Close Encounters of the Nerd Kind

Paul

**1/2 out of ****

Directed by: Greg Mottola

Starring: Simon Pegg, Nick Frost, Jason Bateman, Kristen Wiig and the voice talents of Seth Rogen

Running time: 104 minutes

There is a simple equation that explains how a comedy can develop a big laugh: a strong joke plus a strong delivery of that joke. When Simon Pegg and Nick Frost worked on Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz, two genre pictures that worked overtime by simultaneously parodying genre pictures (zombie films and cheesy action flicks, respectively), the equation was repeatedly followed and executed well.

In their latest attempt to lampoon a beloved genre (this time it's Spielbergian sci-fi), they only get half of the equation right. The fantastic delivery is there, mainly due to the presence of a spectacularly eclectic comedy ensemble, but the jokes seem obvious and often cheaply caricature the shortcomings of American culture.

Paul's cast, which features Pegg and Frost, two from the Arrested Development cast, two from the Saturday Night Live gang, and Jane Lynch, however, make some pretty terrible jokes seem fresher than they should be.

Pegg and Frost are Graeme and Clive, two bona-fide geeks who travel to the United States to attend Comic-Con, and then venture on a subsequent road trip – on an RV, no less – to tour UFO hotspots (Roswell, Area 51). When they witness a car crash and investigate the aftermath, they find a four-foot alien with light olive skin named Paul (voiced by Seth Rogen).

Paul is on the lam after escaping from Area 51 and is trying to find his way back home. He hops onto Graeme and Clive's busted RV, but this journey is not smooth sailing.

Our favourite martian is being pursued by a trio of cops, two clueless (Bill Hader, Joe Lo Truglio) and one by the book (Jason Bateman, deadpan par excellence, as usual). Along the way, the trio bump into a fundamentalist Christian (Kristen Wiig) who believes in evolution and has a hard time explaining Paul’s existence.

Pegg and Frost served as Paul’s writers, and miss the easy attempts to lampoon comic-book geekery and fandom – maybe since they are nerds themselves. Or they were ill-advised to do so after their frequent collaborator, Edgar Wright, embraced that culture so affectionately with the cult hit, Scott Pilgrim vs. the World.

The duo do seem to have enjoyed stacking Paul with clever in-jokes for the most adamant fans of Steven Spielberg and George Lucas, even though they do feel more accessible and less brazenly sly than from their earlier films. When the characters enter a saloon midway through the film, the band on stage is playing the El Cantina music from Star Wars, a pop-culture reference that pretty much winks at the audience to laugh accordingly. When Sigourney Weaver shows up, you’re just waiting for someone to quote her famous line from Aliens. Behold, they do.

Much of the comic intentions in Paul seem to miss the mark. Pegg and Frost are British outsiders poking fun at broad red-state stereotypes (you know, the one-note creations who love Jesus and hate homosexuals). This humour must come from the perception of writers who have watched one too many tasteless, American road-trip comedies and not from the perception of writers who have actually visited the United States.

However, there are a few bright spots in Paul that make the film more enduring, and at the top of that list is Paul himself. If E.T. was a laid-back, sweet-natured, pot-smoking, foul-mouthed take-one-for-the-team cynic, you’d have the character. The film should’ve been shown from his perspective as he tries to navigate through a foreign land, rather than from Graeme and Clive’s outsider perception.

The material cannot measure with the quick-witted, self-referential adoration of Shaun of the Dead or Hot Fuzz since many of the comedy set-ups are too limp for the talents of this remarkable cast. Still, when you have so many actors with their feet firmly planted in lame tomfoolery, the jokes manage to work. Together, the ensemble makes Paul an amusing diversion, if not a very memorable one.

Top Tens #3: The Top 10 Actors Who Have Never Been Nominated for an Academy Award

Those who are well-versed in cinema continually complain about how certain actors and actresses just can’t seem to strike Oscar gold despite a slew of nominations (Johnny Depp, Annette Bening, for instance). And then there is that other group of thespians that just can’t seem to find the right film to catapult their prolific talents into a single nomination. Here are the Top 10 Actors Who Have Never Been Nominated for an Academy Award.

Note: This list is heavily male-oriented, but that’s not to disservice any female actors. Of the actors who I compiled that have never got nominated, though, the list just happened to skew widely male. That’s not to disservice many female actresses, though. It’s just that the majority of films are usually more oriented with male characters than female ones, thus making the Actor races a bit more heated than the Actress ones. Therefore, it seems as if more men get snubbed than women.

10. Malcolm McDowell

It seems that the Academy has been favouring meaty portrayals of villainous characters these past few years, giving honours to Heath Ledger, Mo’Nique, Javier Bardem and Daniel-Day Lewis for their deliciously brutal portrayals of people I’d rather not meet for lunch. So, how they ever managed to snub the mastermind behind the mesmerizing Alex DeLarge from Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange is almost as shocking as the subject matter in the film itself (he did end up receiving a Golden Globe nod, though). With almost 200 film, television and video game credits to his name, McDowell has become more synonymous with the quantity of his performances than their quality. Still, strong supporting work in films such as Gangster No. 1 and The Company (from the late Robert Altman) has shown that he’s still on the search for material that could land him on the Oscar shortlist.

9. Sam Rockwell

One of the most enthralling character actors of recent years, with bona-fide star-making turns in films such as The Green Mile and the little-seen gem Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, Rockwell is one of our generation’s most colourful and diverse performers. He takes splashy supporting parts in big-budget productions, such as Iron Man 2 and The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, while enforcing his sardonic, charismatic personality in little-seen independent fare like Moon and Snow Angels. Rockwell is one of the most bitterly funny comedic and dramatic actors of our time, but also has an impressive range. It’s only time until the Academy realizes his uncompromising grip on moviegoers (see Moon if you have any doubts on the previous sentence).

8. Marilyn Monroe

Diamonds may be a girl’s best friend, but the chance for Oscar gold simply did not surmise for the actress born Norma Jeane Mortenson. Despite three Golden Globe wins (including one for Some Like It Hot), a supporting role in All About Eve (which won six Oscars), and a spot as the sixth greatest female screen legend of all time by the American Film Institute, she was never considered for a top honour by the Motion Picture Academy. This is a shame, considering her iconic comedic performances in the 1950s, from The Seven Year Itch to The Prince and the Showgirl, as well as her unforgettably effervescent persona which has never gone out. As Elton John put it in his 1973 single, Candle in the Wind, which was written about Monroe, “Your candle burned out long before your legend ever did.” Also, it was extinguished before the Academy got the chance to award her for a fine career of fantastic musical, comedic and dramatic work.

7. John Cusack

He’s one of Hollywood’s most charming, assured and all-around likable actors. He has an impressively dense resume (over 60 films in under 30 years) and has a real knack for choosing inspired, original screenplays (Say Antyhing…, Grosse Pointe Blank, Eight Men Out, Being John Malkovich) and can master both horror (1408, Identity) and comedy (Hot Tub Time Machine, High Fidelity) with the same sweet-natured, slightly cocksure underdog persona that’s become one of his staples. Even Roger Ebert said that having him in a movie instantly regards it as something worthy of praise. So why hasn’t he received any love from the Academy? Cusack should take out the boom-box, crank up the Peter Gabriel, and stand outside the Kodak Theatre until somebody notices.

6. Guy Pearce

One of the few tricks to launching a well-regarded career around the world is to choose good projects. The Australian actor started off with The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, was the best part of Curtis Hanson’s L.A. Confidential (and given the ensemble, that’s quite a feat) and was simply unforgettable in Memento (unless you were his character from Memento). With remarkable range – he’s played everyone from Harry Houdini to Andy Warhol – and a knack for picking good scripts, such as the low-key The Proposition and Animal Kingdom, Pearce is one our generation’s most versatile and riveting performers. He recently gave memorable, if brief roles, in the last two films to take home Best Picture: The Hurt Locker and The King’s Speech. He’s on the Academy’s radar, but can’t seem to connect with the voters. Now… where was I?

5. Donald Sutherland

A Canadian treasure and a man who instantly adds weight and grace to every role he takes (even in sillier action fare like The Mechanic), Sutherland has had a stunning career. Even though he has been awarded for much of his career working in mini-series and programs on the small screen, he has failed to reach the Academy. Sutherland made his mark on the big screen early, with Klute, MASH and The Dirty Dozen and remained a voice of authority and grit in many fine character roles in the 1980s and 1990s (highlights: JFK, The Italian Job remake). With a career like this, you’d think he’d have had his due with the Academy long ago. Even his tremendously moving performance in Ordinary People (the 1980 Best Picture winner) couldn’t earn him a nomination. A Lifetime Achievement Award is well overdue, folks.

4. Joseph Cotten

Cotten was to his good friend and frequent collaborator Orson Welles what Karl Malden was to Marlon Brando, except the latter three mentioned here all walked off with statuettes. Best known for playing Welles’s closest companion in Citizen Kane, Cotten was also a compelling leading man, whether heroic (The Third Man), villainous (Shadow of a Doubt) or just plain grand (The Magnificent Ambersons). Probably since he played second fiddle to Orson Welles for much of his career, he sadly receives little fanfare from many film buffs, and he got this lack of appreciation from the Motion Picture Academy, as well. But Karl Malden walked away with an Oscar for A Streetcar Named Desire, even though it was Brando who gave the groundbreaking performance. Oh, well. Cotten, who died in 1994, remains one of Hollywood’s unsung heroes.

3. Peter Lorre

I wonder how it feels to encompass the lives of scum for much of your acting career. Regardless, Peter Lorre’s shifty criminals have a depth and complexity that it takes many other character actors who attempt to step into darker territory years to obtain. Best known as the serial lurking around Berlin in Fritz Lang’s chilling thriller M, even 80 years after the film’s initial release, Lorre was a masterful screen presence both in Europe and North America. Stateside, he gave scene-stealing turns in classics such as Arsenic and Old Lace, The Maltese Falcon and Casablanca. He was also the first actor to ever play a James Bond villain, when he starred as Le Chiffre in an American television version of Casino Royale in the mid-1950s. Even nearly 50 years after his death, Lorre’s dark, disturbing turns are still the benchmark for cinematic villainy. Maybe the acting branch should wear an "F" on their back for failing to acknowledge such a fine performer.

2. Jim Carrey

Sure, he has his mantle stacked with Kid’s Choice Awards, MTV Movie Awards and People’s Choice Awards for his loopy slapstick routines. But while the Toronto-born star may be one of the most influential comic voices, faces and spirits to light up movie screens, that’s not to put down his weightier dramatic roles. He expressed remarkable depth in Peter Weir’s classic, The Truman Show, and then went on one year later to unparalleled heights in the performance of his career as Andy Kaufman in Man on the Moon, a chameleon-like portrayal of madcap brilliance that somehow slipped under the Academy’s radar. Potent dramatic work in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, on top of his terrific comedy antics, have showed that Carrey is an undeniable presence in any project he touches. Possibly the greatest screen funny-man of his time, and a fantastic dramatic actor too, it’s time Carrey’s received his due.

1. Gary Oldman

If Peter Lorre ever needed to have his life given the big-screen treatment, Gary Oldman would be the man for the job. Ditto for every other actor on this list. But Lorre would be the best example, since from Lorre’s death in 1964, no actor has shifted so seamlessly between so many incarnate forms of evil as Oldman. He has mastered Dracula and Lee Harvey Oswald, while offering devilish turns in The Professional, Air Force One, The Fifth Element and countless others. The British star is one of the most eclectic performers currently working – even a shift into blockbusters hasn’t taken away from his dedication to his craft. In fact, I bet that many fans of Harry Potter (he plays Sirius Black) and Batman (Commissioner Gordon) don’t even realize it’s the same actor. Perhaps his role in the upcoming thriller, Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy will finally get Oldman the recognition he has sorely lusted for. With his reptilian talents and an impressively wide array of roles (he has played both Sid Vicious and Ludwig van Beethoven to critical acclaim), Oldman instantly brings squeals of delight when he appears on screen. The fact that he has failed to earn an Oscar nomination is one of the most dumbfounding mysteries of cinema in our modern times.

The Problem

Once upon a time, there was an actor who had a problem. Tell me if this tale sounds at all familiar.

He was a brooding young star whose rock-star lifestyle and “bad boy” persona earned him a rocky reputation along the West and East Coast and everywhere in between. He was born the son of a respected actor and had a family submerged in the entertainment business, both on the screen and off. He had a string of exceptional performances in comedies and dramas through the late 1980s and 1990s. He was offered roles alongside A-list actors and award-winning directors and pursued his craft with versatility and dedication.

Then, the dark days came. His ostentatious party days caught up with him and he got into trouble with the law. He was arrested for the possession of heroin and driving under the influence of alcohol. He was reprimanded to check into a drug rehabilitation centre to curb his habit. The famous creator of the TV series he was starring on dropped him from the show, despite him picking up Golden Globe and Screen Actors Guild awards for his performance.

The movie star’s exploits and dangerous habits ended up shining in the spotlight more than the consistently solid level of comedic and dramatic work he had offered the industry for the decade before. It almost ruined him.

The actor’s name is Robert Downey Jr.

More than a decade after drug and alcohol abuse almost marred his promising career, Downey Jr. is now one of the biggest draws in Hollywood. If he’s not jump-starting a franchise a la Iron Man or Sherlock Holmes, he’s offering scene-stealing turns in films such as David Fincher’s Zodiac.

Why do I tell you this story? Because it bears considerable similarities to another figure currently in the limelight.

I am trying to imagine what would happen to Robert Downey Jr. if his demons finally caught up to him right now, instead of in the late 1990s. It is hard to think of any actor who has persevered in the film business despite such career-imploding setbacks as Downey Jr. It is even harder to think of any resilience happening in the future for a certain man named Charlie Sheen.

I bring up this comparison for one simple reason: to highlight the changes that ten years have brought to entertainment journalism and celebrity culture. In the last decade, entertainment news programming has turned into a massive sinkhole that drowns out the art while championing the artist.

Downey Jr. was able to defibrillate his career because he was: A) a versatile actor with oodles of talent and charisma, and B) one who reinvented himself by choosing good projects with good directors. He gained the respect of the public back through the work he did. When he was on the cusp of coming back to Hollywood, he chose to do so through the arts.

What is Charlie Sheen doing? He’s trying something completely different, and he’s succeeding at it wildly (no, I will not type the “W” word to describe his accomplishments). He’s trying to gain the respect of the public through his own persona. Even though this is currently working, he is unlikely to siege a comeback with any of Downey Jr.’s gusto or, well, concern for craft.

That’s because we currently live in a time where our cultural industries are pushing more of their prime efforts into creating a celebrity brand for mass consumption than into their own cultural products, such as films, music, and television series.

It’s cheaper, faster, and more shamelessly fun to follow a celebrity on a ubiquitous vehicle such as Twitter than it is to chronicle their highs and lows on the big and small screen.

It’s all about the artist and their own faculties, not the art, that has encapsulated much of pop culture in the last year or so. Imagine Justin Bieber without his hair, Susan Boyle without her frumpy housewear, Kanye West without his sharp tongue, or Lady Gaga without her, well, eclectic fashion sense. These figures wouldn't sell too well without these factors, and sadly, these elements of their stardom have begun to overshadow their own abilities as musicians.

The celebrity in 2011 is remarkably different from what a celebrity looked like ten years ago. Celebrities no longer have to prove that they’re worthy of our attention, like Downey Jr. has spent the last decade doing. They can garner a mass following on Twitter and campaign themselves through every medium imaginable – without really trying to leave their mark with any form of artistic merit.

Justin Bieber’s 3D concert flick, for instance, may have inspired lots of kiddies to follow their dreams, but it was first and foremost, a shameless advertising bonanza to address the cult of his fans and capitalize on their love (or lust) for the pop idol. Ditto for Disney Channel staples Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers, whose teenage dreams faded as soon as their respective concert films left the theatres. These celebrities fed their gluttonous audience with their transcendental celebrity status. The problem began when there was no longer an appetite, and Bieber will likely be facing this challenge soon.

I now wonder what’s in store for two of the most unprecedented celebrity stories of the year so far: Rebecca Black and Charlie Sheen.

Rebecca Black’s blast to stardom was unequivocally the strangest leap into the spotlight I can remember. One day this winter, the 13-year-old’s parents went to an independent Hollywood-based firm called the Ark Music Factory, a place where children hope to be turned into virtual pop stars. Black’s parents gave Ark $2,000 to write a song for their daughter and shoot a music video of this single – what has now become the infamous debacle known as “Friday.” The music video has received more than 30 million hits on YouTube since its viral explosion two weeks ago.

Rebecca Black did not become famous for writing a pop song. Heck, she didn’t even write the song. But what’s most incredible about her celebrity stature is that the entire concept for “Friday” had nothing to do with partying on the weekend, eating cereal or choosing to sit in the back seat (notice how none of the teens in the video are wearing seat belts).

It had to do with manufacturing a celebrity, creating a star and creating "art" from which that person could soon personify as their own. Rebecca Black did not write the song or come up with its concept, but it was given to her. It’s no wonder her song has been so mocked in the social media – she isn’t a musician at all. Black is one who has the appearance of a pop star but cannot suffice the credentials that correspond to the job.

