanigans to condense into 89 minutes, coming at the expense of cohesion and clarity. It’s shoddily edited and stitched together, more often than not feeling like a rough-cut with awkward transitions, introductions, and actions randomly repeated twice. Oddly enough, had he waited a little longer for the actual Christmas period, I’m sure director Todd Strauss-Schulson could have worked out the nitpicks and kinks fairly easily.

Yeah, characters are underdeveloped, racial stereotypes are repeatedly employed, and the 3-D technology is only really used whenever the makers want to throw a bodily fluid in your face. And believe me, they throw EVERY bodily fluid in your face. But if it offends audiences it’s no one’s fault but their own, given these films’ reputations at this point. For what it is and who its for, “Harold and Kumar” is a near-perfect Christmas film, subverting and offending near everything in its path while actually being a fairly heartfelt contribution to the holiday genre. I’m excited to see the continuing path of one of the more daring, radical, and charming comedic franchises out there at this point. B+

While you sleep....

The “Paranormal Activity” franchise’s greatest advantage is probably going to be its greatest curse further down the line — the element of surprise. Backed on the gimmick that it’s authentic ‘found-footage’ of sinister ghostly happenings around an extended family and their homes, three installments in, I’m not altogether sure they can hold it together for further ones down the line. They’ve squeezed all the creative juice they can out of the concept — but ah, what delicious juice.

The first film’s underdog status is a story well-told, as is the mediocrity of its successor. Paramount wisely picked two total curveballs to helm “Activity 3″, the makers of the potentially-fake documentary “Catfish”, Ariel Schulman and Henry Joost. This is a film buzzing with creative energy and sly sleight-of-hand, with tension only ramping up as Schulman and Joost unleash one crazy set-piece after the other. There’s no household object here that isn’t fair game — that the malicious spirits in this film will not try and turn against the characters (and ultimately, the audience).

The film traces the first two film’s main characters, Katie and Kristi, back to their sisterly childhood roots in 1988. In those films their sinister childhood happenings were only hinted at, here they’re fully depicted. The footage is “caught” by way of their mother’s videographer boyfriend, who senses something isn’t right and sets up cameras in rooms all over the house. Just as the first two films did (or should have, in theory, the second being a failure) we ease into the proceedings by way of cheap, self-conscious jump-scares. But as the nights go on and on, the happenings intensify. The last 15 minutes of this film are pure, undiluted terror, with a capital T.

“Paranormal Activity 3″ serves also as a satisfying counter-argument for many things I, as a viewer, tend to scream at the screen in horror films — “Why won’t you get out of the house?!”, “Don’t go in the closet!”, etc. The directors, clearly very conscious of these genre trappings, work them into the plot in very clever ways. And I can’t emphasize this to you, the reader, nearly enough — catch this on a late weekend night, with a packed audience. Part of what makes these films such unique experiences is how responsive the audience is to them – shouting, heckling, and screaming all through the running time.

Part of my deep respect for this franchise is that it trains the viewer to look for even the tiniest changes in a given scene — lulling us into a constant sense of unease and squeaminess. These movies are proof that you don’t need dangling intestines or crazed chainsaw-wielders to strike deep fear in the hearts of moviegoers. And deep fear it is — “Paranormal Activity 3″ is the best horror-movie experience I’ve had since I caught the original, in September 2009. All bets are off for this one, as is my hat. See what I did there? B+

Gosling's character Stephen touring for George Clooney's radical politician in "The Ides of March".

It’s one thing to be the star of a film and also write, direct, and produce it. But to tinker with and deconstruct one’s own famously charismatic, silky screen persona is another thing entirely. George Clooney pulls off all five of these things with uniformly strong results in the political drama “The Ides of March”. Clooney is Mike Morris, a man whose talk of broad reforms and revisionist policy have captured the attention of a nation. Set over the course of a week leading up to the Democratic primary in Ohio, Morris’s campaign team include the jaded Paul (Phillip Seymour Hoffman) and the young, idealistic Stephen played by….you guessed it, Ryan Gosling. This is the fourth time in the last 10 months Gosling’s name has showed up in a review of mine, and the fourth time I’ve emerged fairly awed with his work [and his looks].

