At the end of WWI, a shriveled, crippled infant is born to a mother that died in labor and a well-to-do father who owns a button factory in New Orleans. Overcome, the father abandons the child at an old folks’ home, at which point a caring housemaid name Queenie (Taraji P. Henson) takes him in as her own. The child, Benjamin (Brad Pitt), is born with a catalog of infirmities one usually only exhibits at the end of their life, not at the beginning. To no explanation, Benjamin continues to grow, loosing his ailments and gaining energy with each passing year. Eventually, his curiosity and vigor gets the best of him, and he leaves Queenie and his aged friends to see the world by way of a tugboat and its surly captain (Jared Harris).

Fincher’s rendering of Benjamin’s early (or late) life is nothing short of remarkable. The physical presentation will leave you stunned, as you can clearly discern Pitt’s features and expressions through the wrinkles and glasses, but it’s certainly not the actor’s body. As Benjamin’s mind grows, too, Fincher explores what someone with an 80-year-old body and a 10-year-old mind might get into. And that’s part of makes Button so accessible: the humor. The film’s comedy comes across deftly authentic and never artificial.

Underpinning Button is Benjamin’s love for Daisy (Cate Blanchett). They meet while Benjamin is in Queenie’s care, a friendship which proves complicated considering the tangible difference in age. Throughout their respective lives, the two manage to stay in each others’ thoughts and eventually meet at a time where both are nearly the same age. The push and pull, distance and closeness between Benjamin and Daisy is a weathered and touching relationship that comes appropriately full-circle, with, thankfully, little triteness of cliché. Even I can appreciate when the two “meet in the middle.”

While I would positively consider Button a classic, I can’t say that all of its elements are wholly original. Screenwriter Eric Roth also wrote for Forrest Gump, influences from which you’ll readily feel in the film. Equally familiar is the framing device for the story. We learn of Benjamin’s life by way of an old, hospitalized Daisy and her daughter, who is reading to her from Benjamin’s diary. This smells a bit like Titanic, if you ask me. And you might even detect a scent of Interview with the Vampire by way of Pitt narrating his life, the same as he did in Anne Rice’s story. These recognizable characteristics don’t mitigate Button in any material sense, they just aren’t on the level of originality as Fincher’s visuals.

Pitt and Blanchett, too, aren’t particularly remarkable in their performances. For a film that left me so inspired and awed, I was surprised to realize that none of the actors really stood out, save for Tilda Swinton as Benjamin’s first great love. In any other movie a lackluster lead might prove fatal. But for Fincher’s film, the story and emotional spectrum of the film is enough to buoy Button into the halls of classic storytelling. Like life, the film isn’t perfect. But as the sum is usually greater than its parts, and a life should be judged on its entirety, Fincher’sButton is a moving experience not to be missed. Especially at this time of year.

To director Bryan Singer’s credit, Valkyrie is one of the tautest films of the year. There is virtually no time spent on the characters before the main plot kicks into high gear – that of an inside job to assassinate Hitler. The subject matter is fascinating and very much based on real events. Singer’s Valkyrie is not a half-hearted “inspired by” accounting, which gives the film incredible gravity. Seeing the character of Hitler on screen is equally weighty, especially since other WWII films of this year (and years past) shy away from direct depictions of the man (e.g.The Reader, Defiance). Singer’s framing gives the character the needed drumroll and cloud of fear, which makes the assassination attempt all the more stomach-wrenching.

Cruise plays Colonel Claus von Stauffenberg, the young and motivated mastermind behind the plot to kill the Nazi leader at his remote headquarters, the “Wolf’s Lair.” The story’s pace does Cruise no service, as his confidence and canniness feels too efficient and remarkably like his Ethan Hunt character from Mission Impossible. Any depth to Stauffenberg is coincidence at best and not the work of Cruise. On the other hand, those in league with Stauffenberg manage to weave a needed emotional layer that broadens Valkyrie beyond a just vapid blockbuster. While much of the supporting cast does a commendable job (e.g. Tom Wilkinson, Kenneth Branagh, Terrence Stamp, Eddie Izzard), it’s Bill Nighy as General Friedrich Olbricht who is an absolute standout. Nighy’s performance truly gives one the sense of hope and fear those involved in the assassination attempt must have felt.

