The most obvious thing one can say about Filth and Wisdom is that it's the directorial debut of Madonna. And the most surprising thing one can say about it is that, for all its narrative and aesthetic shortcomings, it's not half-bad. Certainly, Madonna tackles what she knows, which in this case is a collection of related stories linked by the overriding message that no profound knowledge can be attained without degradation first being experienced, a sentiment the Material Girl has been pushing in one form or another at least since 1992's Erotica and its infamous companion tome Sex. If embracing your inner skank is the path to enlightenment, then Madonna must now be the Dalai Lama. And yet despite the juvenile maxims spouted by Eugene Hutz - the lead singer of gypsy-punk outfit Gogol Bordello (which provides much of the soundtrack), here playing a variation of himself named A.K. - and the sometimes blandly functional cinematography by Tim Maurice-Jones, there's raggedy charm to this misshapen film, a genuine, enticing verve that helps overshadow the dull leadenness of Hutz-spouted platitudes like his title-explaining gem, "Without filth, there is no wisdom."

(We first saw it back at Sundance, but the indie drama Good Dick is opening this weekend in limited release. So here's a reprint of our review from last January.)


By: Scott Weinberg

Yes, the title of the movie is "Good Dick," no, there's no character named Dick in the film, and yes, I definitely think that the flick's eventual distributor will change it to something a little less, well, tacky. But I believe a brave distributor will come along and show this fine little film some love -- despite its frequent proclivity for very frank and seriously explicit sex talk. Fortunately, the film comes from a very sincere and heartfelt place, which makes the few "uncomfortable" moments perfectly acceptable ... and frequently quite fascinating.

Jason Ritter and fantastic newcomer Marianna Palka star as a pair of unnamed twenty-somethings who don't "meet cute," don't fall madly in love, and don't really get along all that well -- yet they still make for one of the most fascinating on-screen movie couples in quite some time. "He" is a homeless video store clerk who has a desperate yearning for some romantic contact. "She" is a seriously unhappy young woman who seems to have a strong affection for hardcore pornography. "He," for some strange-yet-sweet reason, can see through her powerfully unpleasant exterior -- and he seems to be well and truly smitten with this dysfunctional female. "She" claims to have no affection whatsoever for her new sorta-boyfriend, but she also welcomes him into her apartment (and bed) time and time again. Oh, but she won't get physical. At all.

(We first caught Joe Swanberg's "Nights and Weekends" at Austin's SXSW Film Festival, but since it's opening in limited release this weekend, we're reprinting our review from last March.)

By: Erik Davis

Nights and Weekends marks writer-director Joe Swanberg's fourth consecutive film at the South by Southwest Film Festival, and it's quite possibly his strongest work yet. Here, Swanberg co-directs and stars alongside girl-next-door-with-an-edge Greta Gerwig – and the two play a couple struggling through the highs and lows of a long distance relationship. What we see is what we don't see, if that makes any sense, as Swanberg and Gerwig consciously chose not to hand this one to the audience on a silver platter. Case in point: There's really no narrative at all. One would think a film with no narrative would be the equivalent of recording you and your significant other watching TV on a Friday night – cuddled up, chitter chatter with a pause for a snack here and there.

On the surface, Nights and Weekends is just that – a regular night (or nights) with regular people who talk just like us or them or your friend with the huge crush on that guy we all kinda know. But look a little deeper and Nights and Weekends is so much more than "just another 'Mumblecore' flick about confusing relationships and missed opportunities." Swanberg and Gerwig do a tremendous job tapping into everything we love about our relationships, as well as everything we hate – and they do this with moments, glances, kisses and tears. No score. No set pieces. No set up and payoff. In an interview the morning after the film's world premiere, Swanberg told me that's exactly how he remembers his own life: as random scenes, conversations or smiles – a mixed fruit basket of love, lust, fear and disappointment.

It's football season, which means it's also the season for at least one heartwarming and inspiring movie about the sport. This year the film comes from Universal -- The Express, a biopic of Ernie "The Elmira Express" Davis, the first African-American to win the Heisman trophy, back in 1963. However, the movie divides its time between Davis and his coach at Syracuse University, Ben Schwartzwalder, and shows the ways in which the two characters changed one another (for the better, natch).

The movie opens during the notorious Cotton Bowl game of 1960, when Davis (Rob Brown) was a running back on the Syracuse University team that played The University of Texas, which had not yet allowed black varsity team members. It's a rough game, but Davis is handling himself until all hell breaks loose ... and then we flash back to Davis's childhood in the 1940s and see how he learned to handle nasty racist situations even at an early age. He's stubborn and he's speedy, and eventually decides to use those assets to strive for his goal of playing professional football. His idol, Cleveland Browns running back Jim Brown, advises Davis to play for his alma mater Syracuse because Schwartzwalder (Dennis Quaid) is such an excellent head coach. But Davis encounters difficulties in the ways Schwartzwalder handles the black team members. The coach's primary goal is to avoid "trouble," so they're warned away from the white female students, and worse yet, at certain Southern games they're not allowed to score touchdowns. The real action culminates when the film returns to the Cotton Bowl game in Dallas.

(Mike Leigh's "Happy-Go-Lucky" opens in limited release this weekend, and so we're reprinting our Telluride review from this past August.)

By: Kim Voynar

With his latest effort, Happy-Go-Lucky, director Mike Leigh takes a departure from the dark mood evoked by most of his films with a charming little tale about an eternally optimistic school teacher, Poppy (Sally Hawkins, previously seen in smaller roles in Leigh's films Vera Drake and All or Nothing), who breezes through life, always seeing the glass half full. Poppy is one of those people who never seems to get down about anything. She smiles at surly strangers, strikes up conversations with people who'd clearly prefer to be left alone, and puts a positive spin on everything.

When her bike is stolen, Poppy shrugs it off and decides to take driving lessons; her driving instructor, Scott (Eddie Marsan, also a Leigh alum from Vera Drake) is Poppy's polar opposite. Some of the film's best moments are when she's interacting with Scott and we have the dramatic tension of his simmering anger to contrast with Poppy's perkiness. Scott is intensely uptight, seems to hate everyone and everything, and adheres firmly to the belief that if only everyone would follow a strict set of rules (his rules, of course), all would be well. Naturally, the two clash.

I found myself asking one simple question during Ridley Scott's Body of Lies, a well-shot, big-name intelligence thriller that sees Leonardo DiCaprio's CIA man caught up in action in the Middle East -- namely, what is Body of Lies for? I don't mean that in the sense of asking what it supports or believes in -- although, with the film's mix of Hollywood heroics and sneering cynicism, you're certainly left with that question -- but rather in the sense of asking what it is that Body of Lies means to accomplish or communicate. Part of the film feels like an attempt at a sprawling, globe-trotting story of realpolitik and moral complexity, in the mold of Syriana or Scott's own Black Hawk Down; other parts feel like Dolby-pumped slam-bang action, in the mold of Tony Scott's Spy Game or the Bourne Films. And some of Body of Lies feels like a weird, surreal workplace satire, with DiCaprio's on-the-ground intelligence agent fighting, fussing and feuding with his D.C.-based superior Russell Crowe; if you hate having your boss hover over your shoulder second-guessing you, imagine how it feels to have your boss looking over your shoulder second-guessing you from orbit via satellite.

Adapted from David Ignatius' novel by The Departed screenwriter William Monahan, Body of Lies follows DiCaprio's Roger Ferris through a series of run-and-gun intelligence-gathering missions that start in Iraq and travel the globe in the name of penetrating, and breaking, a terror ring operating on a global level. Ferris works for Ed Hoffman (Russell Crowe, beefy and drawling), who runs his section of the CIA with a true believer's fervor. Speaking to a group of political staff and elected officials, Hoffman tries to get everyone in line by getting everyone scared: "Our world as we know it is much simpler... to put to an end than you might think." Ed knows that in an age of asymmetrical warfare, America's seemingly unsophisticated opponents have big advantages; you can't tap someone's phone if they don't have one, can't crack their e-mail if it doesn't exist.

As far as Hollywood's reliably tepid horror output is concerned, Quarantine works as every bit the disposable jolt dispenser it's assembled to be. It's got a nifty enough concept in its favor and a mildly recognizable cast that needs not fear any characterization coming between them and certain death by the time the credits roll, and it's hard to believe that there's not at least one sequence in here that might get even the most cynical horror fan's heart rate to rise a beat or two -- and I say this as a documented fan of the (still superior) source material.

Young news reporter Angela Vidal (Jennifer Carpenter) and her cameraman (Steve Harris) are covering a Los Angeles fire station during their nightly routines when the two tag along on an emergency call to an apartment building. Not terribly long after their arrival, all hell breaks loose and the building's occupants -- Angela included -- find themselves contained within against their will and left to fend off a dangerous virus that causes the infected to become a rabid zombie variant, one aggressively determined to spread the love around.

One of the most gorgeous-looking films I've seen this year is City of Ember, the Fox/Walden adaptation of Jeanne Duprau's young-adult fantasy novel about a post-apocalyptic underground city. Although the story is aimed at younger audiences, it's still enjoyable for grown-ups. The movie should be viewed on as large a screen as you can find, giving you the sense that you're this close to the fascinating and decaying city where the story is set.

The movie's prologue lays out the premise clearly. In the future, something goes haywire that causes the end of the world, but fortunately top U.S. scientists have created an underground city to keep a portion of mankind safe. The inhabitants will not be told about the Earth's past, so they won't be traumatized and will assume that their underground city is the only civilization. A box with instructions for returning to the Earth's surface will open in 200 years, which should be time enough for the Earth to be inhabitable again. However, over the course of time the box becomes lost, and after more than two centuries have passed, the city is starting to run out of resources and is falling apart.

You'd think that being married to Madonna, Guy Ritchie would have picked up on the value of occasionally reinventing oneself. But no, he keeps making the same movie, the same ultra-cool exercises in British gangster violence and stylish criminal shenanigans, and RockNRolla is the latest entry. Then again, the one time he did try something different, the result was Swept Away, so maybe he's wise to stay in his comfort zone.

At any rate, RockNRolla inspires strong feelings of "meh" in me. It's not nearly as clever, funny, or stylish as Snatch or Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, though the accents are a lot less indecipherable this time around, so that's nice. It's also not as good as Gangster No. 1 or Sexy Beast or many of the other gritty British gangster capers that have come around in the last several years. It feels like a rerun -- which isn't necessarily a bad thing, after all. People watch reruns all the time.

Our narrator is Archie (Mark Strong), who works as the calm, suave right-hand man to Lenny (Tom Wilkinson), the most powerful money-lender and underworld boss in London. Half the city's councilors, judges, and cops are in Lenny's pocket, and he has leveraged this influence into a massive fortune in real estate.

Lenny is not a figure to be messed with, but the Russians don't know that. A new mover and shaker named Uri (Karel Roden) has come to town to strike a deal with Lenny -- it involves paying Lenny to bribe city officials to get a construction project underway -- and he's a formidable figure himself. Lenny is old school; Uri is dangerously modern.

Remember Broken Lizard's Beerfest? Whatever you thought of that 2006 comedy, it's difficult to dispute how incredibly astute the filmmakers were with rattling genre expectations in just a single scene. See, the American team's greatest beer guzzler, "Landfill", has passed away under shady circumstances, and right when everyone's ready to throw in the towel, in walks Landfill's identical twin brother, who they knew nothing about but who happens to have been told everything about each of them. Better yet, he's more than willing to even adopt Landfill's name, in an effort to bypass that whole awkward 'getting-to-know-you' stage.

It's every end-of-second-act "what do we do now, coach?" dilemma from an inspirational sports movie mercifully condensed to a couple of rapid-fire beats, and even if the rest of the film otherwise adheres to said sports movie formula, it's nice knowing that audience and actors alike were not going through the paces entirely unaware of how clichéd the entire narrative was.