Paul Giamatti is a rival candidate’s campaign manager who tries luring Stephen over to their camp, which sets off a chaotic set of events in which loyalties are tested and principles are violated. And that’s really what “Ides of March” is about. Not necessarily who wins the primary, but what ends people will go to ensure it goes one way or another. Gosling is our moral center here, and as he skews towards a shadier ethical ground, our sense of balance as viewers is totally thrown for a loop. Leaving “Ides of March”, the disturbing thing is how easily you can emphasize with Gosling’s arc. If such a youthful, energetic force can fall, who can’t?

Gosling’s face has been a particular joy to watch as a filmgoer — not because of his looks, mind you, but because of how much he communicates with his face. In “Ides”, his eyes are put to just as much work as his mouth, and one could certainly argue his performance gains its power from it. Side roles include Marisa Tomei in solid form as a Times reporter, Jeffrey Wright as a governor whose endorsement may be key to the primary, and Evan Rachel Wood as an intern. The script certainly tinkers with our expectation of a ‘love-interest’ role [the interest being for Gosling], taking some fairly jaw-dropping turns with the character.

There’s not a weak link in the cast, Clooney particularly standing out for his work as the candidate in question. So many times, in films like “Up in the Air” and the “Ocean’s” trilogy, we’ve perceived Clooney’s characters as suave, collected, vibrant guys. “Ides of March” is notable in that for the first time, we see very plainly that this is an act on his character’s part. Clooney, both in front of and behind the camera, propels the film forward at an intense clip.

Clooney as a director continues to develop as a stylist, working with cinematographer Phedon Papamichael to create a silhouette-shrouded, seedy vibe throughout. One particular scene, in which Gosling and Hoffman’s characters debate ethics lit against the American flag is some of the most ingenious cinematography this year. [the fact that the scene was filmed in Ann Arbor's own Power-Center notwithstanding]

Clooney’s own liberal ideologies, however, pose more of a problem to the film. Seeing as much of the film takes place in town-hall debates, Clooney manages to work in some wry, of-the-moment observations of our own political landscape. Although I understand some of these scenes were necessary to establish his character’s political standing, there’s a point where it stops feeling like George Clooney’s character talking, and more like George Clooney. Given how deeply he dives into the remainder of his role, it makes these stick out sorely.

I don’t think anyone could call “Ides”‘s various plot twists shocking, but they’re handled with just the right tone and delivered so convincingly by the cast that it almost fools you into thinking they’re unforeseeable. Matters certainly take a turn for worse in the final 30 minutes, in which the film’s overall question is resolved — who can Stephen trust? Anyone? Himself?

“The Ides of March” doesn’t decide whether to be about politics or ethics until it’s a little too late to make much sense of the former. That said, the film’s tight grip on style and tone, as well as a near-perfect ensemble cast, ensure a gripping drama whose final message [and final shot, for that matter] is sure to unsettle many, and maybe rouse a few to action. B+

Joseph Gordon-Levitt as the cancer-stricken Adam, and Seth Rogen as his concerned stoner buddy in "50/50".

Tragedy can be kind of a funny thing, if you think long enough about it. So much of people’s lives are devoted to presentation of control; be it of a situation, of a job, of emotions, et cetera. So the fact that a single event can tear all that down and strip one of their control carries a really dark, somewhat sinister irony about it. “50/50″ explores that in the most appropriate way possible — with a heavy dosage of humor, some moments of genuine heartbreak and poignancy, and brownies laced with cannabis. It’s a good time to be had at the movies.