While it’s surprising that Cruise doesn’t offer more to Valkyrie, the film is nevertheless a thriller in the truest sense. Not to mention, a historical tale, riveting in its ambition and consequence. And even though Singer’s portrayal sits at a 30,000-foot view, especially in the finer details like language and accents, Valkyrie’s strong supporting cast helps ground the film enough to give it true feeling and weight.

The story centers on a superhero-like ex-cop called The Spirit (Gabriel Macht), who seems to have more love for his city than the Sex and the City girls do for New York. And more lives than all the cats in his loft. The Spirit races over rooftops in his suit and trademark red tie, saving damsels in distress and saying things like “golly” and “oh brother.” It’s true, The Spirit has an oddball ’50s-style to it, what with the fedoras and old cop cars, but it’s certainly not a period piece – that’s clearly evident by the typography and weaponry. It’s a unique formula, and for the most part it succeeds in creating a rich, alternate universe. The campy tone comes across as fun in many of the artistic action sequences; like when the The Spirit tells The Octopus (Samuel L. Jackson), “I’m going to kill you all kinds of dead!” while fighting him in a muddy bog.

But there are also parts where it doesn’t work. In the slower, more drama-aimed segments it can be very tedious, such as during the numerous flashbacks, or when The Spirit is talking to the police commissioner or flirting with the female doctor. Miller’s incredibly styled fights and adventuring is just so compelling that it makes the rest of the film and it’s campy storytelling feel anemic without it. And then there are parts that are just bad. In league with the Octopus, The Spirit’s nemesis of equally indestructible composition, is Silken Floss, played by the usually enjoyable Scarlett Johansson. While everyone else manages to deliver their cheeky lines in the requisite retro good-vs-evil manner, Johansson delivers every line like an embellishing drama student. She’s even more irritating than the perpetually smiling test-tube bad guy, played by the dumpy Louis Lombardi.

It’s disappointing that The Spirit, given it’s unique comic (and comical) temperament, won’t find itself alongside the memorable Sin City and 300. With its inconsistent tone and overwhelming visuals, The Spirit is a film that manages the complex achievement of being stunning and forgettable at the same time, destined to be simply a haunt of the genre.

It’s no question that Rourke is a weathered, eccentric Hollywood anti-hero. What other gravely-voiced badass do you know that carts around a chihuahua? Rourke gained prominence in the ’80s (with films like Rumble Fishand Pope of Greenwich Village), only to squander those achievements before dropping out of acting in the ’90s to pursue a career in boxing (at 35 years old, no less). Returning to film has been a long, uphill battle for the man, but I’d venture to say he’s scaled his Everest with the performance here. The Ram is such a rare fusion of person and character that it’s almost impossible to tell where Rourke begins and ends. But it’s not just a case of perfect casting. The depth and expanse of pain, love and hope in The Wrestler, manifested largely through Rourke’s character, is something of a marvel.

The Ram is a washed-up professional wrestler who, in his older age, rations out scraps of fame collected from a high-profile career years ago. The man is tired, tortured by old injuries, and poor, but despite it all maintains a Labrador-like enthusiasm for and loyalty to wrestling. So when the chance to fight again in a rematch with one of his greatest bouts, The Ayatollah (Ernest Miller), The Ram can’t say no. As the trailer-living old pro starts on his return to greatness, Aronofsky gives us a brutally honest look at what a life like this must be, from maintaining the showmanship blonde mane to the episodes of tanning and shaving to the drug use that both hurts and helps to the loneliness of the gym. The depictions have an incredible authenticity and humbleness to them. Aronofsky bolsters this through his documentary-style filming, following behind Rourke much of the time. It’s a wonderfully effective technique, and gives you a real sense for The Ram’s existence as you follow his routine through his sore, groaning lumber.

