“John Carter” just may be the best thing to happen to Hollywood in ages. A $250 million runaway-train of a film, it’s the kind of financially outlandish project that gets Hollywood scratching their heads at what went wrong. It’s the kind of film event that flops so spectacularly that entire studios are fired, the creative process re-considered, and the industry’s classic “Bigger Is Better” motto delayed in its execution…at least for a while. “John Carter” is a mistake, but for when one looks past its symbolic value as classic Hollywood excess, it’s really just a poorly executed film. This hits harder for no one than myself.

“John Carter” is directed by Andrew Stanton, a two-time Oscar winner whose one-two punch of “Finding Nemo” and “Wall-E” are some of the most cherished films to come out of American cinema in quite some time. This film has been his passion project since reading the source material “A Princess of Mars” at a young age, and if there’s one thing to be said for it, it’s that this film has clearly been made with the best, purest intentions in the world.

Intentions so pure in fact, they approached a fanatical naivete. Stanton’s complete drive to cinematically realize the world of Barsoom succeeds on an aesthetic level, but falls flat emotionally at every step. Just about every frame of this film has some sort of eye-popping visual element to it, but when the elements are juxtaposed with a cast of utterly dull characters, nothing sticks.

Taylor Kitsch, playing the film’s title character, is a Civil War veteran whose narrow escape from an Indian tribe inadvertently transports him to the planet Mars — or as the civilization has come to call itself, Barsoom. Barsoom is populated by all shapes of life, from humans to gangly green creatures to massive white monsters. There’s some sort of power struggle between humans and humans, and a higher power struggle between the green dudes and the humans, and an even bigger struggle between humans and sinister God-like creatures.

None of these conflicts are given the sort of intellectual explanation or emotional investment requisite to make them matter, so we’re just sort of stuck in the middle, objectively watching. John Carter’s role in the midst of all the chaos isn’t really explained either, but he’s given special attention because his Earth-adjusted bone density allows him to….jump really high? I suppose?

Kitsch himself plays Carter as a total dullard, bringing little to the role besides a repetitious series of tortured camera-driven mugs and an admittedly great set of abs. Second-act revelations about Carter’s past bring a level of pain and depth to his character, pain and depth that Kitsch very simply wasn’t capable of executing. “Carter”s cast is impressive in its scope and variety, both in terms of the skills and species they portray.

Among the names here include Willem Dafoe, Mark Strong, Samantha Morton, Thomas Haden Church and Bryan Cranston. Particularly strong is Lynn Collins as the highly intelligent, capable princess of Barsoom, whose reluctance to marry the slimy Dominic West made for one of the more engaging subplots of the film. None of these performers are poor, they simply had underwritten roles. “Carter”s bizarre tendency to switch characterizations, combined with so many shifting alliances and personalities, honestly just makes for a disorganized film.

This of course leads one of “Carter”s most shocking issues: that for all of its glitz, glamour, scope and hype, the film doesn’t have a single memorable set-piece to its credit. Indeed, the two major confrontations in the film, Carter taking down a giant white ape and the film’s inevitable free-for-all between all the warring groups, lifting entire sequences from other films. “Attack of the Clones” and “Alice in Wonderland” comparisons are not unfair, nor particularly complimentary.

Watching “John Carter”s notoriously clunky promotional materials, I seem to notice a pretty gaping flaw: One never gets a sense what the hell “John Carter” is actually about, and better yet, what kind of man John Carter really is. Emerging from the film itself, I don’t think I’m much closer to settling the question. I’ll be straight. This movie sucks. D

“Project X” is a fast, furious assault of sound, fury and bad behavior. Serving as virtually a bullet-point list of parental nightmares, it’s a counter-argument against every restraint and rule that we as a society strive to follow. I loved it.

Reading down the reviews for this film, I seem to notice some weighty adjectives. Among the descriptors for “Project X” include “nihilistic”, “vile”, “skull-numbing hedonism”, “cravenly piggish”, “singularly loathsome”, “the worst comedy of the last 20 years”, and, perhaps the harshest, “containing the most irritating character this side of Jar Jar Binks”. My rebuttal to these people is that they are wrong and I am right.

But on a serious note, although I obviously advise people take stock on critics’ opinions, they’ve gravely misjudged this film. They’ve made the mistake of critiquing the film’s events on a moral level — in essence, that this is an interpretation of the film’s views of morality. But to depict something isn’t the same as validating it.

The film is, I kid you not, 88 minutes of pure, undiluted partying. Almost every imaginable aspect of this premise is explored, acting as a sort of vicariously-satisfying experience. We may not be able to drive a Mercedes Benz into a pool, set a neighborhood  aflame or spray-paint an intoxicated dog, but the fact that we can watch it free of consequence and gravity is, well, awesome. If I sound like a reckless, deluded teenager writing this, I assure you, it’s because I am.

“Project X” hardly contains a story, rather, it’s more like a faux-video recording of the wildest party you’ve never been to. Using the social trajectory of the three quirky, lively losers who plan it, “Project X” never quite approaches sweetness, but it does have a distinctly human stamp on it. The three guys — sweet Thomas, foul Costa, and fat J.B., certainly recall “The Hangover”s trio in their dynamic and sardonicism, and the two films’ mutual producer Todd Phillips certainly indicate a connection. The fact is though, both trios are hilarious together, and that’s what counts.

First-time director Nim Nourizadeh admittedly has a hard time piecing together the material in an emotionally engaging way. Although I was certainly along for the ride with whatever these guys got themselves into, at the end of the day, their various goals and romantic pursuits never added up to much for me. “Project X”s bizarre devolvement into 1980′s-rom-com cliches is a serious fault. After a rampage of debauchery and insanity, to watch the movie end with a hug and a kiss feels like a serious cop-out.

It’s easy to dismiss “Project X” as simplistic and bombastic. It is. But in unapologetically giving an audience such crude, over-the-top material to chew on, it’s really kind of daring and out-there. B+

(oh and my friend Erin really really liked it.)

Few things sting more than when high expectations are not delivered. Perhaps the only scenario of equal disappointment is when modest ambitions fail spectacularly. Such is the case of “Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance”, a film whose endless corn-ball potential is never once reached.

“Spirit of Vengeance” is an adaptation of one of the trashier comic-book-heroes out there; the story of motorcycle-stuntman Johnny Blaze, and the deal forcing him to do the Devil’s dirty work as a flaming skeletal biker. It’s a premise tasty enough to tease. But for the second time with this character , a filmmaking team has totally dropped the ball on making a coherent feature film, let alone the bad-ass one this character deserves.

Johnny’s ghostly duties in “Spirit of Vengeance” lead him to babysitting an unassuming 12-year-old who just may be the Devil’s son himself, and preventing snarky bad guys from using these powers for evil. It’s a simple enough foundation to lay some great beats onto, but the normally-hyperkinetic directing duo Neveldine/Taylor just don’t seem to have it in them.

If there’s one thing I’ve come to love about this dynamic duo, it’s their free-spirited, do-it-yourself approach to action filmmaking. It’s not uncommon of them to get the footage they need on roller-blades, and their normally computer-free aesthetics are totally refreshing.

Every quality I’ve come to love about them is absent from “Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance”. All of the jerkiness is there, but none of the rhythm, the purpose, the fun. If their past works came across as being authored by infectiously goofy teenage boys, “Spirit of Vengeance” seems like the work of a blind Parkinsons patient who’s never held a movie camera in their life.

The plot itself is little more than the protagonists travelling from Point A to Point B. Naturally, villains travel from Point C to Point B. How else would the mediocre action happen? And yes, the fact that the action’s totally one-note and repetitive is “Spirit of Vengeance”s most crushing disappointment. It consists of Nicolas Cage slowly walking towards a baddie, slowly staring into their eyes, slowly bringing them to justice, and slowly making his way to the other. It’s static, listless filmmaking about a flaming, whip-toting demon. A true cinematic miracle. D

Few things are more satisfying than when filmmakers take established, well-worn genres and inject new ideas into them. “Chronicle” amalgamates the found-footage and superpower genres into a hybrid whose drama works far better than its action. Thankfully, it has the budgetary and storytelling constraints to emphasize the former.

It’s the story of Andrew, the kind of high-school loner only given attention when lunch is being thrown at him. His mother is dying of cancer and his father only emerges from his silence to swig beer or beat him. He’s the kind of kid to carry around a massive video-camera in the middle of a high-school hallway, and in fact, for the film’s documenting purposes, he does.

When Andrew ventures out of his comfort-zone and heads to a party, he and his cousin Matt and the premier “popular-kid” Steve stumble upon a mysterious alien rock. The film cuts ahead several weeks, as the boys begin to realize they’ve developed telekinetic powers: lifting things, throwing things, even flying. However, the powers give the boys an amplified sense of strength and responsibility, strength that Andrew progressively uses for less moral ends. The film does not end well.

“Chronicle” is a surprisingly moral film, one whose primary concern is the destructive (and constructive) ends to which people will use power. But where it really impressed me was the realistic depiction of its teenage leads: “Chronicle” wisely does away with the Hollywood cliche that if main characters gain power, they use it for good. Not a soul is saved in this film, no grandmas saved from oncoming vans or cats retrieved from trees. It’s used to impress, goof around, rob, and eventually kill. It’s the dark side of an established archetype, and I love it.

The actual execution of all these events are a mixed bag. The three lead actors Dane DeHaan, Alex Russell and Michael B. Jordan are all remarkably convincing. They all undergo huge transformations in the film, both moral and physical, and never strayed from believability for a second. Jordan in particular demonstrates great charisma, wholly delivering on the past promise of his stint on the great program “The Wire”.

But where “Chronicle” falls way short is the visual effects. Label it a shallow criticism if you desire, but a huge component of this film depends on our ability to buy into what these kids are doing, and I just never could get into it. This is especially rough given how effects-driven the action-packed climax is. I fully admire what they were aiming to do given their low budget ($15 million; a fortune for us, chump change for Hollywood), and perhaps this is an example of the studio system crippling a work’s artistic potential. Regardless of whose fault it is, it remains crippled.

Trank’s use of the documentary format is similarly variegated. Unlike other found-footage films, “Chronicle”s use of the format actually reveals things about our characters: Andrew’s constant filming suggests quirkiness and observation at first, but as his character changes and he mentally has the camera “follow” him, it reveals a sort of narcissism and darkness. Unlike, say, “Paranormal Activity”, “Chronicle”s footage comes not from circumstance, but emotion. But the ways in which the footage is “captured” strains believability very frequently: why characters would have cameras laying around as their father verbally assaults them? My complaints are, however, purely logistical.

What’s most exciting about “Chronicle” is the names it puts on the map. The three principal actors and director Josh Trank are already being signed to new projects, but first-time screenwriter Max Landis is really the champion. He’s taken countless stale elements and given them new life, in spite of a studio who didn’t give it the attention and financing to make it cohere smoothly. Which brings me to my final point. F**k you, Fox. B

“Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close” has been released to a vitrolic-at-worst, lukewarm-at-best reception. Rarely do I stray so far and so strongly from the American critical consensus, but “Extremely Loud” is the kind of emotionally raw, gracefully moving Hollywood filmmaking that I personally can’t (and don’t) get enough of.

“Extremely Loud” looks directly at the emotional void left in the world’s heart after 9/11, by focusing on a young boy, Oscar, whose father was killed in the Towers’ collapse. Oscar is an 11-year-old curiosity, one whose Asperger’s both bolsters his considerable intelligence and impairs his social capabilities, to say the least.

Flashbacks reveal an intimate relationship between Oscar and his father, one marked by activites as varied as kung-fu, alliteration-competitions and city-wide scavenger hunts. When his father is taken from him, Oscar’s life is shattered, leaving him alone with his mother (played by Sandra Bullock).

Oscar is convinced that his father had left him one final message, and when he stumbles upon a mysterious key in his closet, he sets off on a quest to find what the key fits, and why his father wanted him to unlock it. He’s aided frequently by an elderly man, who, for reasons initially unknown, will not speak.

Thomas Horn, the doe-eyed actor who plays Oscar, may be the film’s weakest asset. While convincingly portraying Oscar’s mental and social tics, Horn may as well have gone through the film with a T-shirt exclaimed, “I, Sir, Am An Actor!”. It’s a performance rich with feeling and love, but one about as far from subtle as humanly possible.

The supporting players surrounding Horn are much more convincing. Tom Hanks has a wonderful supporting turn as the boy’s deceased father. Sandra Bullock is under-used but highly effective as Horn’s mother. Bullock runs away with the film’s best scenes, including some highly emotional exchanges with her on-screen son. This highly-maligned film has a better Bullock performance than her Oscar-winning work in “The Blind Side”, which kills me with irony.

Max von Sydow’s Oscar-nominated turn as Oscar’s elderly, secretive companion is excellent. This is a man whose entire character’s history is mapped onto his face, carrying his scenes’ emotions to great effect. Jeffrey Wright, Viola Davis and John Goodman are all solid as well, in supporting roles of varying importance and secrecy.

Stephen Daldry’s direction, the source of strong debate, is highly effective. Daldry is as technically proficient as he’s always been, with tight editing and evocative cinematography communicating his ideas really effectively. But putting aside his ability to work cameras and computers, it’s his tone that presents a challenge: Daldry must walk a fine line between sensitivity and total rage, between bewilderment and knowledge, hope and reality. Keeping in mind that “Extremely Loud” must come from a child’s perspective yet present strong emotional truths, Daldry’s work is close to a knock-out. B+

In spite of what marketing may have you believe, “The Grey” is not about tough men punching wolves in the face. “The Grey” is about God, man’s weakness, nature, grappling with death and fear; and yeah, a wolf or two are slain in the process. This is a great film; one that asks big questions and scores big thrills.

No question, it’s one of the most bleak, philosophically challenging films to come out of the Hollywood mainstream in quite some time. Directed by Joe Carnahan, whose output has largely consisted of competent if inconsequential actioners, it’s a complete reinvention, from a hack to something resembling an auteur.

Liam Neeson, giving his best performance since 1993′s “Schindler’s List”, plays John Ottway. He’s a suicidal sharpshooter whose gig in desolate Alaska is to protect oil-drillers from raging wolves. When his plane-ride home crashes horrifically in the midst of Alaska, Ottway and six other survivors find themselves in the middle of nowhere, with the blistering cold, inner clashes, and ravenous wolves all conspiring to make sure they never get home.

“The Grey” is a perfect blend of generally incongruous elements: pulpy survival tale, intimate character study, thrilling adventure, and – here’s the shocking part – spiritual exploration.

It tackles incredibly weighty themes with grace and wisdom. Why doesn’t God answer peoples’ cries for help? Who is the film’s malicious force — the wolves for attacking the humans, or the humans, for intruding on their habitat and upsetting the natural order? Can man and nature ever truly co-exist? (Stay after the credits for the disturbing resolution to this particular issue) It does all this in a totally natural, moving way. It never sits us down and holds our hand through it.

Mind you, it’s certainly a thriller first and thinker second. “The Grey”‘s structure is a constant alternation between moments of unbearable horror and satisfying action. Carnahan really nails the portrayal of wolves as totally unpredictable forces. Their presence is always felt but rarely seen, save for the moments where they’re, you know, ripping a character’s throat out.

Carnahan’s greatest strength lies in the subtle character development, both in between and during the moments of intensity. Many of these characters are blank slates for the film’s first half, and these guys’ unpredictability is yet another asset to “The Grey”‘s considerable tension. It’s also a gorgeously shot movie: Masanobu Takayanagi’s compositions stare into icy brutality and find, of all things, genuine beauty.

January, as a rule of thumb, is a studio’s dumping ground; a place to offshoot whatever embarrassments don’t fulfill their already-low standards. So it’s almost with suspicion that I regard “The Grey”, but also with elation. A triumph for all involved, save for those damned characters. A-

I was reviewing a new Steven Soderbergh film not four months ago, and will be doing so in not five months. Such is the pace at which he hammers out films. No hard feelings. The man’s a maniac, and American cinema is all the better for it. His new film, the chase thriller “Haywire”, is an exercise in how much excitement restraint can yield. It stars, in her cinematic debut, the former MME wrestler Gina Carano.

Her character, Mallory Kane, is a freelance government soldier. After a successful Barcelona operation, she’s quickly re-deployed to Dublin, and here things get a bit shaky. She’s double-crossed and sets off on a mission to see who spited her. Her options are not slim: “Haywire”s amazing supporting cast of men include Michael Douglas, Ewan McGregor, Michael Fassbender, Channing Tatum, and sporting a magnificent beard, Antonio Banderas. They’re all given quite a bit to do in the film’s slim 93-minute running time, an impressive accomplishment. Carano herself never wavers in her unwavering, magnetic intensity, hinting through Bill Paxton’s father figure at a softer, sweeter side that we never (nor should ever) see.

“Haywire” isn’t so much a story to be told, but rather, a sort of style and vibe to be evoked. There’s a cohesive, interesting plot in play here, but its clearly not Soderbergh’s primary intent. “Haywire” is really about lining up a group of insanely talented men and having a unique physical presence beat her way through all of them.

And what beatings! “Haywire” strips action to its bare-knuckled roots: people with their fists, beating each other furiously. Soderbergh’s approach is just as vintage-minded, with steady camerawork, continuous shots, and no music or sound providing a welcome alternative to the Adderall-infused action-sequence standard we’ve come to expect. And when the score does kick in, DJ David Holmes’ pulsing rhythms are just as coolly fitting as his excellent work with Soderbergh’s “Oceans” trilogy.

