Capsules

Body of Lies and Patti Smith: Dream of Life

New Releases

Like Alec Baldwin, Russell Crowe is way more fun to watch when he’s fat. Middle age and excess poundage have worked wonders for these fellows, liberating them from any leading man’s vanity of burning intensity, allowing for more playful and inventive performances.

Half a world away from our conflict in the Middle East, Hoffman’s swaggeringly overconfident regarding life-and-death scenarios barely glimpsed through satellite photos, already an icon of grinning American arrogance long before William Monahan’s screenplay breaks down and refers to him as such.

Adapted from a knotty novel by Washington Post columnist David Ignatius, Body of Lies never quite figures out what to do with Crowe’s magnificent creation, apportioning most of the picture to Leonardo DiCaprio’s tediously earnest field agent—one who cares enough to speak the local language and remains respectful of foreign customs, much to the chagrin of his D.C. superiors.

Storytelling has never been Ridley Scott’s strong suit; he’d rather flash and dazzle. So Body of Lies lurches across exotic locations, piling on the aerial photography and punching up the proceedings with unnecessary, confusingly edited action sequences, eventually settling on a plotline about an hour in.

Too bad they took so long, because it’s a pretty good one. DiCaprio tries to smoke a terrorist leader out of hiding by creating a fictional rival cell, engrossing us with savvy deceptions, money trails and Web scams that feel perilously plausible. Such a shame we must simultaneously endure DiCaprio’s tacked-on romance with an Iranian doctor, a courtship far less compelling than his increasingly anxious maneuvers around Mark Strong’s menacing Jordanian intelligence official.

But Crowe’s stranded—stuffing his face on the sidelines, drawling his way through Departed scribe Monahan’s delightful profanities, cutting through Body of Lies’ murky machinations with acid satire, all but begging for a movie of movie of his own.

Steven Sebring, director of Patti Smith: Dream of Life, clearly loves Patti Smith. In fact, it often seems as if Sebring is just a pseudonym for Smith herself. Throughout the film, the noted fashion photographer and Smith’s longtime friend remains tolerant of the godmother of punk, even at her most obscure and punishingly artsy-fartsy. It’s likely all the musician/poet/political activist did for Sebring is pose, chat and pretend not to notice the camera, yet Dream of Life feels less like someone’s view of Patti Smith than how Patti Smith views herself.

The saving grace is that Smith is insanely charismatic—so much so that she’s able to singlehandedly pull us through the muck and the mire of Sebring’s funny valentine. Filmed piecemeal over the last 11 years on gloriously grainy 16 mm, Life completely eschews dates, data or history. It just plunges into the Patti Smith story, dwelling on back alleys and side streets rather than the main drag. There aren’t even reams of concert footage; Sebring seems to be the one Patti Smith geek more enamored with her spoken word tracks than her songs. We hang with her as she travels, sits in her cluttered apartment and brushes elbows with the likes of Michael Stipe and Philip Glass.

This approach is vastly preferable to some stale meet-the-artist-type flick. In fact, Life was transparently modeled on the seminal recently reissued Chet Baker paean Let’s Get Lost, in which another fashion photographer took a break from soulless paid work to gawk over his new best friend. (There’s even, as in Lost, a beachside cameo from Flea.) The difference is that Lost was capturing the skeletal, near-death Baker whereas Smith is simply in elder statesperson mode.

Life gets a bit lost, particularly during its stabs at avant-garde cinema. But it has a personal, handmade quality that’s quite endearing, and even at its most willfully alienating, it captures its star’s playful, laid-back and charming side, which brushes nicely against her rage-filled concert persona, as well as any of her other selves she allows to be captured on film. This would’ve made a fantastic 45-minute film; at 109, it’s a touch too personal.

Not Reviewed

How hard is it to be happy? A free-spirited teacher, Poppy, finds out in the cheerful new film from the generally not-so-cheerful Mike Leigh. (Opens Fri., Oct. 17.)

Mark Wahlberg talks to people. Not animals. (Opens Fri., Oct. 17.)

Young sailors race big boats in this Roy Disney documentary. (Opens Wed., Oct. 17.)

Queen Latifah, Jennifer Hudson, Alicia Keys and Dakota Fanning star in this fem-friendly flick about relationships. (Opens Wed., Oct. 17.)

Remember Eurotrip? Same movie, different setting. (Opens Fri., Oct. 17.)

Oliver Stone’s interpretation of the second Bush’s presidency starring Josh Brolin as Dubya. (Opens Fri., Oct. 17.)