This atmosphere made one short scene especially touching to me – a brief moment where Aronofsky shows The Ram sleeping in his trailer, snoring heavily. In actuality, Rourke wasn’t acting in this scene and the cameras just happened to be available to capture the moment. Seeing his character at a point of plain rest and stillness was truly startling, considering the constant, tortured air of the film. Though fleeting, the scene highlights the realness of Aronofsky’s work and when juxtaposed against the rest of the film, gives the emotional and physical turmoils an even greater hue.

While The Ram prepares for the biggest battle of his career, he ultimately faces one that is not only unexpected but more difficult: a heart attack. This event opens up the other half of the film, which surrounds his personal relationships, both with his favorite stripper, Cassidy (Marisa Tomei), and his estranged daughter, Stephanie (Evan Rachel Wood). Cassidy and The Ram step past their patron-performer arrangement and become something more. In the process, we’re presented with yet another outstanding performance by way of Tomei. Her character is in many ways a parallel to Rourke’s and even though we’re not afforded the same studied look at Cassidy as we are The Ram, Tomei delivers a heartfelt, breasts-out performance that is equally stirring. Wood manages to pack a similarly moving execution into an even shorter time on screen, which helps opens up Ram’s failed-father side. The scenes of Ram and Cassidy shopping for a birthday present for Stephanie provide a heady look at these relationships. The scene on the boardwalk is a remarkable one, as well.

There’s just so much to like about Aronofsky’s Wrestler. While small in domain, the film is miles long in feeling. From the struggle against irrelevance to the difficulty in reaching out and making amends to following one’s passion, The Wrestler is a heavy-weight film that wrenches more emotional touch-points than any other this year. I doubt anyone would have thought that a film based on a profession of illusions could be so real. Rourke has won the biggest match of his career and I, for one, can’t stop cheering.

While Reeves’ abilities can often be described as wooden, he makes a perfect Klaatu – emotionless, plain-faced, with a shell of a personality. And even though one of his greatest moments was all the way back in 1991′s Point Break when he shot his gun in the air and screamed “AHHHHH!”, Reeves manages to deliver the alien’s message with an enviable degree of detachment. His range is short, but in the right role it works. Jennifer Connelly as the scientist Helen Benson who befriends (or, more appropriately, spends time with) Klaatu is equally cast; her worried antics and “I’m the only one that can reach him” approach is a near carbon-copy of her role as Betty Ross in 2003′s Hulk.

It’s a pleasure to see Kathy Bates, as well, even if she did play an out-of-her-league politico. I can’t really say the same for Jaden Smith, who plays Jacob, Helen’s adopted son. Aside from the annoying adolescent acting-out trying to get Klaatu caught, I can’t shake the idea that some of his scenes are embellished because he’s WillSmith‘s son. All of the kid’s emoting and extended lines have a nepotistic taint to it. Call me crazy.

As the original and remake go, Klaatu comes to earth via a massive swirling orb. As humans don’t know what to do in this type of situation, the military is called out in full force. Klaatu is eventually taken to a holding facility for observation and questioning, at which time he reveals that he represents a group of civilizations, and that Earth shouldn’t be considered human’s domain. We soon learn Klaatu and those he represents feel humans are a detriment to the planet. Guess what happens at that point?

The story is wholly predictable yet it surprisingly manages to hold your attention. And thankfully, Derrickson avoids any undue wandering or sequences that might make you think he’s trying too hard. This temperament carries over into the director’s use of CGI as well. Considering the apocalyptic nature of the tale, Derrickson could have had innumerable scenes of glossy, scaled destruction. As it stands, the special effects feel not only well-done, but well-placed. That goes for Gort as well, the towering sentinel of unmatched power. Dressed in a brushed gunmetal finish with a pulsing slit for an eye, the cosmic bodyguard’s appearance is a nice update to the original rendering.

