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However impressive the sprawling Italian crime saga Gomorrah, it'd be more impressive if it hadn't arrived deep within the age of HBO and Showtime. After something like The Wire spends five seasons and some 60 hours fleshing out its expansive subject, to extend "only" 135 minutes to something similar can only feel like a tease.

Coming off either like a promising pilot or an entire season gruesomely condensed for movie theaters, Matteo Garrone's Gomorrah--its title a heavy-handed play on Camorra, the Italian Mafia organization it profiles--adapts Roberto Saviano's dangerously well-researched nonfiction best-seller, which delved so deep into its subject its author has been granted permanent police escort. Garrone's film takes no such chances: It's a thinly fictionalized version that, in lieu of a single guide-character, gives equal focus to five different plot threads, plus dozens of characters.

A kid and a tailor each get embroiled in gang play. Elsewhere both a timid middleman and an idealistic graduate fret over criminal deeds. All the while a pair of reckless, cocky wannabe-Tony Montanas run about, waiting to get killed.

Gomorrah is most valuable for its tone, which somehow manages to be clinical yet clearly horrified. There are no iconic idols or glamorous lifestyles here. With its utter lack of--and cool disdain for-- gangsta chic, Gomorrah serves as a corrective to the likes of City of Men and even The Godfathers and the films of Martin Scorsese (who lent his name to the U.S. release). Garrone paints a world whose every inch is corrupted by crime, and sets his action in grimy slums and post-apocalyptic vistas with characters who'll never be emulated by fans.

That, of course, is because no characters ever really grip, nor do any of its storylines. With only a little more than two hours to burn, Gomorrah never gets to develop and thus feels sui generis but superficial. Look at the title and you've basically figured out what Garrone is after. All that's left is to sort out the film's daisy chain of characters. That should take you a couple reels. There are plenty of stand-out scenes and surreal/absurdist sequences--the Scarface Jrs. giddily firing off a stolen arsenal in their undies; kids practicing being shot at with makeshift bulletproof vests; a bullet-ridden car that crashes through a pasture of junked Roman statues--but the only thing it instills in you is a wish for more.

Cherry Blossoms
Directed by Doris Dörrie
C
Reviewed by Matt Prigge
Opens Fri., Feb. 27

Even before the action relocates from Germany to Tokyo, Doris Dörrie's earnest grief porn drama Cherry Blossoms plays like a fanboy ode to Japanese minimalist (and Criterion Collection favorite) Yasujiro Ozu. In fact, the intentionally misleading first 40 minutes could count as a loose remake of Ozu's best-known film Tokyo Story, updated and starring a middle-aged German couple rather than a bumblng Japanese one.

Upon learning that her boring, clockwork husband Rudi (Elmar Wepper) is dying, onetime hausfrau Trudi (Hannelore Elsner) arranges a trip to Berlin. There, they reconvene with their children, who prove madly assholish, albeit slightly less so when Dörrie's script arranges for Trudi, not her husband, to pass on.

Consumed with guilt for being dull during his wife's life, Rudi ventures to Japan to loosen up on the way to his own inevitable end. Amid shots of him gawking sheepishly at Asia's neon and busyness, Rudi strikes up a relationship with an all-too-kind teenaged Butoh dancer (Aya Irizuki). (Someone saw Lost in Translation, didn't they?)

Grief is a hard thing to capture on film without tumbling into banality, and tumble Cherry Blossoms does. From shots of cascading waves to sunsets to Rudi lying on a bed next to the deceased's clothes, Dörrie's film nakedly aims for the gentleness of Ozu. But Dörrie (of the '80s favorite Men) is not Ozu. Ponderous and fussy, Cherry Blossoms often feels as though it were following a how-to on making a film about overcoming death, all set to a sickeningly twinkly piano score. Even the title acts as a shortcut to profundity, and sure enough, someone's on hand to helpfully explain that said flowers are "the most beautiful symbol of impermanence." Gee, just like life.