Joseph Gordon-Levitt is the man whose life rapidly unravels, with the shocking revelation that he has a severe form of spinal cancer. See, he’s a 20-something health nut with a steady if shady girlfriend and a goofball best friend; played by the only guy I can think of who deserves his absurdly-expensive paychecks to show up in movies, laugh and get high. Yes, friends, Seth Rogen is in this film, and his loose comedic energy provides a lot of the film’s surprisingly frequent laughter.

The chance of survival Gordon-Levitt has makes up the title of the film, and to be sure, “50/50″ dives very deep into the confusion and hurt that his character, Adam is feeling. But “50/50″ is just as much about the effect his disease has on other people, and the brilliant supporting cast bring both believability and humor to their roles. Rogen does well essentially playing a variant on himself in real life — see, he’s good friends with screenwriter Will Reiser, whose script here is based on his own experiences of getting cancer at a young age.

Anjelica Huston is perfect as Adam’s hopelessly if adorably dependent mother. Bryce Dallas Howard continues making a name for herself in Hollywood playing unsympathetic girlfriend-characters, and the veteran Philip Baker Hall is hilarious as a fellow cancer-patient with a fondness for all things cannabis.

Anna Kendrick, whose career build-up continues in the wake of roles in “Up in the Air” and the “Twilight” films, hits just the right notes as Adam’s therapist who wants to maintain a degree of distance from her, admittedly, very good-looking patient. Gordon-Levitt’s status as one of the best-looking men in Hollywood, admittedly, compromises the film’s believability on one occasion — he has a hard time picking up girls at a local bar. If there’s any female (or for that matter, male) readers who aren’t in love with Gordon-Levitt, I demand an explanation.

There’s a moment towards the end where our lead, who’s been fairly composed up to this point, lets out a furious scream. As an audience member, all through the film I’d been laughing with his character, but it’s in this little 10-second beat that I realized how deeply I felt for him. The subtle ways in which writer-director Jonathon Levine builds that up for us — believable supporting characters, convincing interactions, and constant deviation from movie formula to create a more honest, open tone — go a long way towards setting it apart from the majority of films in this genre, and probably this year. Refreshingly unpretentious, and satisfying on all levels. Oscar voters, take note. A-

Pitt and Hill, partners in crime rebelling against baseball conventions in "MONEYBALL".

“Moneyball” lives in the shadow of the Facebook movie. It’s an unfortunate comparison, given my absurdly high regard for “The Social Network”, but it’s one that must be made. Both Columbia Pictures-backed, modestly budgeted adult fare slid into a near-identical fall release with a specific vernacular pertaining to a cultural revolution — in “The Social Network”s case, communication, in “Moneyball”s case, baseball. I suppose the most obvious parallel is their scribe, Aaron Sorkin.

Sorkin’s dialogue often takes a sardonic, biting rhythm, as if each word stings as it rolls off the tongue. He dials that back for this Brad Pitt vehicle, taking a smooth, relaxed pace. The plot, adapted from one of Michael Lewis’s endless bestsellers, revolves around Oakland Athletics owner Billy Beane. Given a budget around a third of the major-league teams, Beane, along with a young statistician, Peter, devises a radical new method of compiling a successful team — one driven purely by statistics and calculations, not old adages or gut-instinct. The fact that the reserved, hyper-intelligent Peter is played by the guy who drew lots of penises in “Superbad” is totally irrelevant.

“Moneyball” moves at a measured pace, one that I’m not entirely sure was appropriate. Here, we have the story of two men betting their reputations and livelihoods on changing an American tradition. Director Bennett Miller certainly conveys the opposition to Beane’s theory, but never the rebellious, driven spirit that fueled him.

Beane’s struggle at home is certainly humanized well, in a moving subplot with his young daughter. But we get a little too much of the ‘Brad Pitt, meaningfully staring into distance’ stuff and not enough of the ‘Brad Pitt flying in the face of societal convention’ stuff.