Considering the original film is 57 years old, I’d venture to say that much of the audience for Derrickson’s take haven’t seen it. So by itself, the remake is a fine sci-fi excursion that while predictable, still manages to be enjoyable and ever so thought provoking. Compared to the original – well, I won’t go there like Alex already did. Derrickson obviously hasn’t necessarily made another classic here, but at the same time I don’t think he’s committed any cardinal sins to the genre. To my mind, that’s a fine accomplishment.

Sister Aloysius (Streep) is principal of the school and all-around “dragon lady”, protector of tradition and opponent of gum chewing and ballpoint pens. Father Flynn (Hoffman) on the other hand favors modernization of the church and a closeness with the students. The two are at odds when Sister James (Adams) confesses that she observed her student, Donald, return upset from a mid-class visit to Father Flynn. Little further evidence is needed for Sister Aloysius to proclaim, “it has happened.” Though it’s 1964 and pedophilia cases within the church weren’t as well known, Sister Aloysius has experience with the type of man she believes Father Flynn to be. And as she proceeds to investigate, her stance that it is her job “to outshine the fox in cleverness” brings forth a marveling storm of emotion and conflict.

Streep proves just as fierce and powerful in a habit as she did in Hermes (in Devil Wears Prada), while Hoffman serves as the worthiest of adversaries. At one point Father Flynn states he can fight her, to which Sister Aloysius replies in the most fantastic disinterested yet confident manner, “you will loose” – a simple statement that embodies the convinced, opposing forces.

Cast any other way, the film might have been a dull, frustrating game of ping-pong given the film’s slow-boil pacing and lack of outright answers. Doubt’s value is to be found in the interchange between characters. Witnessing the conversations between Streep and Hoffman or the exceptional confession of Mrs. Muller (Davis), the boy-in-question’s mother, or Sister James professing her fondness for Frosty the Snowman, prove just as explosive and engrossing as any special effects sequence. If you prize artful conversations and intricate deliveries, then Doubt might very well be the best film of 2008. Personally, I could watch this cast go on for days, and found Streep vs Hoffman near the equivalent of a UFC title fight.

Doubt’s other elements, however, prove less intriguing. While I can’t speak to Shanely’s stage execution of the story, his treatment of the film here is pretty unremarkable. The pacing, cinematography and direction, for instance, are all pretty ordinary. That isn’t wholly surprising, since there’s not a lot of activity in the film to stylistically render, but you do get the sense that the film is a tad lopsided. Virtually all of Doubt takes place in a handful of locations in the school, wherein characters simply talk. There are no scandalous scenes between Father Flynn and the boy, accessory sequences to bolster the feeling of environment, or physical altercations that might raise you out of your seat.

Doubt is a subtle battle that pivots on the lips of its cast; this is probably why it’s done so well as a play. If you can appreciate the power behind a Streep stare or the dexterity it takes Hoffman to meet her head on, then there’s little uncertainty in its value. And despite holding back answers, which some moviegoers might find frustrating, the film is a rich and thought-provoking experience that nevertheless feels complete.

Louis Letterier was recently able to reboot Marvel’s Hulk, following Ang Lee’s lackluster attempt in 2003. Here, Alexander sought a similar goal, considering the humdrum Thomas Jane Punisher in 2004 (which you might consider a reboot to the Dolph Lundgren version of 1990). The previous flick, while arguably smelling of a Sunday afternoon TNT movie, at least contained balanced amounts of plot, action and character performances. Jane surfaced the pain motivating the Punisher well enough, and proved a nimble and capable vigilante. Even John Travolta, as the #1 bad guy, was a solid fit.

In War Zone, on the other hand, Ray Stevenson is a clunky and dull Punisher, who is perfectly suited portraying the character in posters or other static moments that require little emotion or movement. He’s got the aesthetic down, but at 6’4″, Stevenson inspires little confidence in the belief that he can move about unnoticed or make a spirited getaway. His emotional range seems similarly slowed. Obviously the Punisher is quite the stoic fella, but Stevenson could have done so much more with the turmoil and pain considering his admirable performances in HBO’s “Rome.”

Speaking of HBO, fellow channel brethren, Dominic West (of “The Wire”) joins Stevenson in War Zone as the disfigured Jigsaw (seen snapping an innocent neck below), who is certainly short a few pieces of a whole puzzle. Before being thrown into a giant blender by the Punisher, West plays Bill Russoti, an up-and-comer in the mafia who has caught the ire of the evening executor. Russoti manages to survive in ways only a comic villain can – with enough injuries to inspire a newly demented persona. Jigsaw then seeks revenge.

War Zone is actually promising for about the first twenty minutes or so. Stevenson looks like a great Punisher, Alexander has some nicely colored scenes and the violence is what we’d expect, if not gleefully over-the-top. Once Russoti turns to Jigsaw, however, the film takes a campy turn and never looks back. West’s performance comes off as more slapstick than insane, and once he’s joined by his brother, Looney Bin Jim (Doug Hutchison), who is equal parts cannibal and karate, the pair look like laughable evil misfit toys that the likes of Tim Burton might’ve dreamed up.

And let’s talk about the blood. Alexander certainly must have found some extra supplies on sale, because War Zone has more blood in it than moody lighting. Heads explode in fantastic thick splashes, skin is pierced like a knife through a napkin and gratuitous fatalities are delivered just for the hell of it. As the movie wears on, you’re in a much different place than when you started. Any sense of story or seriousness is shed in favor of the next messy kill. By itself, overdosing on bullets, blood and dimwitted dialogue isn’t unwelcome – and it can be fun – but the Punisher story is (and should be) much more than that. Any chance of the brooding vigilante rising to the heights of Hulk, much less Iron Man, is pretty much lost. The Punisher can now, sadly, be buried alongside other fallen favorites like Daredevil and Ghost Rider. RIP.

In part, current events are what makes Gus Van Sant’s Milk such a chilling and timely tale, that while at once beautiful and tragic, leaves one with a half-empty perspective on how short society has really come. But from the inspiring man that was Harvey Milk to the incredible performance by Sean Penn to the shocking murder of a rising community leader to Van Sant’s intimate framing and treatment, Milk is a gallon’s worth of rightfully deserved superlatives that make it one of the best movies of 2008.

As has been printed and described to me, Harvey Milk was an ordinary man by most accounts, but one with an impressive degree of empathy, optimism and passion. Sean Penn as Milk embodies these characteristics so deftly that’s hard to imagine him ever having played a hardened character before (e.g. the detective in The Interpreter). As Penn recites Milk’s move to California and his political pursuits, his impassioned expressions and bouncy intonation has a dedication and complexity that borders on career-worthy. You get a sense that Milk really was as charismatic and everyday as Penn describes, and that it’s no wonder he was able to galvanize a community out of a plain sense for what was right. Might Penn secure another Academy Award for his performance? I certainly hope so.

In the film, Milk (in his early 40s) moves from New York City to The Castro area of San Fransisco with his boyfriend Scott (James Franco). The two open up a small business, Castro Camera, which quickly gives way to Milk becoming involved in the neighborhood merchant association and by extension the fight for equal treatment. Milk’s fight for his and the community’s equality continues to grow, eventually leading to him running for political office and securing the city supervisor seat. Along the way, Milk amasses a rag-tag group of activists and campaigners, most notably Cleve Jones (Emile Hirsch). Both Franco and Hirsch hold their own alongside Penn, delivering affectionate, genuine performances to be proud of.

Franco pulls off the intimacy in his relationship with Penn, while Hirsch nails the bubbly impatient activist. Probably the only brand-name in Milk that didn’t deliver was Josh Brolin, quite sadly, as the murderer Dan White. Despite the guy’s recently rise to stardom, he sits firmly as the odd man out among the other three leads. I know Brolin plays the troubled fellow city supervisor who does the unthinkable, but his performance comes off as incomplete rather than complex. Van Sant and screenwriter Dustin Lance Black share some of the blame here as you never get the sense that Brolin’s character really develops.

An obvious aspect that may make Milk a hard sell is it’s squarely gay perspective. And while there isn’t aBrokeback Mountain terrain of intimacy, there certainly is a lot of affection between Franco and Penn – very well-placed and executed, I might add. And sure, you can abstract the fight for equality as a civil rights issue that touches everyone, but as you’ll see in the movie, Milk’s fight never hid the gay angle behind more general, albeit safer messages. Appreciating Milk and the life of Harvey Milk is to truly understand what he and his supporters fought for. Some may not understand it completely or can’t relate to it personally, but they can certainly appreciate the man’s accomplishments. Generalizing Milk’s message and legacy wouldn’t be a just treatment of the man.

Gay himself, director Gus Van Sant recognizes this very importance and tells Milk’s story in a surprisingly authentic manner. You don’t get the sense that the film has been white-washed or “blockbustered” in any way at all, and that Focus Features is putting themselves out there again as honestly as they did with Brokeback. At a reported budget of around $20 million, Van Sant was able to transform The Castro back to its ’70s look, but he let his talent shape the movie. Milk will go down not only as a hallmark film for the gay community, but also a piece of cinema that everyone should remember for its timeliness, its hero, its cast, and its emotional intricacy that simultaneously inspires feelings of joy, sadness and anger.

For those girls (or guys) that nevertheless want to belly up to Statham’s, feel free. But know that you’ll probably want to kill Valentina’s character yourself before the movie is done. I would give the film a few more stars if only Martin had delivered a solid backhand at least once. (If you’ve seen the film, you know there is more than one deserving occasion.) Instead, he somehow falls for the freckles and broken English, resulting in some truly tiresome scenes. Eye candy on either side isn’t unwelcome, but these scenes are really just awkward flirtation, which even goes beyond the stunted and lame attempts in Twilight.

Martin meets Valentina as a result of a job gone wrong by one of Martin’s criminal peers. Swarthy crime boss Johnson (Robert Knepper) convinces Martin to complete the job, using distance-triggered explosive bracelets as insurance. Meanwhile, Knepper is blackmailing the head of the Environmental Protection Agency into allowing suspect ships to dock in his port; it’s a sub-plot with environmental overtones that never really develops, nor seems necessary. As Martin transports “the package” around Eastern Europe, an expected high-speed chases ensue, and an unusual amount of time is spent on Martin and Valentina learning to like each other. Statham has a few noteworthy hand-to-hand fight scenes, which oddly all involve bad guys forming a circle around him. It’s all show for sure, lacking any real suspense.

The automobile antics this time around stretch the realm of reality too far, even by Transporter standards. Sure, in the second film Martin was able to flip the car laterally to knock off an explosive attached to the car’s underbelly, but the manner in which he escapes a particularly wet situation here is just ludicrous. Transporter 3is a stunt man’s dream, because that’s pretty much all you’re watching – well-crafted action, void of any tension or excitement. The film is apparently also one step up from the neighborhood theater (and maybe even that’s generous) considering Rudakova and other cast-mates’ abilities.

Beyond Statham’s baseline appeal, the only other factor that makes Transporter 3 worthwhile is the lead villain, played by the devilish Robert Knepper. Most might remember him from TV’s Prison Break as the Southern sadist T-Bag. While his accent is gone, his predatory stare and cold demeanor remains. With Knepper’s appeal and the lacking state of other characters in Transporter 3, I found myself really hoping the bad guy would win. I doubt I spoiled much by saying that; it seems hard to spoil something that’s stale and stalled to begin with. Some may still want to see it “just because” (as I did), but know what kind of a ride you’re in for before getting into this car.

If you abstract the central story of Twilight, it’s actually not a bad tale. A young girl named Bella (Kristen Stewart) falls in love with the dreamy, mysterious guy at her high school named Edward (Robert Pattinson), who turns out to be a near-century-old vampire. Going a layer deeper, Edward must battle his animalistic instinct to feed on the girl, because against all odds, he cares for her and she, knowing who he truly is, isn’t afraid of him. Other layers to the story that also prove interesting include Edward’s vampire-vegetarian family who exist out in the open; the small band of roaming predatory vampires; and the long history between the vampires and their American Indian neighbors, who just might be werewolves. As a package, this definitely isn’t a bad story. Twilight is just executed in a way that muddles the intrigue and fun, and relegates the story to squarely a female, teenage romance and not much more.

And this what I was afraid of before even seeing the film. Obviously the books are targeted at this young adult, female crowd and perhaps, given that books leave some elements to interpretation (and you can skip pages ahead if things slow down), the romantic, sappy nature of the story doesn’t come across as heavy-handed in print. But in the film, I don’t know how any guy or girl above sixteen (and that may be generous) can stand the extended fumbling between Edward and Bella and the longing virginal stares. Sadly, this dance occupies about 75% of the film. When you hear Edward say things like, “and so the lamb fell in love with the lion,” and Bella replies, “what a stupid lamb,” you really are reminded of how unsophisticated and awkward these scenes really are.

Stewart and Pattinson seem so much better than this stilted dialogue. It’s almost a blessing when they actually stop talking, but not by much. The looks and wooing body language are nauseating, especially one long scene where they’re laying in the grass staring at each other. Or the odd scene of Edward playing a piano in a dark room that’s lit like something out of a music video. Many viewers in the audience – yes, girls in their early teens and younger – seem to positively swoon at every move Edward makes. It started to feel like director Catherine Hardwicke knew the exact strings of these young adolescent hearts to pluck.

Before suffocating in the thick fog of flirtation (not unlike the fog that allows Edward to go out in the daytime), a group of three vampires come into the story motivated by the need to feed and cause trouble. This definitely upped Twilight’s tempo, but how this plays out is another reason why the movie falls short. In the span of two minutes (maybe) following this troupe’s introduction to the main plot, the film does a 180 degree turn and goes an entirely different direction, literally. Decisions are made, realizations come to light and acceptance of the new state of affairs all happens quicker than Edward can run.

Equally sloppy are various parts of the film’s editing. In one frame Edward takes a mouthful of neck, and in an immediate other his face is clean of blood. In another, Edward and Bella are talking and in the course of a short conversation they go from dry to wet to dry again. Edward apparently can’t go out in direct sunlight because a vampire’s skin sparkles “like diamonds” (according to Bella), but there are clearly scenes when his character is galavanting around under clear skies. I ordinarily wouldn’t point out instances like this because all films have them, but in Twilight they’re painfully conspicuous. And don’t get me started on the “special” effects – defintiely not special by any stretch of the imagination.

If Twilight were a series on the CW, I think it would be a fine, if not good, production. Like I said, the premise (at least) has bite, and Pattinson actually edges into supernatural believability (thankfully outpacing his hair). But as a full-fledged, two-hour movie, the stakes are much higher, and Twilight simply comes across as amateurish, laden with eye-rolling tedium. Not that my criticism really matters, mind you. Fans will still flock to see the film, and I’m sure a good majority will somehow enjoy it. Meyer’s franchise is as impervious to critiques as Edward is to dying. However good the books may be and however deep the fan-base may go, Twilight the movie is nevertheless a disappointing experience.