Ongoing

We spend an academic year in the classroom of Mr. Marin, an effete, exhausted teacher working in a run-down Parisian neighborhood. He attempts to engage and enlighten a rough-and-tumble class of students of mixed races, most of whom return the favor with bad attitudes and bored disinterest. A (S.B.)

Confessions of a Shopaholic

Remember The Devil Wears Prada? Homely gal with journalistic ambition gets a job at fashion mag and changes her life accordingly. Shopaholic is like that, but in reverse. (Not reviewed.)

Coraline

In the Alice in Wonderland-esque children's tale, a neglected, blue-maned little girl (voiced, fairly obnoxiously, by Dakota Fanning) discovers an alternate version of her new hopelessly rural apartment building. There, inattentive Mom and Dad (Teri Hatcher and John Hodgman--try to picture that couple) are excessively attentive and delish cooks to boot. Everything would be hunky dory but for the black buttons everyone sports in lieu of eyes, which, alas, is mandatory for longtime stays. Cue increasingly sinister tone and vigorous workouts for those sleek Real-D specs. B- (M.P.)

Defiance

In 1941, four hard-drinking, rough-hewn criminal brothers headed deep into the Belarusian forest, building a kibbutz where they and fellow Jews could hide from Hitler's goons and wait out the war. The Bielski brothers saved hundreds of lives, but these wondrous facts don't provide enough nobility for boring director Edward Zwick. This is such a damned good story, he's determined to oversell it. C- (S.B.)

Doubt

Doubt is a "parable" of a monstrous nun (Meryl Streep) at a Bronx Catholic school in 1964 who's trying to destroy a progressive-minded priest (Philip Seymour Hoffman) with baseless accusations of "unhealthy" dealings with the school's lone black student. There are only four characters, but the action consists primarily of debates between the nun and priest, as well as dialogue with a younger nun who's caught in the middle. B (M.P.)

Fired Up!

Two bros trade football gear for pompoms in an effort to bang cheerleaders. (Not reviewed.)

Friday the 13th

There's no lazier slasher-flick series to adapt than the tiresome legend of Jason Voorhees and Friday the 13th. A cheap knockoff cribbed from John Carpenter's technically adroit, dead-from-the-neck-up Halloween, Sean S. Cunningham's unstoppable series of rank ineptitude stumbled into a winning formula: Beautiful young people fuck each others' brains out, only to pay for it once that guy with the hockey mask and machete pops out of nowhere and mutilates them. D- (S.B.)

Frost/Nixon

Based on Peter Morgan's smash 2006 stage play, the film attempts to chronicle the travails of shlock TV host David Frost (expertly played by Michael Sheen) as he overpays and underprepares for an epic stretch of interviews with "Tricky Dick" Nixon (played by the always magnificent Frank Langella, who's a bit too grave and Shakespearean to truly convey the disgraced leader's wormy, shifty mannerisms, no matter how impressive his jowls). C (S.B.)

Gran Torino

Clint Eastwood plays Walt Kowalski, a grizzled old Korean War vet who, after the death of his wife, tends to while away the days sitting on his front porch guzzling cans of PBR, offering salty observations on the decline of his white-flight Detroit neighborhood. Barking ridiculous, dated slurs for every minority in his sight, he's like Dirty Harry in the sunset years. A variety of contrivances find Walt begrudgingly befriending a family of Hmong immigrants next door. Young Thao (Bee Vang) is an awkward, bookish kid--prime recruitment material for the local gangs. These thugs make the huge mistake of scuffling on Walt's pristine front yard and kicking over the wrong geezer's garden gnome. B+ (S.B.)

Harvard Beats Yale 29-29

The subject is the infamous 1968 bout between Harvard and Yale, which culminated in Harvard making a ridiculous 16-point comeback in just 42 seconds. That should be fascinating enough, but director Kevin Rafferty, who attended Harvard during the game, craves more context. Summoning team members from both sides--including Tommy Lee Jones, one of Harvard's offensive tackles--Rafferty (The Atomic Café, Feed) offers a Proustian evocation of a specific time and place. B- (M.P.)

