[](http://www.pjlighthouse.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/10 /wolverine-marvel-huge-jackman.jpg)Sitting down to consider an entire series of X-Men (X-People?) Origins films, I am reminded of Chaucer, the Middle English scribe whose death kept him from completing nearly 100 promised stories in The Canterbury Tales. With any luck, I’ll be long dead before anyone tries to make another installment in this franchise with the same foolhardy bravado that director Gavin Hood and his team have brought to X-Men Origins: Wolverine.

The film opens with a hint of promise in northwestern Canada in 1845. A sickly young James Logan, who is to become our Wolverine, accidentally kills his biological father (who had just killed his adopted father!) with his newly discovered retractable bone claws and runs off to the woods. There, another boy, Victor, who we just learned is in fact James’s brother, is waiting. They run off together, promising never to separate and to never go back.

As it turns out, Victor is a mutant just like James. He will grow up to become who X-heads will recognize as Sabretooth, though filmgoers will never know that as he is never bestowed a fabulous nom de guerre as our hunky Logan is (Wolverine, rawr). Since their main power is the ability to cheat death, they live on through history, though oddly, United States history. For whatever reason, these two mutant Canucks fight in every major U.S. war of the last two centuries. This confusion is compounded by the question: if they are immortal, why did they choose to stay thirty-five forever? Normally I might gloss over these niggles, but this is an origin story after all; these are the questions we need answers to.

Their extreme abilities are noticed by a William Stryker, who invites them to an elite unit of mutant soldiers. On a special ops mission in “Africa” (geeeeezus can’t you be more specific?), Logan backs down when things get too ugly, what with the killing and torture of civilians and all. This pits him against his bloodthirsty brother, setting off a thin plotline which doesn’t warrant much explanation. From the get go, our feisty protag believes in the powers of good. This, among all the other noise and confusion, is the real problem with this film.

Origin stories are as old as oral storytelling and they have remianed consistenly unchanged. Ultimately, an origin relies not on the acquisition of power or skill, but rather on the choosing to work toward either good or evil. Off the bat, Logan is a good guy, stopping his megalomaniac brother from succumbing to evil within the first fifteen minutes of the film. Why is he so righteous? This is the one question we needed answered but were denied.

To switch off the cerebral deconstruction of the film, I should mention that the action scenes are wholly unappealing. For one, the effects look ludicrously fake, particularly a heavy reliance on green-screened backgrounds. This is the stuff of made for TV movies and it’s insulting to think that audience’s would stand for it. This film is a surefire hit considering the X-Men branding, why not throw a bit of cash into some actual locations?

As for Mr. Hood, whose Tsosti won best foreign language film at the 2006 Oscars, I don’t know that blame for this schlocky film should rest entirely on his shoulders. He is not the first independant director thrust into the fold of a messy studio blockbuster which nearly swallows him whole. Antoine Fuqua (whose Training Day nabbed Denzel Washington his first best actor Oscar) is another filmmaker who was nearly shuffled into obscurity after his disastrous 2004 actioner, King Arthur.

Ever since the success of Spiderman, with niche horror director Sam Raimi at the helm, Hollywood has been seeking out fringe directors for their biggest projects. In many cases, such as in the choice of Alfonso Cuarón (a foreign film oscar nominee) to direct Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, which resulted in, at least in this critic’s opinion, the most beautiful and moving pic in the franchise. Mr. Hood did not prove as adept at honing his skills for a film of this size. This film is clunky at best, cheesy at worst. It feels almost as if no one is driving this caravan, which is where Gavin Hood, who may one day become a great director, has failed us.

As I’m sure you know, X-Men Origins: Wolverine was illegally distributed on the internet a month ago. The cause of that leak is still unknown, at least publicly, but it fits in line with the overall problem with this film: no one is home at the top. The story lumbers along with very little holding it together. Perhaps the leak was an accident, committed by one of the many people involved on this film who were obviously looking the other way as it completely fell apart.

