Announcing the Steve McQueen Blog-a-thon

For almost two years now, I’ve posted my cinema ruminations under an iconic image of Steve McQueen from The Great Escape. And yet, despite this blog’s branding, I’ve done very little writing about the King of Cool. With The Cooler just days away from the start of its third year, this must be remedied. And so today I’m announcing that I will host the Steve McQueen Blog-a-thon beginning on what would have been McQueen’s 80th birthday, March 24, and running through March 27.

I have some posts in mind, but I make this announcement now with the hope that other bloggers will take part in this effort. Traditionally, blog-a-thons are built around a genre or director – but rarely an actor or actress. So let’s remedy that, too. Submissions to the Steve McQueen blog-a-thon must meet only one criterion: they must somehow touch on Steve McQueen. If you’d like to write about the actor’s overall film career, go for it. If you’d like to discuss his lasting impact in pop culture, go for it. But bloggers should also feel welcome to write standard reviews of films in which McQueen appears. McQueen needn’t be the focus of your essay. He just needs to be the thread lacing together what I hope will be a wildly diverse group of submissions. (Likewise, please feel no pressure to bow at McQueen’s altar. If you’d like to rant about his limited range or whatever else, please do so.)

Per usual, post your contribution on your blog and send me the link via e-mail or in the comments section the week of the blog-a-thon. If you don’t have a blog and would like to contribute, e-mail me your contribution and I’ll post it here at The Cooler.

Please take part! I'm more excited to see what my fellow bloggers will submit than I am to post my own pieces.

In the meantime, if you wouldn’t mind spreading the word, I’d appreciate it.





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Falling and Flying: Crazy Heart

Great performances can cut to the heart. Great songs can, too. To say that Crazy Heart has both might be a bit of a stretch, but Scott Cooper’s film certainly has great performances of songs, and that’s quite a lot. Starring Jeff Bridges as Bad Blake, a country music has-been who has traded record deals and concert halls for the bar-and-bowling-alley circuit, Crazy Heart is a modest yet affecting film that’s never more moving than when in song. That Bridges, who performs the tunes in a husky, booze-soaked voice, will be nominated for an Academy Award on Tuesday goes without saying. When it comes to the acting categories, Oscar loves young up-and-comers, respected veterans who haven’t gotten their due, portrayals of mental or physical ailment, actors who sing, actors who use accents and actors who put on or take off weight for a role. As Bad Blake, Bridges is 4.5 out of 6. To call his performance “Oscar bait” would be unfair. Then again, if Oscar voters were sharks, Bridges would be swimming in the chum.

I point that out because it’s easy to become so distracted by Bridges’ ability to perform his own vocal stunts that we cease to see anything more, thus reducing the film to a talent show. Bridges’ near-great turn in Crazy Heart isn’t such because of the quality of his singing but because of the way he performs – when his character is on stage and off. Similarly, Crazy Heart isn’t among the best pictures of 2009 simply because it provides a good concert. Like a standard musical, the film uses Bad Blake’s songs and lyrics to evoke the emotions of the man behind them, but that’s only half the story. Also for your consideration is the way Bad ogles a bottle of alcohol that he knows he can’t afford, the way he oozes so much charm that women see the sexy romantic inside instead of the mangy and overweight exterior, the way he softens around Maggie Gyllenhaal’s Jean Craddock and her son, the way he unpacks himself from his Chevy after a long drive and the way he awkwardly but determinedly limps around on a broken leg. Oh, that limp! It’s a perfect metaphor for the way Bad’s ailments – particularly alcoholism – hold him back from the life he wants to lead, despite his best attempts to ignore the problem.