She’s neither the next Justin Bieber nor the next Tommy Wiseau. She’s just another manufactured celebrity who has become a notable figure in society due to what I call the "American Idol" theory. This theory establishes that you can create a superstar based on the flimsiest, most superficial qualities available, and the public will eat it up. Isn't it strange that many of those who appear on American Idol seem to be incapable of writing their own music – the cornerstone of that artistic medium in the first place?

In that way, Black doesn’t fall too far from the tree that Charlie Sheen has been sleazily hanging off of. Sheen already was a superstar as the highest-paid actor on the most-watched comedy series on American television. Depending on who you speak to, though, his career has either reached its summit or it has descended into a virile (or viral) low. Like Black, he is now a manufactured celebrity persona, but one that oozes off vibes of narcissism so potent that he has started to look shamefully desperate.

Sheen is shameless, and he needs help. Recent public appearances are frightening not because of the curiously bipolar state that he has inhabited, but by how nonchalantly he has emitted and dismissed his own drug-riddled habits and obsessive behaviours as normal faculties within himself.

He is a domestic abuser, a drug-addict and an alcoholic. If he weren’t a massive superstar with legions of fans and a massive Twitter following, he would be sinking to his own stench of reeky substance abuse. He could have died from the toxins that he’s put into his system. Instead, he has reincarnated himself as a sort of holy figure to entertain the masses.

Sheen is, himself, turning into his own drug, simultaneously craving, stimulating and satisfying his own ego. As he told ABC News, he is currently on a drug called “Charlie Sheen.” This new kind of medicine has already addicted 3 million Twitter followers and countless others who thrive on watching Sheen cruise his ego to unheralded heights.

What’s sad is that Charlie Sheen’s immature, provocative behaviour – on top of his drastic turns to substance abuse and domestic abuse – is a cry for help. But instead of his fans and his followers cracking down on Sheen to seek help, they are getting high with the same drug the ex-CBS star is on: celebrity.

If Charlie Sheen was not famous but a close friend or family member to anyone who has championed his irrefutable lifestyle, that person would have checked him into rehabilitation long ago. Sheen is a dangerous person who cannot see the void that his life has become because he is so overpowered by the excess of his own celebrity.

We are surrounded by the popular culture, but as intelligent, informative people, we do have a responsibility in terms of the arts and entertainment that we consume. We, as a community, have to stop fueling huge stars who thrive mainly on their own ego and popularity instead of the creative substance that the arts and entertainment world promises.

With celebrity news veering into overdrive in the social media and on 24-hour news channels, we have to expect better: better from the stars themselves and better from the journalists who report on arts and entertainment.

If we keep requesting to see junk and follow the trashy lifestyles of the rich and (in)famous, the stature of our popular culture is going to diminish. If we stop paying attention to people who thrive mainly to seek our attention – such as Sheen or the cast of Jersey Shore – then maybe celebrities will come to realize that the only way to get our approval is through the performances on the screen or on the radio, and not anywhere else.

You see, maybe the problem isn’t in our stars, but in ourselves.

Karma Chameleon

Rango

***1/2 out of ****

Directed by: Gore Verbinski

Featuring the Voice Talents of: Johnny Depp, Isla Fisher, Bill Nighy, Ned Beatty and Abigail Breslin

Running time: 107 minutes

The jokes in Rango are refreshingly crass, the protagonist is an existentialist, the action sequences are archaically violent and the characters smoke and liquor up as often as they speak. One even walks around with an arrow thrust through his eye socket. This may be an animated western, but the emphasis is firmly on the “western” half.

A hybrid of Johnny Depp’s colourful zaniness with Sergio Leone’s iconography, Rango breathes to life in an environment that is simultaneously breezy and dark. It’s a film that feels like it’s 90% Wile E. Coyote and 10% Hunter S. Thompson (whose Raoul Duke makes a brief cameo early on, this being a Johnny Depp feature).

Our cowboy hero is a charismatic chameleon voiced by Depp. Wide-eyed and donned in a red Hawaiian shirt, he performs many tall tales in a terrarium tank – like a quirky, classically trained version of the Geico mascot. When the tank falls out of his owner's van and shatters, he finds himself stranded in the middle of the sun-baked Mojave Desert.