Today, the candler blog is proud to introduce a new column, Candle Whacks. The purpose of these essays will be to entertain as well as gain a little perspective on current views of media. We hope you enjoy this first installment and would love to hear any ideas you may have future Candle Whacks. Guest contributors are always welcome, just pitch an idea.

Beastie Boys. Beatles. Beck. Ben Folds. Björk. Blur. Bob Dylan. Bob Marley.

Artists whose name begins with the letter “B” represent nearly a quarter of the music loaded on my iPod, which holds a mere sixteen gigabytes of music as it is stuffed inside of my telephone. If Robert Leland’s Cryptographical Mathematics is to be trusted, B is merely the 19th most popular letter in the English language. While the king of them all, appearing in over 12% of all words, “E”, takes up less than 3% of my trusted music player. Second place “T” is even less, just 19 songs. Even the popular “R” is only about a tenth of my mobile collection.

There is no science to this whatsoever. Letter frequency is measured across words, not just the first letter of names. Still, are my tastes actually geared specifically to the letter B? Am I attracted to its curves; the way it takes two sensuous strokes to form the left-most vertical line and its intersecting bulbs? Perhaps, but I neither speak nor write in a particularly “B” heavy manner. “ Bravo, bitches. Best bargain bins in Binghamton.” I might say. “ Ban burger barns and bawdy balers in the bible belt.” I might protest.

Not so.

The answer is much less interesting then any leftist lexical leaning or lustful letter love interest. I’m just lazy. As the owner of a sensible 45 gigabytes of digital music (B represents 16% of my total library) I have been forced to pare down my collection in order to fit them onto my iPhone.

Initially, I was committed to being even handed with all of my music. If I could not have it all with me all the time, at least I could have a decent cross-section. Jazz, Rock, Pop, Instrumentals, Hip Hop, maybe a smattering of movie scores; they would all make it onto my phone in equal proportions.

Genre tagging has never been my forte, so music is always organized alphabetically, by artist and then by album. So it is a proverbial scalpel that I must take to my music in order to gerrymander it onto my device with care and exactitude. Perform a RollingStones-ectomy over here, while removing a malignant TomWaits-tumor over there. Precision is vital in the process.

This is how it works in my dreams. Give the alphabetic nature of my collection, instead I just wander down the list from A to Z, slowly gathering the music I need most. The first time I did this, I hit sixteen gigs by about F. Cat Stevens and Chicago were simply taking up too much space. So I nixed some songs and trudged on. Not enough room for all of my Kinks albums. I could live with only half of my Miles Davis, but must I compromise on my albums by The Roots? By the time I made it all the way down to The Zombies, I had been put through hell, killing off my my favorite babies left and right.

However, the B’s, thanks in part to those artists listed above, remain unscathed. They get to stay because they planted a flag first. My eldest children offered the birthright of stagnancy. For as long as I have had an iPhone (I have gone through seven of them, don’t ask), the B’s have always been there, taking up the the bulk of my NAND flash memory.

I can’t help but think this is a sign of things to come. Last summer, I slowly began digitizing my DVD collection, mostly for viewing on my iPhone. We know that eventually, there will be enough storage on our mobile devices to accommodate whole film collections. Perhaps they will one day supplant music as the dominant media type on these devices.

When that happens, will I run into the same problem? Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Batman and Beauty and the Beast will be my films of choice. Will I wander the streets of Manhattan wearing video goggles, quoting The Big Sleep or Black Narcissus. “One point twenty-one gigawatts!” I might proffer a tourist waiting for a light to change in Times Square, who in turn will go home with a negative view of her trip east.

Or perhaps Bergman, Burton and Beatty will be the heavy hitters. “One of us, one of us.” I imagine I may chant this while standing at a urinal at Citi Field, taking in some of Tod Browning’s Freaks during a quick seventh inning pee, my next-piss neighbor thankful for the splash guard blocking his view.