This marks Miller’s sophomore effort as a director, after his 2005 work “Capote” which won Philip Seymour Hoffman an Oscar. Hoffman collaborates with Miller again here, playing the team’s coach, Art, who represents a direct contrast to Beane’s theory. A running joke is how the press glorifies Beane’s accomplishments as Art’s own, but otherwise, Hoffman is definitely a side player.

Jonah Hill is the real revelation here, and it’s not because of any grand entrance or dramatic outburst — it’s because of his silence. The normally comic actor is totally dead-pan here, something that, ironically, can work to great comedic effect during his discourses with Pitt.

Chris Nolan’s go-to cinematographer Wally Pfister shoots offices and baseball stadiums with the same grandeur and intensity that he applies in Nolan’s works. “Moneyball”s structure imitates its storyline, in that it never quite offers a clear, triumphant victory that one would expect from a film of this genre.

The fact of the matter is, “Moneyball” is not a sports movie, nor is it an economics one. It’s about how one man’s personal philosophy, if championed just enough, can change the way traditions are carried. On one hand, it’s the story of one great American tradition, baseball, but on the other hand, it’s the story of an even greater one: Revolution. Who can root against that? B

No caption needed. Driver drives.

As long as the cinema has been around, a prominent fixture in its works have been guns. More specifically, the little metal cylinders that empty out of them, who it goes into, and why. Somewhere along the way, however, the visceral impact of guns have been watered down. You don’t really feel the bullets anymore, to be honest. One of the many distinctive things about Nicolas Winding Refn’s “Drive” — every bullet goes off like a bomb. This is partly due to the booming sound choices Refn takes. However, it’s mostly because “Drive” has a pervasive silence — dialogue is fairly rare, and when it is, it’s absolutely vital. Refn structures “Drive” almost like a game of Jenga — taking a fully developed, built tower (or in this case, film) and seeing how many elements he can remove without it falling apart. “Drive” is a film with all the fat trimmed — every beat, pause, line, gun-shot, and glance is vital. Everything – forgive the pun – drives the film forward.

Ryan Gosling is the star, as tends to be the case with most quality American cinema in recent months. Gosling is the lead character in a film called “Drive”, and so it is appropriate that in the film he, yes, drives. He has no name, nor a backstory. All we know is that he’s a stunt driver by day and criminal-getaway driver by night. After becoming involved with a woman from his apartment block, he becomes involved in a heist. Like all movie heists must, this goes very wrong. To reveal more, as the marketing campaign apparently did (I made it a point to avoid trailers for this film), would be a total injustice. Just know that some very bad things happen and a very interesting side of our Driver is revealed.

Gosling plays Driver with a slippery cool; always hinting at emotions and reactions but never betraying them until very late into the film. What leads Driver to let down his cool is actress Carey Mulligan, whose talent and unbelievable cuteness seemingly feed off one another with each subsequent film she makes. The two have a refreshing lack of verbal interplay explaining how much they love each other — Gosling and Mulligan do something much more rare. They glance. They act. Stars should try it sometime.

“Drive” may play mainly off these two, but it sports an impeccable supporting cast that add flair and personality to the proceedings. “Breaking Bad” star Bryan Cranston is great as Driver’s mentor, and Ron Perlman as well, as Cranston’s parallel to the main villain — Albert Brooks. Brooks pulls a 180 on his traditional persona, playing a wonderfully evil, hilariously venomous man. I can’t quite spoil how he relates to Driver, aside from the obvious point that the two come into very direct, volatile conflict. Christina Hendricks is nice here. Her brains make for a unique sight.

“Drive” is not so much an action picture as it is a funky little art-house concoction, that happens to have A-list stars, gunfights and some incredible car-chases. Seriously, the opening sequence of this film is a complete nail-biter — Driver navigates two passengers/wanted thieves through a web of cop-cars and helicopters in downtown Los Angeles. “Drive” seems to be full of these brilliant little moments of either unbelievable tension, or ones of almost cartoonishly grotesque violence. Forks, boots, and window-panes are utilized in the process.

Propelled by Cliff Martinez’s atmospheric, synth-driven score, “Drive”s denim jackets, tooth-picks and hot-pink title-sequence all carry a distinctively ’80′s style, one not really used for more than atmosphere. But still — what atmosphere!

All of this font and all of these words (assuming this review reaches your hands unedited, thus far I count 611) describe what “Drive” is like, but what convinces me this film is a masterpiece is that I can’t really articulate the instinct that I get, that I KNOW it’s special. “Drive” is a film that on script, was a pure genre exercise. On screen, it’s rollicking, hypnotic entertainment. A

Matt Damon trying to escape newly-quarantined Minnesota in "Contagion".

In my time as amateur film-critic/connoisseur, I have to use the bathroom really quite often. This seems a really bizarre place to start a movie review, but then, do you really expect anything too traditional from my end? I say this not to shock or elicit a giggle, but because I had to go really freaking bad during the entirety of Steven Soderbergh’s 105-minute disaster epic “Contagion”. And you know what? I sat there the entire time, not really caring one way or another whether I was in fairly intense abdominal pain. So gripping is his vision of society’s meltdown, I felt to miss a frame would be a disservice. You tell me the last movie that pinned you to your seat like that.

“Contagion” is helmed by the man I believe to be American cinema’s most exciting filmmaker, Steven Soderbergh. Over the years the man’s cranked out star-studded extravaganzas, documentaries, five-hour epics, explorations of eroticism, Julia Roberts vehicles, and, I kid you not, an experimental drama with porn star Sasha Grey in the lead role.

The fact that his quality can be inconsistent misses the point. The man will do anything and everything, putting a distinctive stamp on anything he touches. With “Contagion” Soderbergh adds another notch to his belt: master of terror. Yeah, “Contagion” is the most terrifying movie of the year and pulls this off without so much as a jump-scare.

Watching people chased with knifes and chainsaws can be scary, but considering that most level-headed individuals have not had such an experience, there’s a degree of distance to the proceedings. What if something so simple as a touch or a cough could have you contract a virus, putting you and anyone you contact six feet under? And furthermore, what happens when it spreads all over the world until there isn’t any more room six feet under?

These are only some of the questions “Contagion” answers, with a very deliberate, realistic style courtesy of “Bourne Ultimatum” scribe Scott Burns. Burns extensively researched his material for the film, even working with the CDC to create an authentic virus. Although occasionally at the expense of organically developed dialogue, authenticity pays off handsomely, never calling to attention its status as a multimillion-dollar blockbuster with an Oscar winner in almost every frame.

Among them are Matt Damon, Marion Cotillard, Kate Winslet, Jude Law, Gwyneth Paltrow, Bryan Cranston, Elliot Gould, John Hawkes, and Dr. Sanjay Gupta. (Because what’s a tentpole blockbuster without a famed neurosurgeon playing himself?) Damon aside, who sinks himself into the role of a pudgy, unassuming newly-single father, none of them carry particularly deep, memorable roles, but then again, such is not the point. They are essentially inserts for the audience to hook their emotions in, and with their characters including bloggers, specialists, doctors and janitors, I’m sure at least one will do the trick.

We are intended to care for their plight, but Soderbergh always reminds of the grander scale of things — he’s not afraid to kill off Gwyneth Paltrow in the first ten minutes of the film, and he’s not really afraid to remind us that it doesn’t matter too much, either. Why mourn the passing of one when billions more tiptoe death’s door? And why not throw boatloads of praise onto a studio-backed film that will so fearlessly pose such a question? A-

Emma Stone as crusading journalist Skeeter in "THE HELP", doting mother behind her.

Walking out of “The Help” left me with an odd grinding sensation inside my head, not unlike downing a lot of red Kool-Aid, or being in a particularly bland-smelling car for far too long. It’s afflicted with what I like to call “Blind-Side-syndrome”, which is to say, the unpleasant experience of an intimate African-American experience being filtered through a very distant, very white perspective.

“The Help” parades around for 150 minutes pretending to be what it’s furthest from — an authentic, meaningful story of an uphill racial battle. Some may find it inspiring. I find it more than a little sickening.

It’s a calculated showcase for talented people to show off how talented they are. “The Help” functions well as this. It’s an eclectic group of respected actresses, ranging from older black talent like Viola Davis and Octavia Spencer, to young white women like Bryce Dallas Howard, “Tree of Life”s Jessica Chastain, and one of the most charming young women on the Hollywood scene — Emma Stone.

All five of these women give director Tate Taylor’s script punch and dramatic momentum, Stone in particular serving as an appropriately perky, inquisitive lead. The poor quality of the film is not to be blamed on these women.In fact, it’s not to be blamed on the film on any sort of technical level.

Visually, it’s quite proficient, with the 1960s-era costumes and decor often times approaching “Mad Men”-level authenticity. I don’t take issue with the way in which “The Help” was made — I object to the purposes for which it was made.

Stone is Skeeter, a freshly-graduated college student who returns to her quaint Southern hometown to eek out a job at a local newspaper. While doing this, Skeeter notices the black housemaids so frequently employed by local households lack access to a basic function — they can’t use the bathrooms in their employers’ homes. This inspires Skeeter to draft up an expose on the hardships these maids, or, ‘the help’, have to face on a daily basis.

It’s a testament to “The Help”s lack of focus that it will spend time doting over the actions of Skeeter and her interviews, then jump between one of its near-endless subplots including, if not limited to” the racist, villainous housewife Hilly, the lovable if unintelligent Celia, Skeeter’s dying mother, Hilly’s dying mother, the maids Skeeter are interviewing named Aibileen and Minny, the potty training of a young girl Aibileen looks after, Skeeter’s book deal, Skeeter’s love interest, and an ongoing mystery as to why her childhood maid suddenly vanished. Yes, friends, this film is a dense one. But not dense as in actually complex, dense meaning disorganized and slipshod. Were it not based on a (highly, highly successful) novel, I’d assume it to be virtually improvised on the go.

“The Help” takes a vital issue, one still manifested widely throughout America today — intolerance — and sanitizes it for the easiest possible consumption, scrubbing out furiously any kind of thought-provoking, interesting ideas or themes. “The Help” should have felt like an bleeding, passionate project; an open letter recounting an abhorrent period in our nation’s history. Instead, it goes down like a gaudy, candy-colored flower bouquet. D

Katie Holmes begins to see her step-daughter's suspicions of their home in "DON'T BE AFRAID OF THE DARK".

The creatures of Troy Nixey’s feature-film debut “Don’t Be Afraid Of The Dark” can really be quite terrifying, but that’s not what makes this haunted-house remake particularly memorable. It’s the terrifying communication-breakdown that goes down in this flick that sticks with you. The protagonist is a chubby-cheek, teary-eyed little girl named Sally. Her casting was wise.

From frame one you feel instantly protective of her, an instinct that continues on for the duration of the film. She’s up against the things that go bump in the night in an old house her architect father Alex is staying in, while renovating it with his co-worker/lover Kim. Sally’s warnings of these creatures go unheeded. As the terror mounts in the household (and audience), a disconnect grows between father and daughter.

The premise is simple and the delivery unpretentious. But “Don’t Be Afraid Of The Dark” knows when to deploy strong set-pieces to heighten the tension — one scene in which Sally slowly crawls under her bed-sheets, searching for her intruder, will stop your heart. Director Nixey spaces these out from one another well — long enough to keep us wanting more, but consistently satisfied.

Returning to quality cinema for the first time since 2006′s “Thank You For Smoking”, Katie Holmes plays Kim, with Guy Pearce joining her as Alex. They have pretty standard, cookie-cutter “workaholic, skeptical dad” and “caring girlfriend” roles, pulling them off about as convincingly as any other movie you’d imagine. I particularly appreciated the directions Katie Holmes’ character took — instead of cold-shouldering Sally, she actively attempts to understand the child. A simple twist from formula, but a welcome one.

It’s Bailee Madison that carries the picture, and I’m amazed such a young, vulnerable girl could carry a film so built on tension and edge. Madison looks ready to burst into tears at any given moment, but never veers into whiny or annoying territory.

Guillermo del Toro, filmmaking genius and creature-feature enthusiastic, personally championed “Don’t Be Afraid Of The Dark” to the screen, with a co-writing and producing credit to boot. It’s a re-imagining of a ’73 TV movie that, he claims, was the inspiration for his long, impressive body of work. And although, with the strong female character and the creepy undertones, one can see traces of del Toro in this, it’s not nearly distinctive enough to be worthy of his moniker.

Thus far I’ve praised the film for its modest steps away from formula, but they are, indeed, merely modest ones. “Dark” isn’t so much its own entity as it is a fairly successful entry into a long-running, long-standing genre. That’s both the slight charm and equal frustration with this one. B

London project youths face off against alien invaders in "ATTACK THE BLOCK".

2011 has had a total glut of alien invasion cinema, worse yet, of totally inconsistent quality — from the inspired “Super 8″, to the solid “Paul”, to the truly inane — “Green Lantern”, “Battle: Los Angeles”, and enjoyable though it may be, the third “Transformers “. What all of these films have in common, however, is a massive budget. The U.K.-imported “Attack the Block” approaches this genre from an alternate perspective – it features virtually no known stars, has a comparatively shoe-string budget of $13 million, and is told from the perspective of a group of teenage hoodlums.

The film actually opens with these guys mugging a nurse by the name of Sam. Just as they’re making their getaway, however, something falls from the sky and attacks them — a creature that is, quite clearly, not of this world.

Their first immediate reaction? Kill it and bring it to the safest place in their London housing project — their weed room. But as more and more creatures descend into the area, it becomes quite clear that this teenage gang is gonna have to summon all the bravery and weaponry they can to defend the block.

“Attack the Block” is nearly inseparable from the internet hype built up around it — it’s played to sold-out crowds at nearly film festival it’s hit, has gotten rave reviews, and is produced by the film-community demigod and “Hot Fuzz” helmer Edgar Wright. It’s not every day the New Yorker is singing the praises of a profane alien-invasion flick.

But that deters from the fact that “Attack the Block” carries fairly modest ambitions; charmingly so, in fact. The majority of the film is set within the confines of the same apartment building, following the characters as they move from room to room, seeking cover from the chaos and planning their next move.

Director Joe Cornish’s script provides lots of banter for the characters to throw at one another, but it’s not banter for the sake of itself. It develops the characters’ personalities and relations with each other organically and humorously. (This said, a strong ear for south London accents is required to get what these kids are saying.)

With its efficient storytelling and stylized action, “Attack the Block” often evokes a kind of low-budget charm reminiscent of ’70s John Carpenter flicks. It’s directed with surprising confidence, especially given that this is Cornish’s first go-around as director.

But when “Attack the Block” really floored me was when it took a moment to slow things down and reflect on the social situation the characters face. “Attack the Block” doesn’t shy away from the fact that its protagonists, a group of lower-class, mostly black teens, are often regarded by society with a cautious hesitance.

The film’s best scene is where the gang leader Moses makes a speech, reasoning that the government sent the creatures down to take out blacks, because drugs and guns weren’t doing it fast enough. Is it irrational and false? Absolutely. But it unflinchingly captures the sort of social tension and unrest that lead to the recent riots in the film’s very location, London. You probably wouldn’t see a film going after issues like this made within the Hollywood system. And if a film can do that while providing breezy, energetic popcorn fun, I’m all for it. B