He finds a small shanty-town named Dirt in the middle of the dry wilderness. An outsider in the savage village, he is warned by a little mole (Abigail Breslin) that he is not welcome in town and that death awaits him.

Regardless, upon entering Dirt’s saloon, our chameleon uses his bravado acting experience to forge a bold tale about his adventures as a gunslinger. He is cheered by the townspeople (well, towns-creatures) and adopts the name Rango – or as the residents eventually call him, Sheriff Rango.

But, there’s trouble in the West, as Dirt's water reserves are dripping away dangerously fast. A feisty, bug-eyed frontier gal, Beans (Isla Fisher), is horrified to think what a wasteland without water could hold for her poor father’s ranch.

Rango speaks to Dirt’s shifty mayor (voiced by Ned Beatty, with a smooth Southern drawl purposefully akin to John Huston’s from the similarly-themed noir Chinatown) to persuade him to spread the water amongst the town’s citizens and help out Beans.

What follows is a wickedly funny and wonderfully offbeat adventure where Rango and his compadres journey further into the wild west to fetch some liquid for the community. The gang is accompanied by a mariachi band of owls, a form of Greek chorus that forewarns of dark days ahead.

Rango made me harken back to 1998’s Antz, which also featured adult themes amidst childish slapstick, sly, sophisticated dialogue, and a diverse palette of stunningly designed settings.

It is the first animated film by the special effects wizards from Industrial Light and Magic (ILM). Staying true to the qualities that ILM founder George Lucas often brings to his films, the creatures’ designs are usually more layered than their own personalities, save the protagonist.

The film’s central action set-piece, a thrilling chase scene with Dirt’s citizens fleeing an army of mad, tyrannical rodents (which directly homages Lucas’s own Star Wars) is arresting. The sequence raises the stakes for what a chase scene can offer in terms of visual dazzle, and with the limitations of the PG rating with its pervasive gun-slinging.

Rango may be stuffed to the brim with allusions to classic films (from High Noon to Apocalypse Now), but it rarely feels slacken in its storytelling. John Logan's (Gladiator, The Aviator) wry script takes advantage of the animated format to offer fresh variations on the conventions of the western genre - from the loopy, insatiably weird protagonist to the cheeky slapstick situations.

The storytelling is also rather impressive since it treats a dark and dire impending tragedy with a tongue stuck firmly in its cheek. Rango walks by a cemetery where past sheriffs have gone to rest, and the gravestone reads: “Thurs. – Sat.”

Later, when he casually asks Dirt’s citizens if they have guns to defend themselves, everyone whips out a pistol – even the little ones. This bizarre balance of dark and light humour is one of the film’s most wicked delights.

Rango is the first mainstream release of 2011 that’s worth handing over a fistful of dollars for – with no extra, desperation-reeking 3D surcharge, either. It’s interesting to note that the two biggest blockbusters of the last few months – this and True Grit – stem from the same genre. I guess all is no longer quiet on the western front.

Life During Wartime

Of Gods and Men

***1/2 out of ****

Directed by: Xavier Beauvois

Starring: Lambert Wilson, Michael Lonsdale, Olivier Rabourdin, Philippe Laudenbach and Jacques Herlin

Running time: 120 minutes

It is one thing for a film to be timeless, and another for it to be timely; however, Of Gods and Men, a French film that won the Grand Prix at last year’s Cannes Film Festival, marks that rare occasion when a motion picture encompasses both descriptions.

A group of devout men stand up to the religious persecution of an unstable power by sanctifying their belief and protecting their people: this is the timeless aspect, a tale of devout religious following that has been the subject for much folklore and history, from the Maccabees to the Counter-Reformation.

However, given the tumultuous state of recent affairs that have rocked the Middle East and Northern Africa, the events in Of Gods and Men feel especially resonant today. The film is based on real events, about a collective of Trappist monks in Algeria who stood up to an Islamist insurgency.

In the mid-1990s, the Armed Islamic Group rose up against their government after the ruling party’s military denied the victory of the country’s largest Islamist opposition party. They preceded to plan guerilla attacks against the ruling party and their supporters.

But, enough with the history, especially since Of Gods and Men doesn’t put its emphasis on the chronology of Algeria’s civil war. Instead, it is a haunting, humanizing, albeit lethargically paced account on how war can make men fraught but not tamper with his spirit (since the monks are entirely male, forgive the focus on just one gender).

The monks lived harmoniously with the Christian and Muslim populations in Algeria until the war came. When a surprise infiltration by the insurgents shakes up the spiritual congregants, there is a major dilemma: Should the monks risk their lives and stay in Algeria, continuing their prayers while offering hope to a stricken community, but in fear of death? Or should they leave, alive but losing their connection to the people who matter?

These important questions serve the crux of the film. On a few instances, we sit in on their group meetings as they discuss the benefits and consequences of an impending departure.

One of the monks, an aging man named Luc (Michael Lonsdale), runs a busy medical centre where he grants prescription drugs to poor families. If the monks leave, where will the townspeople get their medicine? Then, you get Christophe (Olivier Rabourdin), who disagrees, arguing that dying as a martyr is not a Christian imperative.

Although they have a prior, the aptly named Christian (Lambert Wilson, most familiar to Western audiences from his role in the Matrix sequels), he is having difficulty getting a group consensus. At the same time, he is trying to seek a deeper connection to faith within himself.

The daily rituals of this congregation provide the film’s structure – Caroline Champetier’s cinematography soaks in the austere monastery and serene gardens outside, while letting the camera remain still during the elegant rituals, especially the group prayer.

Director Xavier Beauvois chooses to return to the congregants chanting at several points throughout the film as a way to show how external factors are not binding the internal souls of these men. In one scene, a helicopter roars outside at a deafening volume, but the monks combat this by raising their voices and putting their arms around each other.

In perhaps the film’s most memorable sequence, the monks sit down for a dinner together after tensions have been mounting in the villages nearby. During their “Last Supper,” one of them puts on a record of Tchaikovsky’s "Swan Lake."

Beauvois employs the close-up, swallowing up each man and his reaction to the glorious, suspenseful music. As the song crescendoes, we see the monks become more conscious of their desire to remain strong and overcome the mounting fear.

Of Gods and Men is a war picture about two sides of religious extremism fighting each other. But, it doesn’t take place on the battlefield; instead, the conflict ranges in the spiritual belief of the citizens. It is not just one of the year’s best films, but also its most important thus far.

Insuring Some Big Laughs

Cedar Rapids

*** out of ****

Directed by: Miguel Arteta

Starring: Ed Helms, John C. Reilly, Anne Heche, Isiah Whitlock Jr., and Sigourney Weaver

Running time: 87 minutes

A wholesome insurance salesman travels to the heartland to make his debut at an insurance convention only to find the sleazy undercurrents of corporate America waiting for him.

It sounds like an early contender for next year’s Documentary Short Subject Oscar, but is actually a sweet-and-sour comedy starring the endearing dweebiness of The Office star Ed Helms.

What does the “sweet-and-sour” refer to? The blending of R-rated raunch and pure sentimentality, a formula frequently championed by writer/director Judd Apatow (who was not involved in the making of Cedar Rapids).

The film, instead, is a large rebound for comedy director Miguel Arteta, whose last project, the insipid and unfunny Youth in Revolt, only pulled off the lowbrow crudeness of the mixture.

Here, Helms is the blissfully naïve Tim Lippe (rhymes with “nippy”), a respected insurance man from the tiny town of Brown Valley, Wisconsin. After his superior dies in an embarrassing fashion, Lippe is suddenly asked by his boss (Stephen Root) to replace him in an annual industry convention in Iowa.

To add to the protagonist’s worries, he is pressured to win the coveted Double Diamond award, a prestigious trophy that was given to his company the two years prior.

Upon his arrival in Cedar Rapids, Lippe shacks up in a junior suite with the naughty Dean Ziegler (John C. Reilly, in all of his buffoonish glee) and the sweet-natured Ronald Wilkes (Isiah Whitlock Jr., in all of his deadpan glory). But he is instantly drawn to the wry, flirtatious bundle of fun that is Joan Ostrowski-Fox (Anne Heche, rarely better).

The three insurance conventions specialists tell our couth protagonist that what happens in Iowa… well, you know the rest.

While most comedies would now choose to highlight the zany, situational comedy (The Hangover, another hit for Helms, comes to mind), Cedar Rapids downplays the wacky theatrics and instead focuses on the interactions between the characters.

Anchored by an excellent cast of strong comic performers who work off each other wonderfully, including extended cameos from Alia Shawkat (Maebe from Arrested Development) and Kurtwood Smith (Red Forman from That 70’s Show), the comedy hits hard and the drama moves forward without seeping too much into the light fabric.

Any of the actors could have stolen the film by themselves, but Cedar Rapids happens to work better because the hilarity is the worthy sum of a group component.

In his strong debut, scribe Phil Johnston understands that comedy can only develop if the characters grow with it. Joan and Dean, whose first impressions are as one-dimensional floozies and sleazes, respectively, get the opportunity to show both their wild side and their troubled dilemmas through their frosty marital problems.

It takes Johnston and Arteta about 20 minutes to get on the same page of how to blend raunch with sweetness, and the film’s opening scenes feel awkward, without much flair for comedic or dramatic timing. For instance, Sigourney Weaver’s brief stint as Tim’s old schoolteacher who is now bedding him, feels tacked on. The death of a minor character near the start also feels like a wasted dramatic opportunity that is sadly skimmed over.

Regardless, the writer and director finally find their rhythm. When one of the lines uttered toward the end is an invitation to anal sex but is delivered with a tone that can be best described as poignant, they reach the jackpot.

It helps when you have a fine ensemble of character actors who bring both dramatic depth and comedic panache to their roles. This Iowa-set picture isn’t perfect, but it isn't far from comedy heaven, either.

Lame, Lame Liam Neeson

Unknown

*1/2 out of ****

Directed by Jaume Collet-Serra

Starring: Liam Neeson, Diane Kruger, January Jones, Bruno Ganz and Frank Langella

Running time: 113 minutes

There reaches a point in many lauded actors’ careers when they stop taking meaty, dramatic parts and opt for roles outside of their comfort zone. A good example of this is Liam Neeson, who seemed to be having a successful shift from heavier fare to genre pictures in recent years.

But, the hot-blooded fervor he brought to 2009’s Taken and the crackling charisma he showed off in The A-Team last year has been erased into cold, robotic monotony in his latest star vehicle, a trite and frustratingly standard thriller with an equally generic title: Unknown.

Neeson is the blandly named Dr. Martin Harris, who flies into Berlin with his wife, Liz (the stony January Jones, from AMC’s Mad Men) to give a speech at a biotechnology conference. When he mistakenly leaves his briefcase at the airport, he hails a taxi to retrieve it. But, before it can reach their destination, the taxi swerves to avoid an oncoming accident and ends up smashing through a wall and falling into a river.

Harris wakes up from a coma a few days later to find that his memory is hazy. He heads back to his hotel, but finds that another man (Aidan Quinn) claims to be him. To add to his chagrin, Liz doesn’t recognize him either.

He ends up trying to piece together this unwelcome bout of mistaken identity with the help of a former Stasi officer (Bruno Ganz) and the cabbie who he saw three days earlier and fled from the scene (Diane Kruger). This means one thing… time to cue up the Hitchcock homages.

The sad part is that it isn’t only Liam Neeson who seems to be in a bewildered state throughout – his line readings are often botched in a kind of emotional paralysis – but the script suffers from its own identity crisis.

When the twist ending is finally unveiled, Harris later behaves in a way that is exactly the opposite of what we have come to expect from the big reveal. This destroys the legitimacy of the twist while evaporating any sense of credibility the story had to begin with. What a pity.

Even beforehand, Unknown moves through the motions of the thriller genre without throwing anything fresh or unexpected at the audience.

At the times when it doesn’t borrow from superior thrillers, such as The Bourne Identity and Frantic, it fails to enhance its dim protagonist or offer a nice variety of red herrings to engage the audience. Without a compelling lead to follow or an intriguing mystery to keep us guessing, the film becomes rather suspense-less.

Interestingly, one of the film’s writers, Stephen Cornwell, is the son of suspense novelist John Le Carre. You'd think his genes alone would give us something unique, but this isn’t the case.

Story quibbles aside, Unknown is perfectly watchable for about an hour due to assured direction by Jaume Collet-Serra (who last helmed the horror flick, Orphan). He doesn’t submit to the shaky-camera mayhem in the action set-pieces, which are often thrilling. Collet-Serra also nicely applies a drab, muted visual palette for the city of Berlin, while bright green and yellow blends are used for the serene flashback sequences.

Unfortunately, his often enthralling direction does little to mar an uninspired script that keeps a riveting ensemble – which also includes the wonderful Frank Langella in a thankless role – frustratingly limited. Nary a strong emotion appears in Neeson’s voice or on his face throughout. This is the same Liam Neeson that portrayed Alfred Kinsey and Oscar Schindler to perfection. I mean, it is him… right?