Of course, I can’t honestly predict the future. For now, I will have to live with my B heavy music. “Venus as a Boy” will follow a listening of “Shake your Rump”. “One Down” and “Three Little Birds” will be next.

There was a time, not so long ago, when I would choose my media based on taste or mood.

Not anymore. Until I get this mess figured out, alphabetical frequency and name popularity will determine my listening patterns. I’m okay with that.

Now leave me be, I’ve must listen to Revolver again.

The proliferation of documentary cinema over the past decade has given us a nice sized stack of memorable, moving, earth shattering, awareness raising and thought provoking films. With that has come a steaming heap of boring, schmaltzy, formulaic and fetishistic pieces that betray audiences, subjects and filmmakers equally. _Anvil! The Story of Anvil _isn’t quite the latter, but it certainly steers closer to that end of the spectrum. That being said, as far as docs go these days, it’s a pretty good movie.

Opening like an episode of VH1’s Behind the Music, the film chronicles the ups and downs (mostly downs) of heavy metal rockers Robb Reiner and Steve “Lips” Kudlow, whose promising rise in the early 1980s (playing in Tokyo alongside, Poison and Whitesnake, for example) never materialized into the mega careers of their dreams. No matter. Now into their 50s, the band is still together. Both Robb and Steve sport day-jobs while Anvil trudges on, playing local bars and parties with a small following of faithful fans.

Like many documentarians, Sacha Gervasi, the film’s director, embeds himself with the once and future rock stars through some wild ups and downs. After profiling the Toronto based group, specifically Mr. Reiner and Mr. Kudlow, he story moves to a European tour where pretty much everything and anything goes wrong. Venues withholding payment, missing buses and trains, audiences of less than a dozen people; it’s all here. And of course, the two founding members, who have been rocking together nearly four decades, get into spats with each other en route.

It is no surprise that there are more downs in this tale. Instead of following a steady sine curve of emotional fracas, Mr. Gervasi instead takes the low road to beat a reaction out of us. The camera often exacerbates uncomfortable situations, painting both front-men as negative caricatures of themselves. “Lips” plays as something of a jester while Mr. Reiner comes off like, for lack of a better word, an ass hole. Truly, these men must be more complex than this.

There is a great story here, but instead we are fed the same manipulative crap that seems to be coming from every “reality” based angle. After the failure of the tour in Europe, “Lips” sends a demo to the first producer they worked with early in their career, Chris Tsangarides, who in  turn opts to produce the band’s thirteenth album. Enter requisite in-studio bickering.

Look, I realize that this is the reality of this band. Mr. Gervasi didn’t make any of these events up. I just believe that there is a better way to get to the core of a story than to expose your subject’s dirty laundry. Sure, the film offers up plenty of happy moments and, as advertised is something of a testament to the human spirit, but only as much as William Hung was in 2004.

Documentary films are not supposed to be this simple. In someone else’s hands, perhaps the real story of Anvil would be more compelling, more truthful, and aim towards greater understanding of something, anything. That doesn’t mean it isn’t wholly watchable. There are some fun scenes scattered throughout. When this shows up on the IFC channel one day it’d be a fun watch. For now, not worth a trip to the theater.

I was in the basement of a Manhattan bookshop when I was forced to purchase Jack Cardiff’s memoir, Magic Hour: The Life of a Cameraman. A cinematographer friend of mine refused me a ride back to Philadelphia unless I purchased it. “But don’t you own it? Can’t I borrow it?” I pleaded. “Trust me, you’ll need a copy for yourself”. He was right.

Mr. Cardiff, who passed away earlier this week at the ripe age of 94, was a cinematographer and filmmaker whose most well known claim to fame was being the first British cameraman to shoot with Technicolor. His autobiography, published under the prolific Faber & Faber film moniker is an incredible read for film geeks and cinema civilians alike. While so many other memoirs are drizzled in name-droppery, fluffy anecdotes and grandiose “I-pioneered-that” ego-centricisms without any semblance of an actual story, Mr. Cardiff’s tale is one of adventure, invention, and discovery.