It’s these subtleties in Bridges’ performance that give Crazy Heart its allure. Beyond that, the film has an unfortunate tendency to settle for formula. The problem isn’t just that Crazy Heart is yet another movie about a boozing musician, or that the film’s rough outline, based on a novel by Thomas Cobb, so closely resembles 2008’s The Wrestler. The problem is that even within its own world Crazy Heart has a tendency to recycle. Particularly in the early going, Cooper’s film repeatedly shows Bad driving his Chevy through the Southwest, singing in less than distinguished venues and lounging around in a drunken state. This is Bad’s life, of course. This is his routine. But that doesn’t mean that Cooper needed to be so mechanical about his presentations. In the The Wrestler, Darren Aronofsky found ways to evoke the sameness of Randy’s existence without basic repetition. Earlier I argued that we shouldn’t evaluate Bridges’ performance as a mere talent show, but sometimes that’s about all that Cooper allows. And when I say that Bridges’ performance is just near-great, it’s because Crazy Heart doesn’t give it the gravity or complexity to be more. Bad Blake’s lyrics make for poetic statements about the artist (“sometimes falling feels like flying, for a little while”), but there’s no moment off stage that’s quite so poignant, no scene like the one in The Wrestler when Randy looks around the room at an autograph session and sees a wheelchair, a cane and a colostomy bag and knows that his decrepitude can only get worse.

For all the broad ways in which Crazy Heart and The Wrestler are similar – each film is about an aging performer with self-destructive habits who gets into a romance with a wary single mom while hoping for reconciliation with his own estranged child – they are remarkably different films in one fundamental way. Crazy Heart is about a man destroying himself with alcohol. The Wrestler is about a man destroying himself with the thing he loves: his wrestling career and all that goes with it. As Crazy Heart itself reinforces, Bad Blake’s drinking isn’t intrinsic to his music career’s success, it’s the thing bringing him down. It’s expendable. In contrast, The Wrestler’s Randy cannot be The Ram and give up being The Ram at the same time. These heightened stakes – one man staying alive because of his career, the other man killing himself with it – are what make The Wrestler and Mickey Rourke’s performance within it so much more powerful than what Crazy Heart and Bridges can hope to achieve without making Bad Blake’s addiction, rather than his failing career, the plot’s core conflict. On that note, sadly Crazy Heart gives alcoholism the once-over, treating it as a lifestyle choice rather than a disease. Cooper has no intentions of making Bad into a genuine monster. Instead, Bad wears his addiction like it’s part of his good ol’ boy costume. His addiction is a lazy subplot at best. Need proof? After spending the majority of the film suggesting that alcohol is the root of Bad’s ills, the film resolves his addiction – cures it, even – in about 5 minutes. Like Dorothy’s return to Kansas, all needs to do is say the words.

These are the reasons to be disappointed by what Crazy Heart is while thinking about what it might have been. But even though the film bungles some big moments, or avoids them entirely, it nails the execution of several smaller ones. Bad’s relationship with Colin Farrell’s Tommy Sweet, his old protégé and now one of country music’s biggest stars, is full of tantalizing ambiguity. In Bad we detect jealousy, resentment, respect and even fondness. In Tommy we detect embarrassment, guilt, respect and a resentful son’s pride. The two have a lovely scene together that starts in a diner and spills out into the parking lot, but the film’s best scene comes when Tommy joins Bad on stage for an unrehearsed and unplanned duet that’s pregnant with suspicion. Is Tommy endorsing Bad or his he upstaging him? Is it a gesture of gratitude or a show of strength? Even Bad seems unsure. Study Bridges’ face in that scene. He wears an expression that suggests Bad is personally pissed off and professionally grateful. Little moments like that one lift Crazy Heart beyond its uninspired design. The film could have been truly great if Cooper had been willing to address Bad Blake’s addiction wearing cowboy boots rather than dancing around the ugliness in ballet slippers, but to that end at least he cast the right man for his lead. As Bad Blake, Bridges is nothing short of graceful.
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Weekly Rant: And You Think The iPad Has Marketing Problems

As you no doubt know, Apple announced the iPad this week. And, as you probably expected, reactions have ranged from "OMG this will change my life" to "Only one application at a time? WTF!?" There's also been a lot of chatter about the product's name and whether it's too evocative of a feminine hygiene product. Considering that I don't see much need for an iPad right now -- I laughed when Steve Jobs spoke breathlessly about what an exceptional Internet experience the iPad provides (my computer does just fine, thanks) -- I've enjoyed seeing Apple get mocked a bit here and there. Then again, if you ask me, the backlash against the iPad's name seems a wee bit over the top, considering that I've never seen anyone break into a giggle fit talking about a pad of paper. (And speaking of "wee," the Nintendo Wii seems to be doing just fine, despite a far more questionable name.) Besides, Apple has a darn good marketing record. I'll give them the benefit of the doubt.

As for the marketing minds dreaming up ad campaigns for Diet Dr. Pepper, I'm dubious.

Do me a favor. Spend 30 seconds watching the ad below ...



Done? OK. Apparently the commercial has been out for months, but I saw it for the first time last week. So forgive me if this has been covered elsewhere, but ... this commercial has more logic problems than The Lovely Bones. The premise is that Diet Dr. Pepper has "23 satisfying flavors and no calories" but that no one believes it. So how does Diet Dr. Pepper seek to demonstrate that a "satisfying diet drink" isn't a myth? By aligning the product with Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, Bigfoot, a leprechaun, a fairy and an alien. Of course!

Oh, sure, sure, sure. I get it. Within the motion-capture world of the ad, the premise is that Santa & Friends are real, thus illustrating the challenge of getting people to believe. But, see, I realize this is really nuanced and everything but ... Santa & Friends aren't fucking real. They are elements of make-believe. And consumers know that.

So, sure, snicker at Apple hucksters for being overly excited about the company's new ultra-thin pad, er, iPad. But trust that when Apple begins marketing the product, we won't get an "'I'm Necessary' Support Group" commercial with the iPad sitting in a circle with a Snuggie and Ted Williams' cryogenically frozen brain.
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Let’s Get Kreativ

After a painfully long layoff – largely due to a painfully overloaded work schedule – I’m pleased to report that The Cooler will spring back to action here in the near future. I have reviews to write, rants to share, an event to announce and various other posts that need to find their way out of my brain and onto the page, er, screen. Before we return to business as usual, however, I wanted to give thanks to three bloggers who acknowledged The Cooler with a Kreativ Award. Oh, sure, it’s a meme, but I’m flattered just the same and, even more, I’m eager to share some love with my fellow bloggers because, wow, I can't express how much fun it is to be a movie fan thanks to the blogosphere.

So, here goes …

First, to recognize those who recognized me. Thanks to Tony Dayoub, who writes with notable clarity and honesty at Cinema Viewfinder. Thanks to Edward Copeland, whose blog, Edward Copeland on Film, is back to life after health complications forced a layoff. (Can you write horizontally? I don’t think I could. Way to go, Ed!) And thanks to Jake, a talented (and young) writer whose Not Just Movies was the best blog I discovered in 2009. Keep it up, fellas.

Second, for reasons that don’t make a whole lot of sense to me, I’m supposed to now tell you some things about myself that you might find interesting. OK. I’m game. Here goes …

1. I’ve never seen It’s a Wonderful Life. Sure, the list of movies I haven’t seen is long. Why point out this one? Because when I tell people I’ve never seen this movie they tend to look at me with horror-struck faces as if I’ve admitted I like burning the American flag while hosting dog-fighting parties in my backyard.

2. I’ve lived in five states plus the District of Columbia. For someone who isn’t from a military family or in the witness relocation program, that’s quite a few.

3. I’m still a little confused about who John Conner’s original father was, assuming that his latter father was someone he sent from the future and that they couldn't be the same guy – or am I remembering The Terminator incorrectly? The Terminator, by the way, was the first R-rated movie I was allowed to see. (And is it me, or has Linda Hamilton not had a memorable role since she played the clueless, supportive wife on Titanic’s big Oscar night all those years ago?)

4. After my utter disappointment with the majority of the films I saw in 2009, I fear I’m becoming a curmudgeon. By the time Invictus and Nine rolled around, I didn’t have the energy to write another disgruntled review. (I still might write something about The Lovely Bones, though.)

5. I grew up playing sports. In the past, I’ve made a living writing about sports and I’ve worked in sports public relations at two major universities. Currently, I play in two very casual fantasy football leagues and one very competitive National League-only fantasy baseball league (which I won last year, by the way). And yet I couldn’t tell you when ESPN’s SportsCenter airs and never watch it.

6. I do a fairly decent Andy Rooney impersonation.

7. I always get asked for directions, including when I’m visiting from out of town. Two weeks ago, I gave my easiest directions ever. Wandering through D.C. after seeing a movie, a tourist came up to me at a traffic light and asked for directions to the National Portrait Gallery. I turned 45 degrees and pointed to the large freestone building directly next to us. “That way?” he asked. “No,” I replied. “That’s it.”

Finally, I now get to spread the love to seven more bloggers. Many of them have already been honored, but I’m including them anyway. In no specific order …

Craig of The Man From Porlock

Kevin J. Olson of Hugo Stiglitz Makes Movies

Troy Olson of Elusive as Robert Denby

Jermaine Olson of ... wait, never mind.

Fox of Tractor Facts (don’t stay away altogether, buddy)

FilmDr of The Film Doctor

Hokahey of Little Worlds

Steven Santos of The Fine Cut

Thanks for all the great blog reading!
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Future’s So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades: Avatar

2-D or not 2-D, that is the question posed by Avatar – whether ‘tis nobler to let our minds suffer the projectile slings and arrows of the Na’vi in 3-D, thereby justifying the outrageous fortune spent by director James Cameron in his attempt to revolutionize that format, or to fold our arms in response to Avatar’s recycled yet supposedly groundbreaking gimmicky techniques, and by opposing them hope to end them. At least, I thought that was the question. Having seen the movie in both formats, however, I can confidently report that there should be no debate. Both versions of Avatar, obviously, are based on a screenplay by Cameron that includes some of the most cringe-worthy dialogue of the year. Both versions, obviously, are populated by B-movie archetypes that have barely a hint of B-movie charm. Both versions, obviously, involve a plot that is at times too similar to 1990’s Dances With Wolves, causing the movie to suffer not from a lack of originality so much as a dated racial sensitivity. Meanwhile, only one version of Avatar is, at least in places, an utter joy to behold, a rapturous spectacle. That’s Avatar in 3-D. In the standard 2-D format, Avatar is, well, flat.

Let me go no further without making it clear that I am stunned to be taking this position, which of course means that I was stunned by my reactions to Avatar’s 3-D and 2-D formats. Though raised on the original Star Wars trilogy, I am by no means a fan of excessive special effects, particularly if it’s CGI. (That’s probably part of the reason that I continue to adore that original Star Wars trilogy, by the way, because by today’s standards it’s refreshingly flesh-and-blood and brick-and-mortar.) Also, I am turned off by movies in which the story or theme seems secondary to special effects exhibitionism. If that weren’t enough, I’ve always been suspicious of 3-D, believing, as Roger Ebert articulated so perfectly in 2008, that any time an “object” leaps off the screen “it creates a fatal break in the illusion of the film.” Given those positions, Avatar didn’t seem to be for me, in either format, but especially in 3-D. Even if I wasn’t actively bothered by Avatar’s 3-D gimmickry, I figured I’d at least be indifferent to it. Instead, I was dazzled. Indeed, Avatar in 3-D reminded me of what it was like to discover those Star Wars pictures all those years ago. What I was seeing was rousingly out-of-this-world and surprisingly of this world at the same time. Avatar in 3-D makes the fantastic feel familiar.

That's why it works. Avatar avoids the assaultive projectile approach that is usually the format’s bread and butter. Cameron doesn’t seek to make the audience duck for cover. Not often, anyway. I flinched from a projectile exactly once, and the moment was there and gone so quickly that it hardly registered. Instead, Cameron uses 3-D to create depth, unfolding his adventure within a space that feels more like a stage than a frame. It takes a little getting used to, to be sure, but what’s clever about Avatar’s story – and this is the only praise I’ll give it – is that it works in harmony with the technology that brings it to life. This is, remember, a movie about a paraplegic Marine who is given the virtual-realistic experience of inhabiting a fully functional alien body. Thus, as we are getting our bearings, so is Jake Sully (Sam Worthington). Thereafter, the audience and the main character are likewise aligned in the exploration of the planet Pandora – each of us seeing something not quite like anything we’ve seen before. It’s a thrill for all parties. At one point Jake, in his avatar body, is running through the jungle, but he keeps falling behind his Na’vi friend, Zoe Saldana’s Neytiri, because he can’t resist his desire to touch everything around him. From an audience perspective, it’s hard to blame him. Pandora is genuinely exotic. We’re in no great hurry to move on either.

But this is only true in 3-D. In 2-D, Jake’s giddiness with Pandora is his alone. In the traditional format, Pandora doesn’t distinguish itself as something new but looks like almost every other CGI spectacle we’ve experienced over the past decade, and so the thrill is gone. In 2-D Pandora feels artificial. In contrast, Cameron’s 3-D compositions are so convincing – so, dare I say, realistic – that within 30 minutes I almost forgot I was watching a 3-D movie. (Note: I wear glasses to the theater anyway, so wearing a pair of 3-D glasses wasn’t a distraction.) I thought this feeling of normalcy might actually be a mark against the 3-D version and the price tag attached (as in, “What exactly am I paying extra for?”). But then I saw Avatar in 2-D and was astounded at how unconvincing it is. Indeed, the CGI characters and landscapes seem thin and weightless in 2-D. And whereas the 3-D Pandora has depth, the 2-D Pandora routinely has one dominant item in focus and a lot of blurriness beyond it (which is usually the knock against 3-D pictures). And so it is that in 3-D Jake and Neytiri effectively run along a massive tree branch as the rest of Pandora forms a dense and diverse backdrop behind them, while in 2-D Jake and Neytriti run along a shelf made to look like a tree branch as the rest of Pandora sits flat on a greenscreen behind them. The jaw-dropping difference between the two versions first announces itself in terms of visual legitimacy but then reinforces itself in terms of mental and emotional connectivity. Without the unusual sensory arousal of 3-D, the 2-D version of Avatar cannot overcome its lack of humor, Sigourney Weaver’s embarrassing performance or any of the film’s tragic dialogue. (Sometimes Avatar combines all three, such as the supposed-to-be-funny moment in which Weaver’s Dr. Grace Augustine, in a Na’vi body, looks at Jake and says “Who’d you expect, numbnuts!”)

I must make it clear, if you haven’t figured it out already, that Avatar’s potency cannot last. To see it in 2-D is to miss the very thing that makes it special, which means that once the Avatar leaves theaters (for the moment the only place most audiences can experience the film in 3-D) it’s as good as dead. But Avatar’s short shelf life is attributable to more than just that. Right now the movie wows due to the preeminence of its 3-D techniques. As soon as another movie surpasses Avatar’s 3-D magnificence, this movie will seem uselessly primitive. Oh, Avatar will live on, as a sometimes rousing little adventure fantasy, but it will be just that. It will no longer be exceptional. (Cameron must enjoy his time on the mountaintop while he can, or get busy looking for higher summits.) And yet, for all the movie’s faults, which I suspect will only become more apparent and legendary over time, Avatar will always be special to me for a very significant reason: This is the movie that convinced me that 3-D can be more than just a gimmick. It’s the movie that convinced me that, yes, 3-D is the future. Don’t get me wrong, 2-D is the future, too. It won’t go away, nor should it. But after spending years thinking that none of my favorite 2-D movies could be improved in 3-D, now I’m not so sure. In Avatar I don’t see an all-around great movie. I see the next cinematic frontier. I will no longer pretend to know what we'll find there.
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The Conversations: Crash (1996)

The Conversations series moves into its second year today at The House Next Door. Ed Howard and I start off 2010 by leaping back to 1996 to discuss David Cronenberg's controversial Crash - not to be confused with Paul Haggis' controversial Crash from 2004. Much of the conversation is spent trying to figure out what the film is attempting to do and how it is and isn't successful in meeting those aims. Ed and I toss around a few theories, but with a film like this I'm sure there are many more we didn't consider. So, please, head on over to The House Next Door and join the conversation!

Previous Editions of The Conversations:

David Fincher (January 2009)
Mulholland Dr. (February 2009)
Overlooked - Part I: Undertow (March 2009)
Overlooked - Part II: Solaris (March 2009)
Star Trek (May 2009)
Werner Herzog (May 2009)
Errol Morris (July 2009)
Michael Mann (August 2009)
Quentin Tarantino - Part I (August 2009)
Quentin Tarantino - Part II (September 2009)
Pixar (WALL-E) (October 2009)
Trouble Every Day (October 2009)
Lawrence of Arabia (December 2009)
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Avoiding Turbulence: Up in the Air

The reason that George Clooney’s Ryan Bingham loves living on the road is because it’s uncomplicated. His belongings fit neatly into his suitcase, which fits neatly inside the overhead compartment of an airplane, which takes him from one city to the next, where the Westin he checks into has a room exactly like the Westin he checked out of and the only signs of travel are his mounting frequent flyer miles (and perhaps the accent of the barista at the hotel Starbucks). If what you want to do is pass through life and avoid engaging with it, Bingham’s is a safe existence, and it’s delivered to us in an equally safe film. Jason Reitman’s Up in the Air is enjoyable, to be sure – as cozy as a tightly made hotel bed – but its downfall is approaching its subject matter with the same aversion to commitment demonstrated by its main character. More than once, Reitman points us toward some challenging issues only to give them the fly-by.

Case in point: the film’s depiction of the modern job market. Up in the Air comes to us at a time in which the jobless rate in this country is around 10 percent. Bingham’s job, as a termination facilitator, is to give notice to those who are about to be unemployed. In short, he fires people for a living. Bingham does this with the solemn matter-of-factness of a doctor delivering grim news, taking pleasure only in the professionalism with which he fulfills his duty. On the other side of the table, often-unsuspecting workers react as if a trap door has opened up beneath their feet, their sense of security and sense of worth gone in an instant. Zach Galifianakis and J.K. Simmons play two of the dozen-or-so terminated employees, but most of those who sit on the other side of the table from Clooney’s Bingham and his plucky trainee, Anna Kendrick’s Natalie Keener, are recently laid-off non-actors Reitman hired to speak from the heart. Their improvisational testimonials are trenchant reminders of a present bitter reality, but to what end? Does Reitman, who cowrote the screenplay with Sheldon Turner based on a novel by Walter Kim, mean to identify with these laid-off workers, or are they there merely to validate Bingham by revealing the calm and detached care with which he pilots these victims through their crises? Or, perhaps closer to the truth, is this simply a device meant to tug at our emotions, akin to any of the perfectly moody songs selected for the film’s mix-tape soundtrack?

It’s hard to say. Up in the Air has an air of resonance that, when you stop to think about it, doesn’t seem deserved. If there are ideas or themes in Up in the Air, they are fuzzy or contradictory, and not in an ambiguous you-figure-it-out sort of way but in a let’s-not-make-this-hurt-anymore-than-it-has-to fashion. What should I make of the fact that Bingham, and thus the film, openly admits that his inspirational speeches are merely techniques to get through the moment while at the same time some of the characters, and thus the film, seem to buy his con jobs? Repeatedly Up in the Air shows the crushing impact of losing a job, asking us to feel for the victims, while at the same time portraying the layoff as a sign that the individual in question is meant for something better. It’s a nice thought, one that fits into the empowerment campaigns of Oprah Winfrey and The Secret, but it’s conveniently disingenuous. Up in the Air gives the impression that the hardest part of being unemployed is getting the bad news.

All this attention over layoffs is meant to fold into the film’s primary theme: the importance of having a loving home to provide shelter from life’s storms. Er, at least, I think that’s film’s primary theme. Through the developing romantic relationship of Bingham and Vera Farmiga’s Alex Goran – and for that matter the developing friendship of Bingham and Natalie – Up in the Air makes a clear (and compelling) case that life is better when you share it with someone. The sequence in which Bingham and Alex go back to his high school is tremendous, revealing a remote man opening up and connecting. Touching stuff. Trouble is, Bingham wasn’t unhappy when all he had was his job. Ditto Alex. Furthermore, (spoiler warning for the rest of this sentence) Natalie isn’t portrayed as adrift when her relationship ends and she leaves Omaha for the career she always wanted, gladly leaving behind the career she settled for because of her relationship. That’s the thing: Up in the Air wants to ridicule Bingham’s relationships-equal-baggage mindset while at the same time hinting that many of us settle for unrewarding careers precisely because of the demands of those relationships it deems enriching and essential.

If all of this makes it sound like I didn’t enjoy Up in the Air, let me dispel that notion. It’s enchanting. If we’ve learned anything over Reitman’s three latest films, also including Thank You For Smoking and Juno, it’s that he has a gift for drawing outstanding, effortless performances from his actors. Clooney, Farmiga and Kendrick are marvelous, individually and collectively. Clooney doesn’t have great range, and he rarely disappears into his roles, but he has a knack for subtly modulating his skills – adjusting them like the levels on a stereo – so that this sharp guy in a suit seems somehow different from the last one (Michael Clayton) or the one before that (Johnny Ocean). Farmiga as Alex is warm, strong and mischievous – and she owes her body double a fruitcake for a scene in which Alex struts to a bed wearing only a tie around her waist (yowza!). Meanwhile, Kendrick is a scene-stealer as the ambitious Natalie, who is equal parts cocky and insecure – a contradiction Kendrick makes wholly convincing. Whenever those three are on the screen, Up in the Air has a classic Hollywood rhythm. When they aren’t, as in a clunky thrown-together subplot near the end involving the wedding of Bingham’s sister, it suffers, but only slightly. If you enjoy charm, warmth and a hint of poignancy (or just Clooney’s smile), Up in the Air might be your favorite picture of 2009.

Alas, Up in the Air is missing the kind of very-special-something that allows a film to endure. Memorable dialogue? Only Alex’s line about being just like Bingham, “only with a vagina,” stands out. Memorable shots? Only the one featuring Alex’s naked backside demands to be studied. Memorable characters? Sort of. But we’re really no closer to Bingham at the end of the film than we are the beginning, and he remains largely a mystery throughout. (For example: What’s with his backpack lectures? First he tells people to burn their backpacks, then he tells them not to burn their backpacks. So which is it? Who is he helping? How are they helped? Unlike Magnolia’s Frank T.J. Mackey, it’s hard to figure out what Bingham is selling and what tools he’s providing.) Memorable scenes? Not really, unless we’re counting those non-actors closing out the film by talking about the importance of family in testimonials that seem designed to manipulate the audience rather than further the film’s themes, whatever those themes are. As entertainment, Up in the Air is almost without fault. It’s lean, clean and calculating. As art, however, it fails to engage. It isn't here to settle down. It's just passing through.
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