He's Just Not That Into You

Ginnifer Goodwin stands more or less at the center of an all-star cast as Gigi, a persnickety, borderline deranged single gal who, when introduced, is wondering why some douchey real estate agent (Kevin Connolly) hasn't called her back. In strolls cynical bar manager Alex (Justin Long), who proceeds to offer her the cold, hard truth about how men think. Perturbed by Gigi's findings, co-worker Beth (Jennifer Aniston) breaks up with longtime marriage-phobic boyfriend Neil (Ben Affleck). Meanwhile, Janine (Jennifer Connelly) wonders if she can really trust husband Ben (Bradley Cooper). Funny thing, that, since Ben's gallivanting with a chesty trollop (Scarlett Johansson, natch). Periodically producer Drew Barrymore swings by to lord over the rom-com festivities like the grand dame of the genre. C+ (M.P.)

Hotel for Dogs

Orphan kids have to find a new home for their puppy when their new guardians won't allow pets so they open a hotel for city strays. (Not reviewed.)

Milk

As San Francisco's cherished local legend--the first openly gay man ever elected to a public office in America--Sean Penn's Harvey Milk is a buoyant, expansive figure. As droll as he is shrewd, the character is delightful to watch. The real Harvey Milk's lanky stance, queeny mannerisms and honking Noo Yawk accent aren't just fodder for a typical Oscar-friendly dead celebrity impression--they're pushing this actor out of his gloomy old comfort zones. There's such a feeling of playfulness and joy in this performance, I dare say Sean Penn--who won the Academy Award for Best Actor for Milk--hasn't been this much fun to watch since Fast Times at Ridgemont High or at the very least Carlito's Way. A- (S.B.)

My Bloody Valentine 3-D

Ten years after a tragic mining accident turned its lone survivor into a pickaxe-wielding boogeyman, the mysterious gas mask-wearing marauder returns to wreak havoc on a town full of attractive, dim-witted folks, most of whom are kind enough to remove their clothes at regular intervals. C- (S.B.)

Paul Blart: Mall Cop

The guy from The King of Queens stopped making a television show so he could portray a Rent-a-Cop on the big screen. Huh. (Not reviewed.)

Pink Panther 2

Steve Martin returns as Detective Clouseau, though Beyoncé decided to skip this time around. (Not reviewed.)

Push

There are no fewer than 10 different telekinetic, telephatic and clairvoyant abilities in Push, ranging from "watchers" who can see the ever-changing future to "movers" who can physically move people and objects with their mind. The latter ability belongs to hero Chris Evans, an expat hiding out in pretty Hong Kong. He gets roped into intrigue involving a group of shadowy U.S. government baddies led by Djimon Hounsou (a "pusher" who can "push" lies into another's mind); a runaway super-psychic who's also his ex-girlfriend (Camilla Belle); a rival Chinese gang; and an old-fashioned MacGuffin stored, amusingly, in a briefcase. C+ (M.P.)

The Reader

Best Actress Oscar-winner Kate Winslet essays Hannah Schmidt, a mysteriously private and weary mid-30s tram conductor in post-WWII Germany who seduces 15-year-old Michael Berg (David Kross). They have a special relationship: He reads her the greatest hits of classic literature and then she works his bones. After a couple sweaty months Schmidt abruptly disappears. It's eight years before Berg sees her again, this time as a law student sitting in on her war crimes trial. C+ (M.P.)

Revolutionary Road

Based on Richard Yates' 1961 novel, this phenomenally dull new film from director Sam Mendes has absolutely nothing new to say, yet says it loud and insistently anyway. In a fiendish bit of stunt casting, Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet reunite for the first time since a certain fateful boat trip 11 years ago, starring here as Frank and April Wheeler, a tedious married couple prone to squabbling at great length about the tragic soul-crushing emptiness of their giant house, fancy car and beautiful children. The Wheelers feel so suffocated by their affluence and good fortune, it's all they really talk about. D- (S.B.)