For us film folk living in a competitive and advanced 21st century, it is often hard to remember the early wonder that was the cinema. In Mr. Cardiff’s heyday, the motion picture was still a young art trying to find equal footing with its established brethren: painting, photography, theater and the like. Of course, without the introspection we have now looking back on olden times, Mr. Cardiff approached these advancements in stride.

In 1936, Count von Keller and his wife hired Jack Cardiff to film their world travels in glorious Technicolor. As a young man relatively new to the business, he was given an opportunity like no other, to not only see the world but to record it as had never been done before. Romantically, the artist describes his world travels in great detail in his book. These are the parts that will astound any reader, film buff or not.

Embarrassingly, the only film of his that I have seen in its entirety is [Black Narcissus](http://www.amazon.com/Black-Narcissus-Collection-Deborah- Kerr/dp/B00004XQN4/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=dvd&qid=1240585728&sr=8-1). Watching it, you can see Mr. Cardiff’s worldly influence. Even today, there is a certain amount of magic in the sheer expanse of the colorful film. Directors Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger put together a film that we well ahead of its time in both form and content. How fitting it was to have a look that would influence generations to come.

I have had very little exposure to Jack Cardiff, yet what little I know of him has greatly influenced the way I approach film. You can look up a list of his films on IMDb and, like I will be doing, pop them on your queue. But for a real treat, you should check out Magic Hour. Either way, bringing more Cardiff into one’s life is a very good thing.

[AMC Loews Lincoln Square 13](http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&hl=en&msa =0&msid=106222461320343446210.000467fe0a4e77050dd54&ll=40.775504,-73.98203&spn =0.005988,0.009656&z=17)Plenty of time is spent critiquing movies, but the films themselves provide only part of the experience. Much of how you take in a work is related to your surroundings, namely, the movie theater. Over the next few weeks, I’ll be writing up some detailed info on New York’s best and worst moviehouses in hopes of helping locals and tourists alike make informed venue choices. Enjoy reading and feel free to add your own experiences in the comments.

By all accounts, including programming, the AMC Loews Lincoln Square 13 is the best movie theater in New York City. The gilded interiors invoke the movie palaces of a bygone time, while the technical standards of each screen remains unmatched. The upstairs lobby is home to black and gold palm trees as well as goofy sketches of old time movie stars. There used to be shrines to particular films (a glass encasement used to house props from Legends of the Fall, for example), adding an almost religious aire to the place; something of a temple to the gods of cinema.

A rarity in this 21st century, save for the three theaters in the basement, this particular Loews has resisted the move to stadium seating. The result is a more intimate experience. Even in the biggest theater, as the other audience members feel a bit closer to you. I don’t mean in any claustrophobic manner, rather the experience feels more shared. And if you’re worried that a tall cowpoke in a ten gallon hat might sit in front of you, fear not, there isn’t a bad seat in the house. The flattened seating is compensated for by the height of the screen and the angle of the chairs.

AMC is known to be a bit more anal about projection than other chains, and that is a very very good thing. Each screen at the Upper West Side theater, as with most other AMCs in the nation, is set at then exact distance from the projector for optimal picture. This is one of those things that is gotten wrong time and time again in an effort to fit more seats into an auditorium. When the projector is set back too far, the image loses color information and can lose much of its sharpness. At movie theater screen sizes, a few inches is all it takes to blow a great image. In terms of picture quality, I have never been disappointed by the Lincoln Square Theater.

Thanks to audio branding like DTS, SDDS, and Dolby Digital, aural quality is now less of an issue than it used to be. Still, many theaters are not constructed well enough to deal with the added horsepower. In my experience, I have never found myself in the awkward situation of sitting through a tearjerker as an action hero gets blow’d up in the theater next to mine at the Lincoln Square 13.