Soderbergh’s technical finesse remains entirely evident, as his tendency to personally take up the duties of editing and cinematography results in an intriguingly toned visual style. “Haywire” climaxes in a showdown on a beach, and here all of the film’s strengths come together deftly: interesting technical techniques, restrained style, and just a good old-fashioned ass-beating. “Haywire” is blockbuster entertainment imagined as methodical minimalism; the result goes down smooth as butter with a kick like spice, or better yet, from its main character. B

Standing with her husband, Margaret Thatcher -- the first woman Prime Minister of England and the "Iron Lady" of the film.

Seemingly every year, audiences and critics rally around the new Meryl Streep film, chanting up and down the block that her work is mesmerizing and demands to be seen. They are always right.

Whether the actual narrative built around and within Streep is compelling, remains more of a mixed bag. Her latest work vying for a potential Oscar nomination – if all goes kosher, her 17th – is “The Iron Lady”.

Chronicling Margaret Thatcher’s rise from timid, insecure school-girl to conservative, authoritative Prime Minister of the U.K., “The Iron Lady” aims to encapsulate the soul of one of the 20th century’s biggest figures. What is its plan to go about doing this?

Well, director Phyllida Lloyd of “Mamma Mia!” seems to believe that having Streep bellow non-stop political monologues is the way to go. Lloyd rarely possesses the confidence to slow things down to simply allow the characters play off one another, instead depending on monologues and rapid-fire political montages to try and sculpt a plot. And when she does, its a series of repetitive conversations between Thatcher and her long-dead husband (via grating hallucinations).

“The Iron Lady”s low budget, cited by Streep jokingly in a recent awards-acceptance speech, comes across really strongly in every aspect of the film, from the rushed Thomas Newman score, to the sets, reminiscent of a TV movie, to the awkward, clumsy lighting. Were it not for Streep, this would be on Lifetime.

“The Iron Lady”, in theory, should have been a dynamic exploration of what makes a great world leader tick. We emerge from the film, however, not caring so much about its main character, but how good the make-up looked on Meryl Streep. “The Iron Lady” reduces one of the 20th-century’s most dynamic figures into an accent, prosthetic teeth, and red lipstick. An amazing feat of shallow reductiveness, that in having nothing to say, in turn, leaves me with very little to say. D

Eva and Kevin make up a doomed family in "We Need To Talk About Kevin".

“We Need To Talk About Kevin” is a film of unrelenting terror and discomfort; one that left me physically trembling by the conclusion at the events I had just witnessed. Reactions like this are what I live for. “Kevin” shook me to the core, with its tightly-constructed, dream-like style constantly suggesting horror just beneath the surface.

“Kevin” is told as a non-linear series of memories, framed as a mystery in reverse. We open with Tilda Swinton as Eva, a woman who has very clearly been rocked by a tragedy. Pills lay about in her run-down one-room home, and neighbors are hostile towards her. This begs the question — what happened?

“Kevin” bounces back and forth between Eva’s present memories and ones of her past — moments of utter joy with her boyfriend Franklin in Italy, starting a family with him, and watching their first child Kevin grow into a calculated force of terror and unpredictability.

Franklin’s refusal to see Kevin for what he is will ultimately destroy this family. And as the film barrels toward Kevin’s 16th birthday, we see the worst in him, humanity at large, and ourselves.

“We Need To Talk About Kevin” is an absolute masterpiece, from top to bottom, beginning to end. Every aspect of the film both stands on its own, and is a vital component to the film’s overall nightmarish tone.

Director Lynne Ramsay has an impeccable technical grasp. The film itself is constructed like a nightmare, with the editing fluidly jumping 20 years, the red-hues providing a constant reminder of the blood on these people’s hands, and the shaky camerawork throwing your balance for a loop while remaining totally visually coherent.

Jonny Greenwood’s score provides much of the film’s power. The lead guitarist of my favorite band, Radiohead, Greenwood’s scores often stray from guitar towards more ambient, subtle compositions. I’m not complaining. This music is terrifying.

“Kevin” wields a counter-duo of Oscar-worthy performances from Tilda Swinton and Ezra Miller as mother and son. The interactions between these two will break your heart; Swinton’s devastation playing off of Miller’s steely insensitivity to great effect.

The really troubling thing about “Kevin”, to me, is the ambiguity as to who is responsible for the actions of the title character. Is Kevin just a self-propagated force of malice and evil? Or is he simply the sum of the actions of his mother, whose lack of support in his early years may have ruined him? Who is the victim? Who is the villain? And why is “We Need To Talk About Kevin”, a film I wouldn’t even classify as horror, probably the most unnerving English film since Kubrick’s “The Shining”? Here’s why — because it has the  tightest grasp on film’s power to shock, wound, and feel. A