Slumdog Millionaire

Teenage nobody Jamal Malik (Dev Patel) is a mere few questions away from beating the Indian version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. But Malik's been accused of cheating, and as the shadowy, belligerent authorities go through his taped performance, answer by answer, we're treated to his ramshackle, Dickensian childhood as an orphaned slum kid from Mumbai, riding the rails and eking out various desperate existences alongside his more crafty and ethics-handicapped brother. C+ (M.P.)

Taken

It's reactionary father-knows-best- because-he-used-to-murder-people-for-a-living nonsense, implicitly reinforcing all sorts of xenophobic paranoias and insidious patriarchal hierarchies. But it's also absurdly entertaining to watch Liam Neeson cut a bloody swath through Paris leaving countless dead bodies in his wake. This is a lurid, sleazy button-pusher movie, but I'd be lying if I said it didn't work like gangbusters on a base, Cro-Magnon level. B- (S.B.)

Tyler Perry's Madea Goes to Jail

As one colleague explained, "Madea's following the Ernest route to cinematic success." (Not reviewed.)

Underworld: Rise of the Lycans

Who could've guessed that Len Wiseman's tedious 2003 original would provide enough fodder for a franchise? As far as I can recall, that underlit dud was notable for exactly two things: 1) squandering the juicy premise of a war between vampires and werewolves by having them all shoot guns while jumping around in slow-motion like a bad Matrix parody and 2) Kate Beckinsale in skintight leather pants. Beckinsale's not even back for this bargain-basement third go-'round, as it's a wildly misguided prequel that inexplicably decides to dramatize a tale that was already explained in the second feature. This is the most bothersome trend in our current geek culture, as what used to be simple backstory now takes up entire movies of its own. D- (S.B.)

The Uninvited

In this horror flick, two young girls freak out when their dad marries their dead mother's nurse. Naturally, the ghost of the dead mother is a main character. (Not reviewed.)

Valkyrie

Tom Cruise is far more famous these days for bizarre behavior than blockbuster openings, so in desperate need of career rehab, here he stars as Col. Claus Von Stauffenberg, Nazi with a conscience, and architect of the suitcase bombing that nearly killed Hitler in the waning days of WWII. It's a classy, handsomely mounted production, directed with brisk efficiency by Bryan Singer. And as a co-worker surmised, "It'll probably be wicked suspenseful for anybody who didn't pay attention in history class." C+ (S.B.)

Waltz With Bashir

Director Ari Folman stars, detailing his personal attempt to come to terms with atrocities he witnessed during Israel's 1982 war in Lebanon. The journey begins over drinks with his old friend Boaz, when the latter admits to being haunted by dreams of all the dogs he shot in combat--evocatively rendered hell hounds of the past coming to collect on the present. Folman, oddly enough, claims to have no memories at all of his wartime experiences, save for a single recurring image of emerging stark naked from the water near the Sabra and Shitila refugee camps where countless Palestinians were massacred. C+ (S.B.)

The Wild Child

Based on a real 18th-century case, The Wild Child replaces Jean-Pierre Léaud's confused delinquent Antoine Doinel with a feral boy, discovered grunting and fucking up Rottweilers in the forests of Aveyron. Upon capture, the kid--eventually named Victor--is shuffled first to a hapless institution and then to the remote manse of Dr. Jean Itard. An unfailingly kind physician known today for his pioneering work with deaf children and describing the first case of Tourette syndrome, Itard goes to work "normalizing" the savage Victor, a mission that seems far from being accomplished as the film's scant 80 minutes are about to expire. B+ (M.P.)

The Wrestler

Faced with a health crisis, wrestler Randy the Ram's (Mickey Rourke) forced to consider retirement, and that's when the movie begins questioning how we define ourselves. If a man is what he does for a living, who does he become when he can't do that anymore? The Ram tentatively tries to muster an existence beyond the mat, attempting to reconnect with his estranged daughter (Evan Rachel Wood.) Only Cassidy seems to understand. Brilliantly played by Marisa Tomei, Randy's favorite stripper is secretly a single mom, and the two foster a friendship outside the sleazy club's VIP room. Just like the Ram, Cassidy's getting too old to make a living off her body anymore, and director Darren Aronofsky quietly underlines their similarities with matching camera movements whenever these two are "at work." A- (S.B.)

Awash in romantic ambivalence and pained, inarticulate yearning, director James Gray's new melodrama Two Lovers should probably be considered ridiculous. And while I'll concede that on some level it's fairly absurd, I also found it impossible not to be swept up in the film's gonzo sincerity; tickled by its eccentric humor; and dazzled by Gray's lush stretches of cinematic elegance.

Joaquin Phoenix stars, delivering his farewell film performance--at least according to that dopey bearded-rapper shtick he's been pulling on talk shows. (I don't believe any of it for a second.) Here, he plays Leonard Kraditor, a heartsick, bumbling mess who's recently reclaimed his childhood bedroom, living with his parents in the insular Jewish community of Brighton Beach. We hear mention of a bad breakup, and subsequent suicidal overtures. Off-kilter Leonard even hurls himself into Sheepshead Bay before the opening credits have unspooled, only to think better of it and head home for dinner.

He's an odd, tormented duck, but also quite funny and vulnerable at unexpected moments. This is Phoenix's third collaboration with writer-director Gray, and the two have clearly established a level of comfort that allows the actor to go for broke here, pushing his mumbled Brando-isms and sideways line readings to a state of grace. It's brave, marvelous work and you're never quite sure what he's going to do next.

Leonard is all set to inherit his family's thriving dry-cleaning empire, and his folks can't help playing matchmaker for their wayward son, constantly inviting an important business partner's daughter to the house for all sorts of awkward family occasions. Sandra (Vinessa Shaw) is sexy, stable and inexplicably captivated by Leonard. (What such a put-together gal sees in this cuckoo-bird is a question the film never answers.) Leonard likes her just fine, but he's distracted.

There's a blonde shiksa goddess living in an apartment upstairs, sticking out like a sore thumb in this ethnically hermetic community. Gwyneth Paltrow plays Michelle, mistress to a hotshot Manhattan lawyer and for all intents and purposes she's a walking disaster. At long last ditching her boring Grace Kelly ingenue routine, Paltrow tears into the role with a reckless grit we haven't seen since her early days in Hard Eight or Flesh and Bone. Michelle is druggy, erratic and altogether mesmerizing, triggering amour fou at first sight in our bewildered young Leonard.

Adapted by Gray and co-screenwriter Richard Menello from Dostoyevsky's "White Nights," Two Lovers boasts a brazenly schematic framework. Obviously, Sandra represents stability, responsibility and a long, quiet future in the old neighborhood, while Michelle personifies the reckless moment, fits of overheated passion and childish notions of a bohemian life. In many ways, it could even be considered a remake of Gray's last feature, We Own the Night, which starred Phoenix as another prodigal son, dabbling in drug deals and nightclub shenanigans to break free from his family of career cops.

But Gray's previous pictures have been stilted crime dramas, strikingly well-made but typically done in by a sense of Shakespearean solemnity. Ditching the genre conventions has worked wonders for the filmmaker; it feels like somebody finally opened a window and let some air in. Two Lovers is looser and far more alive than anything he's done before.

There's a richness to his depiction of this Brighton Beach neighborhood, with some sharp insights on the class divide and unexpected bursts of humor. (Isabella Rossellini delivers a very droll performance as Leonard's asphyxiating mother.) Gray and cinematographer Joaquin Baca-Asay are stubbornly old-school, favoring the long-take, classical compositions of vintage Coppola and '70s European art cinema.

But there's always something erupting within the confines of these rigidly designed shots, whether it's Phoenix pulling out the stops for a break-dancing bonanza, or Paltrow's over-the-top breast-baring declarations of adoration. Two Lovers conjures the heedless rush of true romance, and yet somehow the movie remains clear-eyed enough to question how much of it is just immature delusions.

You may find yourself pondering Gray's closing shot for quite some time, wondering if it's Leonard's triumph--or his entombment.

Greta Garbo: With Ernst Lubitsch's Ninotchka (1939), the Swedish Garbo made a bold transition from sudsters to comedies. One film later she retired. After the failure of 1941's rom-com Two-Faced Woman, she retreated into her infamous seclusion, turning down comeback vehicles left and right. Garbo only popped up on celluloid twice after: in 1949, for screen tests for a comeback movie that never happened, and in the 1974 gay porn Adam & Yves, which featured a shot of her walking across First Avenue.

Grace Kelly: While shooting The Swan, in which she played a princess, the Philadelphia native was mid-seduction with Prince Rainier of Monaco. Shortly thereafter she was a princess for real, bidding farewell with High Society (1956) and forced by her husband to turn down returns as varied as Alfred Hitchcock's deranged Marnie and Herbert Ross' The Turning Point. The closest she got was narrating the 1966 TV movie The Poppy Is Also a Flower.

Ronald Reagan: After playing the smirking, Angie-Dickinson-bitchslapping baddie in Don Siegel's The Killers (1964), the one known as the Gipper threw in the towel. And he was never heard from again.

Rick Moranis: Despite resurrecting his Bob McKenzie locutions for two Brother Bear movies, the SCTV vet is all but retired, partly because he'd gone from comic to mere actor with increasingly dire material, and partly because he was a single parent whose wife died of liver cancer. Like quite a few acting retirees, he's moved into music, recording comic country songs.

Joe Pesci: He may be billed as co-lead with Helen Mirren in the upcoming brothel movie Love Ranch, but the onetime Tommy DeVito hasn't done more than a cameo (in The Good Shepherd) since Lethal Weapon 4 in 1998. Why? Music, of course! His crooning alter ego is Vincent Laguardia Gambini, under which he's recorded an album. Betcha didn't know that.

Joaquin Phoenix: Yeah, right. But that Casey Affleck "doc" is going to be amazing.

We can learn a lot about Canada from the television it sends south. The latest Canadian import is Being Erica, which attracted some controversy because it replaced a respected newsmagazine.

The show was positively reviewed by Canadian critics, who liked newcomer Erin Karpluk in the lead and thought the show had some potential. Much as with the horrid Trust Me, TV is so bad right now critics will give anything a vaguely positive review as long as it doesn't involve washed-up celebrities competing to see who gets to sleep with a porn star.

Canadian critics are just as easy to please as their American counterparts. Erin Karpluk, complete with cute Western Canadian accent, is likable enough and talented-ish, but she's saddled with nonsensical storylines in which everything wraps up neat and tidy and she has a quip about what she's learned to end the show. (Canada thinks five years is long enough for everyone to have forgotten Sex and the City. They might be right.)

Erica Strange, a 32-year-old Torontonian, has a lot of regrets about her life. And whenever she finds herself in a bad situation (conveniently once per episode), a strange therapist named Dr. Tom transports her back to the past, where she can change what she did for the better.

Unfortunately for her, nothing ever seems to go right; one might think going back and losing your virginity to a different guy would change at least a thing or two, but poor Erica is still in the same situation. The show gets repetitive after about two episodes. We learn nothing by continuing to watch.

The biggest sin, though, is the faux-1990s references during time travel. One trip to 1994 includes references to "Gettin' Jiggy Wit' It" and Limp Bizkit. Canadians, apparently, know nothing of important American history.