The popcorn is good (when it’s new), the sodas are huge, and the service is slow, same crap you’ll find in all fifty states really. Obviously everything is overpriced, but if you need some munchies, you are covered en masse. Earlier I mentioned over the theaters in the basement. Avoid these if you can. They are perfectly acceptable, but tiny, reminiscent of small screening rooms at universities. The only fun part of going down there is the sweet film reel ceiling over the escalator, seriously.

Regarding programming, the theater does not see many repertory films unless they are part of a wider release, but they do cover an impressive cross- section of mainstream and art house flicks. Again, for an arty film to make it there it must open wide, but so many other theaters in the city scoff at such fare. It’s nice to have such an advanced space showing smaller films. The building also boast’s Manhattan’s only IMAX theater and has been home to a number of world premieres.

To conclude, the AMC Loews Lincoln Square has everything a decent theater should have, but it is the little things that make it the best. If you find yourself in New York and need a good spot to check out the latest movie, this should definitely be high on your list.

Oh SNL, you rib us bloggers so perfectly. I love this because of how frighteningly accurate it is of so many snarks out there on the interwebs. And for my latest takes on movies and such, check out my new site, the canler blog. It’s rarely written while clutching an iced latte, but I think you’ll like it nonetheless. Enjoy.

[](http://www. filmschoolrejects.com/images/adventureland-1.jpg)_Adventurland _is the story of James Brennan, a recent college graduate with a noggin full of impeccable vocabulary and lofty esotericisms. When his father takes a pay cut at work, his trip to Europe is called off and his fall plans for grad school are put in jeopardy, leading him to a summer job at the local theme park whose name is the film’s title. There, of course, he falls in love, learns more about himself, and meets all kinds of wacky characters along the way in this refined coming of age comedy.

Setting aside (most of) the raunch and raucousness of 2007’s_Superbad_, writer/director Greg Mottola offers us a view of young adults that has become frighteningly rare in Hollywood. Grounded yet hopeful, with limited but sufficient resources, James and his love interest, Em, are relatable and realistic twenty-somethings, not overly ironic Napoleon Dynamites or vacuous shells like those found on NBC’s failed_Quarterlife_ (does anyone even remember that show?). It’s hard to describe their trials without giving away much of the film’s draw, so let’s mostly take a look at the who instead of the what. Continue reading on the candler blog…

Adventurland is the story of James Brennan, a recent college graduate with a noggin full of impeccable vocabulary and lofty esotericisms. When his father takes a pay cut at work, his trip to Europe is called off and his fall plans for grad school are put in jeopardy, leading him to a summer job at the local theme park whose name is the film’s title. There, of course, he falls in love, learns more about himself, and meets all kinds of wacky characters along the way in this refined coming of age comedy.

Setting aside (most of) the raunch and raucousness of 2007’s Superbad, writer/director Greg Mottola offers us a view of young adults that has become frighteningly rare in Hollywood. Grounded yet hopeful, with limited but sufficient resources, James and his love interest, Em, are relatable and realistic twenty-somethings, not overly ironic Napoleon Dynamites or vacuous shells like those found on NBC’s failed Quarterlife (does anyone even remember that show?). It’s hard to describe their trials without giving away much of the film’s draw, so let’s mostly take a look at the who instead of the what.

Jesse Eisenberg, who plays James, has a real talent for comedic dialogue. He delivers Mr. Mottola’s high-brow verbiage in a very plain spoken manner that, instead of boring us, makes sense of the wordsmith’s dizzying work. Mr. Eisenberg is basically picking up where Michael Cera ends. Both can do deadpan and do it well, but in Adventurland, Eisenberg breaks through that stolid mold to reveal James’s deeper conflict without ever letting up the Stan Laurel act.

