The gang of "ADVENTURES OF TINTIN" on one of their high-speed chases.

The "WAR HORSE" and his master amidst the sweeping English countryside.

Never in a million years would I think that I’d be able to see not one, but two new films from my favorite director. But Steven Spielberg, in all his (infinite) glory, was kind enough to drop us two new works this holiday season. Together they compose a fascinating portrait of one artist’s many faces: “The Adventures of Tintin” is a high-tech, fast-paced doozy of an adventure, and ”War Horse” a classically styled evocation of John Ford-esque grandeur with absolutely one goal — moving you to tears.

These films couldn’t be any more different from one another, but feel like no other master could have produced them. That’s Spielberg for you, a man of both one face and many styles.

Spielberg’s last film, the fourth “Indiana Jones” installment, was savaged by both critics and audiences alike. I firmly stand by my initially positive critique, and he seems to be channeling that character’s pulpy, adventurous spirit into “The Adventures of Tintin”. It’s a collaboration with some of the biggest figures in geek culture — “Doctor Who” writer Steven Moffat and “Scott Pilgrim” helmer Edgar Wright hammered out the script, and Peter Jackson of “Lord of the Rings” served as producer.

“Tintin” is a sugar-rush of a film almost to a fault — this is a movie with no patience for nuance or silence. I suppose that’s a side-effect of the film’s three leads being a drunken sailor, a teenage journalist (!!!), and a giddy Wire Fox Terrier. Spielberg has gone to great lengths to ensure that “Tintin” is essentially one massive set-piece — with threats ranging from flooding cities, crashing planes and nefarious eagles. It’s all in good fun, and perhaps one of “Tintin”s greater flaws is that the characters never seem to be in any palpable danger.

The actors are all quite solid here — Daniel Craig, playing against type as a crinkly villain, is appropriately menacing, although he never comes off as more than a motivated grouch. Jamie Bell captures all of the zest and wonder of the Tintin character quite nicely, and Andy Serkis in his second great computer-assisted performance of the year, is a wonder. His Captain Haddock is one of the most memorable characters of the year; a manic, stumbling drunk with a heart of gold. The film never veers into the darker side of his drinking and mainly uses it to comedic effect, but all in good taste.

I suppose this would be an appropriate time to mention that “Tintin” is an animated motion-capture film, meaning the characters are played by actual actors yet their environments are entirely computer-generated. “Tintin” is a leap forward for the medium, building off the foundation of works like “Beowulf” and “The Polar Express” to fulfill motion-capture’s true promise — convincing, recognizably human characters, captured amidst spectacularly gorgeous scenery. Disposable entertainment is rarely this memorable.

On the flip-side of the Spielberg coin this week is “War Horse”, and Spielberg’s aspirations are clearly a bit higher –or lower, depending on your respect for the institution of the Academy Awards. Few people have as tight a grasp on aesthetic as Spielberg, and he makes damn sure you know it — be it with John Williams’ sweeping music, whose strings alone can manipulate one to tears, or his camerawork, calling instantly to mind melodramas from the ’40s and ’50s. The fact that “Love Actually”‘s Richard Curtis penned the script should give one a good enough idea of the sap and sentimentality on display here.

But the motivation of the sappiness is not manipulation — it’s simply an earnestness to tell a story, stir emotion, and rouse at the conclusion. “War Horse” walks a tight-line and succeeded quite wildly with me.

“War Horse”s title is as self-explanatory as it gets, but also has a stinging irony about it. Albert is a young farmboy in 1910s’ England, who develops a connection with a horse from his first day of life. The film chronicles the life of the horse, nicknamed Joey, as World War I strikes and he passes through owners of all walks of life. Joey is in fact a “war horse”, but that’s because humans made him that way– against his will, against his nature. In this way Spielberg suggests neither side of the war is exempt from moral depravity, a fairly sobering truth amidst all the sweep and the sap.

The film takes on an almost episodic nature, moving from the horse’s tenure at young Albert’s farm, to his stints with both sides of the war, to the way in which he inspires a young, sickly French girl and her grandfather.