Ongoing

A desperate, defensive straw-man argument posing as a movie, David Zucker’s god-awful An American Carol has become something of a cause célèbre for the ever-aggrieved right wing. Purporting to be a War-on-Terror satire, it’s far more fixated on the culture wars at home, spinning itself in circles as a modern-day Scrooge saga—if Charles Dickens were a regular caller on the Laura Ingraham Show. F (S.B.)

Evil rancher Jeremy Irons guns down the sheriff of a small New Mexican town and solidifies his role as town menace. Lawmen-for-hire Harris and Viggo Mortensen are engaged to show him and his men no mercy and generally mess things up. But when they arrest Irons so he can stand trial, they quickly realize they may have bitten off more than they can chew. C+ (M.P.)

In Fernando Meirelles’ latest film, Blindness—based on José Saramago’s Nobel Prize-winning novel—a city suffers an epidemic that leaves all the victims without sight. D+ (M.P)

Dopey personal trainer Chad (Brad Pitt) and his plastic surgery-craving colleague Linda (Frances McDormand) accidentally stumble upon a disc containing “top secret CIA shit,” as he delicately describes it. The “shit” carries the personal information of recently fired CIA analyst Osborne Cox (John Malkovich), whose life is falling apart as Chad and Linda try their hardest to blackmail him. B+ (A.S.)

The invaluable Sam Rockwell stars as Victor Mancini, a self-loathing med-school dropout wasting his days as a living history interpreter, bailing hay and trying to avoid anachronisms while hitting on the milkmaids. Victor’s meager salary can’t cover his mom’s nursing home bills so he’s made a nifty side business out of pretending to choke on food at upscale restaurants. B- (S.B.)

Keira Knightley stars as poor Georgiana Spencer, pawned off by her conniving mom at far too tender an age to Ralph Fiennes’ dreaded Duke of Devonshire. The Duchess piles on the historical parallels between Georgiana’s plight and that of Diana Spencer to a point where you finally can’t help but envision it all ending with a paparazzi pursuit of her horse-drawn carriage. C (S.B.)

Directed by Gary Fleder, The Express relates the inspiring but tragic tale of Ernie Davis (eventually played by Finding Forrester’s Rob Brown), who was the first black man to win the Heisman Trophy, and who was diagnosed with leukemia right after he signed with the Cleveland Browns. C+ (M.P.)

Greg Kinnear stars as Bob Kearns, a fussy academic and devoted dad who saw his design for the precious windshield-wiper motor stolen by the Ford Motor Company, then spent the rest of his life fighting for credit. D+ (S.B.)

Ludivine Sagnier stars as Gabrielle Snow, an ironically named weathergirl torn between two lovers. First she’s the mistress of legendary novelist Charles Saint Denis (François Berléand), a seemingly stuffy literary icon with a secret yen for underground sex clubs and underage women. Seduced by his wealth and taste, girlish Gabrielle ignores all the obvious warning signs. When slimy Charles at first pushes her away, it’s actually a brief bout of conscience—he’s simply trying to protect the poor kid from himself. Her other suitor is even less appealing. B- (S.B.)

During WWII, a quartet of black soldiers (most prominently Derek Luke) find themselves in a remote and labyrinthine Italian village. As German soldiers advance they befriend the villagers, enact a love triangle, get involved in the bloody business of Italian partisans and so on and so on and so on. C+ (M.P.)

Nick and Norah is a wonderfully sweet love story that will give both hipsters and non-hipsters the warm fuzzies. The movie follows heartbroken Nick (the adorably awkward Michael Cera) who heads into Manhattan for the evening for a gig with his band. There he meets Norah (Philadelphia native Kat Dennings from The 40 Year Old Virgin), a classmate who has crushed on him from afar, joined by her perpetually drunk BFF Caroline (Ari Graynor). B (A.S.)

Unleashed by Borat director Larry Charles, the smug Bill Maher is sent across the country (and eventually the globe) to spar with an assortment of God-fearing people. He visits the TBN-funded Holy Land Experience theme park in Florida and Kentucky’s camptastic Creation Museum, where cute animatronic kids hang with harmless dinosaurs. We hear gay converters, a Jew for Jesus, the UFO-fixated Raelians and someone who apparently worships ganja. C+ (M.P.)

Guy Ritchie’s revenge for Madge’s infidelity. (Not reviewed.)

Summer Bishil stars as Jasira, a beleaguered half-Lebanese 13-year-old who’s ultimately shuffled off to live in a Texas suburb with her estranged father Rifat (Peter Macdissi) after Mom’s new boyfriend tries to help her shave her pubic hair. Jasira struggles with her burgeoning sexuality, fascinated in ways she can’t explain by girlie mags and masturbation and traumatized by tampons to the point where a colleague of mine dubbed the film Are You There Allah? It’s Me, Margaret. D (S.B.)