The real hidden gem in the film is Kristen Stewart as Em. Unlike James, who at least had a life plan before his hopes were dashed, Em is still in college and going through a tortured identiy crisis. All ot once, Ms. Stewart is a bubbly townie, sophisticated undergrad, titlating seductress, and confused woman- child. These traits come out in waves throughout the plot, but the young actress manages to bring all of them to the forefront in every frame, underscoring how complex the formative years of Em’s adult life are.

SNL centerpieces Bill Hader and Kristen Wiig appear sporadically not only for extra padding in the laughter department but also as the only successful relationship in the film. As much as James and Em dream to become more than Bobby and Pauline (Hader and Wiig) who own the theme park, it is obvious that their love and partnership is the only example they can look up to. For philosophical exposition, we have Joel played by Martin Starr, whose wisdom is equaled only by his geekiness. Mr. Starr is somewhat bringing the same weird- kids-are-people-too charm he had on_ Freaks and Geeks_, and it is quite welcome here.

Technically, the film makes a great deal out of very little, particularly in the editing department. It is obvious that there were holes plugged up in the editing phase of this film, but we never feel like editor Anne McCabe and her team settled. Instead they pulled from a bag of tricks, namely re-recording audio over wide shots (this is all conjecture, but a trained eye will notice these things). Cinematographer Terry Stacey crafts some striking visuals, particularly in scenes that occur near a bridge that remind me of a common shot in many Woody Allen films, famously Manhattan.

On top of all of that, the film is sprinkled with wonderful nuance, such as James’s father’s implied alcoholism or Em’s father’s philandering at synagogue, of all places. This is not just a coming of age film in that this isn’t only interesting to people who are coming of age. This is an amazingly mature, layered piece that takes the form of a post-teen revelatory tale. [I was personally pissed off](http://poritsky.com/blog/2007/08/22/review- superbad/) when everyone glossed over Mr. Mottola’s efforts on Superbad (instead crediting the Judd Apatow cabal), so it is really nice to see him come into his own on this film. It has been a long time coming, but this should cement his place as a sought after talent, and we, as viewers, will be the benefactors for years to come.

For those of you who missed it, last week the biggest digital leak in movie history occurred on the web. A rough cut of 20th Century Fox’s X-Men Origins: Wolverine found its way into the torrent stream and was downloaded countless times, though experts put it in the low hundreds of thousands. The FBI has opened an investigation to stem the flow of downloads and track down the leak’s origin. There are overarching implications into what this means for both filmmakers and critics alike. Let’s examine.

First off, I would like to mention that 20th Century Fox not only has the right but the responsibility to seek out and prosecute whoever dropped the ball on this one. It may seem like fun and games from our desk-chairs given how easy and socially acceptable it has become to download media, but this is no laughing matter. Leaks like this undermine the integrity of all filmmakers and break down whatever mystique cinema still has over audiences. Furthermore, this event is going to make the already paranoid studios more wary to work with outside companies for fear of leaks, which potentially means less work for such third parties.

That being said, the film did leak onto the internet, and the legal waters of digital piracy remain just as murky as they were when Metallica took on Napster almost a decade ago. Odds are no charges will ever be brought against downloaders of the poisonous file. Fox really just wants to find who leaked it and put him or her behind bars. So if the film is out there, what do we do with it?

The short answer, from a film critics’ perspective, is nothing. As a community, we have a responsibility to filmmakers and audiences alike. The mututal respect between makers and critic relies on intentionality. A finished product is open to discussion, but a work in progress is indefensible. The sheer technical handicap of watching a film on your computer as opposed to in its intended format on the big screen.

The longer answer is different. This leak, whether you have seen it or not (I have not), is now part of the film. Those who didn’t download it can get preliminary reviews from amateur critics, and the news media has made certain that most of us know of the file’s existence. It is inescapable; the leak is now intertwined with the film’s actual release. When The Darjeeling Limited was released shortly after Owen Wilson made an attempt at suicide, few critics steered clear of drawing the parallel between that event and his character’s similar attempts in the film. Point being: there are events surrounding every film that add or detract from the film itself, and this is no exception.