“War Horse” is an unabashed epic. In anything from its epic battle sequences to the character-driven moments of triumph, Spielberg is swinging for the rafters here with his scope and our emotions. His camera trails the events with an eye for both intensity and wonder. This film doesn’t have anything particularly new or original to say — the “war is hell, nature is sacred” subtext is recycled and pandering. But originality is not the key here — it’s the skill with which the themes and emotions have been adapted.   Tintin: B+, War Horse, A-

Kirsten Dunst as a bride-to-be whose state of mind is the center of "MELANCHOLIA".

In the eyes of the press, Lars von Trier is a misogynist, Nazi-sympathetic lunatic. In my eyes, he’s one of the most inventive, profoundly moving directors we have today. When premiering his latest film at Cannes, he started a joking tangent of “offensive remarks”. His intent was to screw with the press. In return, the press has screwed him over, to an extent overshadowing the film he was there to promote in the first place. And man, is it a beauty.

The title is “Melancholia”, referring to both the gloomy state of mind of the lead character, Kirsten Dunst’s Justine, and the red planet that is slowly but surely hurtling towards Earth. While everyone else is frantically running about, providing scientific “proof” that the two will not come into contact, Justine serenely sits, waits. Knows.

She’s not incorrect in her assumption either — “Melancholia”s very first scene is the ultra-slow-motion destruction of the Earth, a sequence set to Wagner’s “Tristan und Isolde” prelude that mesmerizes and shocks. von Trier has always had an utter grip on visual style and form, but here he manages to make the very destruction of our world a poem, playing to the senses and the mind.

After this sequence, von Trier rolls it back a few months to Justine’s wedding — here we meet her dysfunctional family. Here we meet her sister Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg in her second von Trier, and first without clitoral mutilation), Claire’s husband, a very convenient astrologist (Kiefer Sutherland, playing well outside his “24” origins), their charming drunkard of a father (John Hurt), and Justine’s slime-ball of a boss. (Stellan Skarsgard, who else?)

Here is a charming little mini-movie in which things fall apart rather quickly. Justine experiences a wave of sudden, paralyzing depression. Watching the looks on her groom-to-be (Alexander Skarsgard of “True Blood”) slowly become less and less hopeful is heartbreaking. Justine’s are even harder to watch. The film here enters a second segment, more centered on Claire’s home-life and her grappling with the forthcoming end of the world.

“Melancholia” is an immensely personal statement for von Trier, whose crippling depression has well-publicized over the years. von Trier here offers a full-fledged exploration of it, both as a force that can destroy and build, immobilize and empower.

All of this is done with an equal emphasis on character and visual. Both are important to the message being conveyed, but von Trier’s true accomplishments lie in his techniques, in his form. In what other film would an Oscar-worthy performance go almost entirely overlooked in my praises? And although Kirsten Dunst may not go home with even the nomination she deserves for her work here, it still marks a wonderful revitalization in talents and form in, ironically, a performance embodying depression.

“Melancholia” is a film both sluggish and brief, natural and fantastical, heartbreaking and magical. Lars von Trier has, through his career, has excelled in finding universal truths through focused portraits. Here, von Trier has expanded his ambitions to the stars, and the result is less a film than it is a dream. The only bad part is waking up. A

Mikael Blomkvist and Lisbeth Salander, in one of the more suggestive marketing materials for "THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO".

Cold and chilly like its Swedish setting, David Fincher’s “The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo” opens with an opening-credit sequence for the ages. Figures rise, fall and converge, but covered in tattoo ink and with Karen O’s ambient “Immigrant Song” remake blasting in the background. It promises a wild time to be had — and judging from the marketing materials, you’d think “Dragon Tattoo” would be one of the more subversive studio-backed films in years.

Not the case.

“The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo” is a film bearing the David Fincher stamp of technical mastery, with Jeff Cronenweth’s bleak cinematography as excellent as usual, Angus Hall and Kirk Baxter in the cutting room, and the Reznor/Ross duo providing a strong ambient score once again.

Their work is all up to par compared to their work last year — 2010’s best film “The Social Network”, but what makes it so much less effective this time around is the lack of an emotional center. “Dragon Tattoo” is a film whose every frame was clearly labored over and given the utmost of attention, but it came at the expense of a meaningful plot. It’s all a beautifully crafted toy that, when wound up, does almost nothing.

It’s certainly not for lack of effort on the actors’ part. In fact, the principal leads, Daniel Craig and Rooney Mara, both deliver absolutely superb work here. Craig, who’s been on something of a poor streak lately, gives a performance of both fierce intellect and icy cool. He is Mikael Blomkvist, a magazine publisher whose reporting on a corporate head just cost him his life savings. He is contacted by Henrik Vanger, a wealthy old man whose beloved niece’s disappearance has haunted him for 30 years.

Vanger wants Blomkvist to give all the evidence another look and see if there are any other angles to the story he might have missed. This is where Mara enters the picture, as Lisbeth Salander.

Much has been made of Salander’s character, both on-screen and in the best-selling novels from which the film is based. She’s an oddly pierced, bisexual prodigy whose main talent is kicking ass and hacking computers. Mara is an absolute force to be reckoned with in the role — just the right amounts of sex appeal, dramatic intensity, and hardened exterior. If Mara is on the screen, “Tattoo” approaches the heights it could have hit.

The actual murder mystery aspect of the film does work rather well, it’s just that there’s far too much of the thing. Of “Dragon Tattoo”s 160-minute run-time, at least 100 minutes are devoted to the mystery which, while important, are not the real story of the film. What “Dragon Tattoo” is really about is the odd connection that Blomkvist and Salander develop, and while solidly realized I think the filmmakers mistakenly decided to stave off most of that dynamic for possible sequels (there are after all, two more books in the series to be adapted)

Had screenwriter Steve Zaillian (whose past work includes “Moneyball” and “Schindler’s List”) paid as much attention to character development as procedural detail, it could have been a masterpiece. “The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo” is a perfectly solid murder mystery, which i heartbreaking considering it could have been solidly perfect. David Fincher’s obsessive attention to detail, has, for the first time, left his end product feeling a little empty. B-

The makeshift family -- Mary, Gary, and his muppet brother Walter.

In May 2011, I was strolling down State Street to grab a burrito and noticed something about someone in front of me. The guy, who was in the upper-range of six feet, seemed strikingly familiar. Doing an awkward jog ahead to see what was up, I realized — it was Jason Segel! Known to most as a cast member of “How I Met Your Mother”, he stood out to me particularly because of his full-frontal nudity in the first 2 minutes of the uproarious “Forgetting Sarah Marshall”. Funny thing is, he was a disheveled guy with a dangling cigarette and a sort of ambiguous pout. My request to snap a picture with the guy was met with incoherent grunting, followed with a sigh and a snap.

I say this not to brag about my celebrity-spotting escapades, but to highlight just how good his performance is in “The Muppets”. There is no moment of the film where he doesn’t have a slap-happy presence, where he doesn’t infuse it all with this massive sense of joy and uplift. Contrasting that with the melancholy presence I encountered in May, quite the performance.

“The Muppets” is the best kind of thing — a labor of love, from top to bottom. Written by Segel in reverence to his childhood favorite, the ragtag puppet team that is The Muppets, the whole film serves as a tribute to the Muppets culture, while also serving as a satisfying installment in it.

I cannot say that I am the most well-versed observer of The Muppets’ past work, which only makes me appreciate how well-crafted and stand-alone this thing is. This film makes me feel nostalgia for a past that I never experienced, a yearning for memories I never made.

The plot is short and sweet — Jason Segel as Gary, who is very plainly human, and Walter, who is very plainly Muppet, are brothers. (It’s never explained, and doesn’t need to be) Walter, however, has never felt like he’s fit in — save for when he’d put on recordings of “The Muppet Show” and dream of putting on a show with fellow, ehm, puppets. When he, Gary, and his girlfriend Mary visit Los Angeles to tour the Muppet studio, they find its fallen into desolation and is due to be demolished and drilled for oil unless $10 million can be raised. The three round up the whole gang and decide to throw a musical/telethon to raise the needed money.

Director James Bobin, in his feature-film debut, admittedly took some missteps in the editing room. He makes quite a few little mistakes — awkward cuts, mismatched eye-lines and positions, but nothing to truly sink the film. What nearly does is the second act of the film — Bobin sets up a killer momentum for the film with the first 30 minutes, but has a hard time juggling all the characters and events. From my understanding, there were some fairly extensive re-shoots on the film, which gives it an awkward, almost limping pace. Most of these worries are offset by the killer finale though, in which all the film’s greatest qualities come together.

“The Muppets” is proof that even the simplest story can be elevated to loads of fun, provided that you make the small moments count. And “Muppets” pulls out all the stops — spontaneous, effortlessly catchy musical numbers, rapid-fire cameos from massive celebrities, snappy dialogue, et cetera. The script by Segel and Stoller is good, but the musical numbers, written by ”Flight of the Concords” vet Bret McKenzie are excellent. In fact, it’s perhaps the film’s greatest credit — a few choice numbers have been in heavy-rotation on my iPod for weeks now. They’re nostalgiac and old-timey, but also perfectly catchy tunes on their own. The cast, human and puppet, carry them effortlessly.

“The Muppets” taps into an old-school pizzazz - the idea that if you have a smile on your face and don’t treat your audience like idiots, they’ll have a good time. And we sure do. B

I wasn't lying. Look at his face.

Mavis Gary (Charlize Theron) looks on at her clueless ex-beau, Buddy Slade, in "Young Adult".

Being a high-school student, it’s not uncommon to look around sometimes and contemplate where everyone’s gonna end up in 20 years. Not just geographically speaking, but emotionally as well. Jason Reitman’s new film “Young Adult” stares dead-on into the eyes of former-prom queen, present-author Mavis Gary. Her works are throwaway “young-adult” literature: shallow, self-obsessed tracts about popularity and glamour that funnily enough, perfectly reflect Gary’s self-image. She’s a 2011 woman whose head remains in 1991, still manipulating and twisting people for her own ends just like old times — and a divorced alcoholic.

Her migration from Minneapolis to small-town Mercury, Minnesota is part of a quest to get old high-school-flame Buddy Slade back. The fact that he’s now married, a father, and well, boring, doesn’t halt Gary for a minute, and this self-deluded quest is the basis for the film.

Charlize Theron as Mavis is the front-and-center focus, and Theron does not disappoint. She delivers “Juno” scribe Diablo Cody’s dialogue with an acrid tongue and self-important poise. But the majority of her heavy-work is actually what comes in-between the quips — the dishelved “morning-after” segments that follow her night-time rampages through bars and hearts, the little grimaces and lip-bites that reveal her near-monstrous nature, and the little pauses and sighs that reveal the real pain that beats at her center. Theron is exceptional because she layers the subtle with the theatrical — and unlike many of her peers, she knows when to equip the two. She’s not a character, but a force.

Serving as an unlikely friend to Mavis through her tenure in Mercury is Matt. Matt is an overweight sadsack whose notable high-school accomplishment was when jocks permanently crippled him because of his supposed homosexuality, and he’s longed after Mavis for 20 years. When the two occupy the screen together, “Young Adult” finds its true voice of reason and reality. Patton Oswalt’s take on Matt is a pitch-perfect side-turn, proving his dramatic chops to be as fine-tuned as his hysterical stand-up-comedy. A scene in which the two greet each other free of any clothing is poignant, awkward and heartbreaking all rolled into one.

The real star here is Diablo Cody’s script — not just as an individual work, but as a logical progression in maturity and depth. Cody’s actual dialogue takes upon a more sober, mature matter than her “Juno” and “Jennifer’s Body” scripts, but she retains the tart, sassy attitude and subtext that made those films stand out.

“Young Adult” is a curious affair, a film whose subtle but sharp humor comes from watching a woman humiliate herself and annihilate all relationships in her wake. It’s also a curiosity in Jason Reitman’s filmography — certainly less immediate and striking than his last film “Up in the Air”, and perhaps a minor disappointment given that was one of the great films of the past decade. Both films are about people and the folly of their personal philosophies. “Young Adult” is so damn interesting because Mavis Gary never realizes it. It’s a terrible flaw that makes for a damn good film. B+

Dedicated to Chris Narine.

Jeremy Renner and Tom Cruise, whose star-power looms as high as the featured Burj Dubai in "MISSION IMPOSSIBLE: GHOST PROTOCOL".

When all is said and done, a good movie year has about a dozen sequences that forever burn themselves into my memory; images that are so striking and so compelling that I carry them with me wherever I go, whatever I do. “Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol” may have the creme-de-la-creme of 2011 — arguably the world’s greatest movie star climbing the exterior of the world’s tallest building. No stunt doubles, no wires, no worries. It’s the centerpiece of a film whose action is continually one-upping itself — and a masterwork in craftsmanship, imagination, and sheer brio.

Tom Cruise, in his fourth outing as superspy Ethan Hunt, is out to clear his name in a bombing of the Kremlin. To do this, he traverses the world — stopping in Mumbai, Dubai, Moscow and Budapest, frantically trying to clear his name and prevent nuclear annihilation. Kudos to Swedish import Michael Nyquist for his physically able yet quietly menacing turn as the dude attempting to do wrong with his Russian nuclear launch codes.

But more than past installments, “Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol” is less about Tom Cruise parading about and doing cool stuff; there’s a really strong emphasis on team dynamics here. Joining Cruise’s globe-trotting: Simon Pegg returning as the hilariously geeky analyst, Paula Patton as an agent still hurting from the killing of her boyfriend/co-agent, and Jeremy Renner, playing a mysterious-type with a secret or two. Although my reductive descriptions give them a one-note impression, they are all given a good deal to work with; both in terms of fleshing out intriguing people and absolutely tearing shit up on their escapades.

The fact that the movie frequently approaches cartoonish territory is of no surprise. After all, director Brad Bird is an industry legend for his perfect trio of animated films: “The Iron Giant”, “The Incredibles” and “Ratatouille”. In those films, he communicated a perfect balance of humor, warmth, characterization, and invention. But most importantly, he developed an impeccable sense of visual storytelling, fluidly manipulating environments and characters better than most live-action directors. “Ghost Protocol” represents a seamless transition into live-action for Bird, displaying both his technical mastery and absolute joyousness as a filmmaker.

Bird also make the excellent decision to shoot the film’s major set pieces with IMAX cameras. True enough, I drove an hour out to the only 70mm IMAX theater in Michigan that was showing it, and the result was an impossibly massive experience on every level. IMAX cameras pick up every frame with such precision and detail, and the fact that “Ghost Protocol” generally shies away from computer-generated effects only adds to the immersion and, well, realism.

Perhaps American cinematography’s greatest treasure, Robert Elswit, is behind the camerawork in this film. It’s his direct visual signature that contributes to much of “Ghost Protocol”s creativity  and rhythm, forming a congruous duo with Bird’s style. Composer Michael Giacchano’s brassy, bombastic score is a good undercurrent for the proceedings.

The action in this film is too grand and too bold to condense into things so impotent and powerless as sentences. Psh. The thought. To “Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol”, gravity, physics, logic and reasoning are but child’s play; too meager and too meaningless to be worthy of attention. Be it a marathon sprint in the midst of a sandstorm, a prison outbreak, or 300-foot falls with the only saving mechanism being the seatbelt of a car, it doesn’t matter.  Who needs reality when you’ve got Tom Cruise? A

[Another thing of strong note -- if you drive out to Dearborn's Henry Ford Museum to see this, as I did, you see the first 6 minutes of the forthcoming "Dark Knight Rises". I consider this THE filmmaking event to miss next year, and this epic opening sequence is well worth the drive....several drives, actually.]

The four gods of "CARNAGE" meet to discuss the matter of their son's brawl.

To see Roman Polanski’s “Carnage” is to watch a biting deconstruction of societal norms, manners, and fake gestures to others for the purpose of “pleasing” them. I am a high school student, therefore I identify with these themes more than most others. You feel me?

“Carnage” sports four wonderfully talented actors — John C. Reilly and Jodie Foster, & Christoph Waltz and Kate Winslet playing respective married couples. The four, cooped up in a Brooklyn apartment, are there to resolve a dispute regarding their young sons, one of which took a weapon to the other’s face. “Carnage”, at a mercifully short yet just right 79-minute length, is simply a chronicle of their initially cordial but progressively aggressive conversation  (+5 consonance points!) – which begins with smiles and drinks yet turns into total insanity.

Although Roman Polanski’s films have been leaning a bit towards the large-scale recently, one only need look at his 1960s’ output to see that this man tells tightly-focused, one-location stories exceptionally well. Be it a yacht in “Knife in the Water” or an apartment in “Repulsion”, he paints his environments dynamically but claustrophobically — never dull, but always on-edge.

And these four actors — what magic they make together. I can’t think of any other people who could out-perform this cast, so distinct are their personalities yet priceless their interactions. It makes my heart warm that Christoph Waltz has still got it, given that his largely uninspired post-”Inglourious Basterds” work. John C. Reilly embodies the lovable-dunce-of-a-father archetype exceptionally well.

The women in this film, however, give “Carnage” its heart, soul and chaos. Jodie Foster and Kate Winslet begin the film on flip-sides of the coin, one much more sympathetic than the other. But as the film progresses, all their little niceties and mannerisms crumble away, revealing what’s really at their soul. It ain’t pretty. “Carnage” isa work razor-sharp in observation and humor, although it’s hard not to wonder if it’s an after-thought for its legendary participants. B+

The young protagonists, played by Asa Butterfield and Chloe Moretz, meet atop a train station in "HUGO".

The opening shot of Martin Scorsese’s latest film tracks across Golden Age Paris; swooping and snooping around with a childlike sense of wonder and speed. It tracks through the sky, admiring the various landmarks, and then speeds through the train station, narrowly avoiding people and then closing in on the eyes of a young boy. This boy is Hugo. This movie is “Hugo”. They are both very special.

Hugo is someone without a home — parents killed, orphanages too cruel to care for, no apparent friends. He lives behind the walls of the aforementioned train station, using his father’s expertise with clockwork to help keep the station’s mechanics working. To get by he often lifts food from the various vendors — making him a top enemy for the station’s bumbling inspector, played by Sacha Baren Cohen (or, as you may know him, “Bruno” and “Borat”).

All that seems to keep him going is a mechanical man his father left behind, or, “automaton”. It carries a secret message, one that’s only unlocked by a heart-shaped key he can’t seem to find. But when Hugo is caught stealing from an elusive toy vendor (played by Ben Kingsley, in top, grizzled form) and befriends his quirky granddaughter, Isabelle, Hugo begins a path to realizing what the machine means, what his father wanted him to know, and ultimately, if he can find a family or not.

The promotional materials for “Hugo” have done it no justice, nor, admittedly, has my plot summary. I concede some of my experience with “Hugo” was tainted, given that walking in the theater, some vital plot-points had been ruined. I advise you do the opposite and keep as much of this film as fresh as you can make it.

A tremendous cast has been gathered here. Scorsese wisely chooses his supporting actors — Jude Law, Michael Stuhlberg and Sacha Baron Cohen first come to mind. I even think I spotted Johnny Depp briefly, as a French guitarist. Ben Kingsley’s role is one that’s given much more attention than one would expect, and I firmly believe he deserves a Best Supporting Actor nomination for his work. The work of the young actors is something to be marveled as well. Chloe Moretz, fresh off excellent work in “Kick-Ass” and “Let Me In”, plays a Hermione-type with grace and excitement. But Asa Butterfield, a youth totally off my radar, makes Hugo a sympathetic character with depth, wisdom, and more than a bit of mischief. There is no frame of this film where his presence isn’t felt, where his energy isn’t conveyed.

This film’s tremendous sense of scope and depth, only heightened by the 3D camerawork, totally envelops you in a world faithful to reality, yet whimsical in appearance. I’ve said this a time or two while reviewing films — but “Hugo” is easily the best use of 3D that I’ve ever seen. So often, filmmakers use 3-D to make the obvious even moreso — a prime example is this summer’s “Transformers 3″, in which director Michael Bay took it upon himself to literally demolish Chicago and throw it all in your face. Scorsese uses it to let little nuances pop out, things one wouldn’t notice — snow falling on a winter night, dust floating in a run-down apartment, burnt remains of paper flying through the air.

But the visual attention to minute detail doesn’t mean “Hugo” doesn’t have spectacle — au contraire, actually. This film has train crashes, foot chases, and explosions to spare, and they all look spectacular. It makes the mundane magical and the large-scale out-of-this world. A great shot where a threatening character’s face slowly comes towards the audience proves too, that 3-D can enhance character-driven interactions.

Scorsese uses the frame-work of a “children’s fantasy” (his first outing in both genres) to craft a film that looks to the past while using the technology of the future. It’s a balance that could have veered too much into kitsch or sentimentality, which are funny concerns given that this film’s director has delivered us such disturbed fare as “Taxi Driver”, “Raging Bull” and “Cape Fear”. But if there’s one thing I can take away from “Hugo”, it’s that one of the greatest filmmakers to walk the planet still has new things to explore, new tricks to show us. How exciting is that? A

Lucy, right, tries hopelessly to ease her sister Martha back into society.

More often than not, when films have a non-linear structure, it’s to confuse us on a narrative level. Take for instance Christopher Nolan “Memento”, a murder-mystery-in-reverse that by starting at the end and working backwards to the beginning, revealed that many of our assumptions about the events were false. “Martha Marcy May Marlene”, on the other hand, has an emotional motivation for doing this.

The film’s protagonist, Martha, is picked up by her sister Lucy after a frantic phone-booth call. Martha seemingly vanished off the face of the earth for two years, with no contact to any outside relatives. What Lucy and her husband Ted don’t know is that Martha joined a rustic cult, developed a relationship with its charismatic leader Patrick, and began a slow but sure mental descent.

Director Sean Durkin makes the interesting decision of cutting between Martha’s time with the cult, and her first two weeks attempting to regroup with society. Dramatically, it works incredibly well in its favor, as the tension in both plot-lines gradually escalates as the film moves along. But eventually Durkin begins to blur the lines between what is past, what is present, and what may even be a hallucination. He creates a constant sense of unease and distrust in our surroundings, one not unlike Martha’s plight.

“Martha Marcy May Marlene” is a film one can approach from almost any angle and walk away impressed. It’s as confident and assured a directorial debut since Steve McQueen’s 2008 “Hunger”, and contains one of the most impressive performances of the year in Elizabeth Olsen’s Martha. The youngest sister of the Olsen family (yeah, the Mary-Kate and Ashley one), she conveys exceptionally well a confused array of emotions that could come off as erratic or bizarre under the portrayal of a different actress. Instead, in her hands, she is a character to be emphasized with, to be understood, and ultimately to be feared for.

The opposing force to our protagonist is portrayed no less masterfully. John Hawkes, whose streak of roles in “Deadwood”, “Winter’s Bone” and “Eastbound and Down” have garnered him a strong reputation, proves furthermore his status as an underrated talent. He accomplishes the unthinkable — he makes the concept of joining a cult mildly empathetic. He’s an intense presence, but never a despicable one — a fearsome one, but never monstrous. It’s a thin line to walk, but given his past work, his success is unsurprising.

Following “Martha Marcy May Marlene” is an entirely subjective experience — what exactly the last 15 minutes are, and what they mean will garner entirely different reactions. I like that. It forces the viewer to reflect and interpret, to be an active creative force in the film. A strong parallel I find to this film is Roman Polanski’s 1965 “Repulsion”. It told the story of a woman who gradually goes insane as walls crack around her, hands reach in, bath-tubs overflow. What I find most devastating about “Martha Marcy May Marlene” is that all of these things happen, but you have to read them in Elizabeth Olsen’s eyes — so delicate, so devastating, so dangerous. A-