I wouldn’t blame a diligent critic for at least considering a look at the Wolverine workprint. After all, it offers raw insight into the filmmakers process that few are privy to. If this were an unearthed copy of, say, Rosemary’s Baby, who wouldn’t jump at the chance to pick it apart? In one sense, whatever changes there may be between now and the film’s release may serve to enrich the discussion of the film. Perhaps the public input will be taken into account for some changes, creating an interactive editing environment. Given the recent explosion of web interactivity, from Twitter to Facebook to Ustream, audience members have the means and the desire to participate in the movie making process. This is especially true in the case of superhero adaptations, where the original fan base is incredibly vociferous regarding accuracy and integrity.

But this isn’t R__osemary’s Baby. This is unfinished, unpolished, unreleased material. Wolverine isn’t being given the fair chance to succeed or fail on its own. Filmmakers need to be assured that their work is safe until released to the public. The film ecosystem is based around every filmmaker’s deliberateness to make the film he or she intends. When we can’t trust that, then there is nothing to critique, nothing to grab hold of and consider academically. Instead, there are just shots and scenes put together; not a complete work.

It is unpopular to be on the side of a multinational corporation, least of all one whose history is checkered with questionable ethics, but I must agree that a leak of this stature is completely unacceptable. Fox has its business concerns, but for me this is an artistic issue. This has less to do with piracy in general and more to do with the sanctity of the post process. (I would like to point out that I am not weighing in on the downloading or distribution of already released material) It is surprising that it has taken this long for this to happen, yet here we are. the best thing for us to keep on doing what we do. There are enough finished films in the pipe to keep us all busy, until the next one leaks.

A solid if unoriginal indie flick with moving performances and a tight, quirky script is what I had hoped to see at the movies. Instead, I saw Sunshine Cleaning, which plays like an idea trying desperately hard to find a story.

The film follows Rose Lorkowski, played by Amy Adams, a down on her luck single mother in Albuquerque who makes ends meat by cleaning houses. Rose’s sister, Norah, is a former punk-kid who never grew up, can’t hold down a job, and lives with their idiosyncratic father, played with respectable charm by Alan Arkin. When Rose’s police officer boyfriend, who is married, tells her how much money there is to be made in cleaning up messy crime scenes, a lightbulb goes off and the tiny glint of a plot begins to form. Of course, the two sisters start a business cleaning up crime scenes while dealing with their own emotional hangups.

You’ve seen this movie before, which wouldn’t be so bad if Cleaning brought anything original to the table. Everything, from the mopey starlet to the plucky soundtrack; the misunderstood child to the busted up van; the accidental lesbian to the bathroom motivational speeches, it’s all very familiar in that eye-rolling kind of way (see below). Amy Adams does give a good performance, but it’s not great. She is an incredibly talented actress capable of much more than taking off her makeup and putting on a sad face. I am convinced will have a bright future as a leading lady, probably more in the direction of a Julia Roberts rather than a Rachel Weisz, but this blip is not the kind that raises her “street cred” more than a half notch.

All of the problems lie in the script, however, which hands the entire cast very little to work with. The brilliant Alan Arkin is left bumbling about with nothing to grasp onto, try as he might. Instead of any characters being developed or learning anything, they stare off into distances or yell into train tracks, classic American indie fare. The only redeeming factor, for me, was Steve Zahn, the policeman boyfriend, whose character leaves the film as soon as he is given the opportunity to become interesting.

That really is the final word on this film. Everything ends as soon as it is allowed to grow. I could go on and on about this movie, but the bottom line is this: we deserve better. Take Amy Adams out of this movie and you would never have had a wide release. There are so many good movies being made out there, yet this is what rises to the top? Come on. I’ll let Tina Fey sum it all up for me: