The Village / *1/2 (2004)

For what seems like generations in M. Night Shyamalan's "The Village," a peaceful establishment of villagers has lived in complete seclusion, fearful of the idea of venturing out of their own borders and into the forests where unknown beings lurk. Their worry of the outside is underscored early on as farmers and young children feast at tables on an open meadow, and a beastly cry in the wooded hills echoes across the landscape, sending chills up and down their spines like mice waiting for a ravenous cat to pounce. No one knows exactly who they are or what they look like, but the town's elders refers to them as "those whom we do not speak of," suggesting that the outside forces may range from barbaric humans to bloodthirsty monsters. We as audience members know even less than what the characters seem to, but we share in their sense of dread; a world in which the boundaries are determined by lit torches and guard towers, after all, doesn't suggest that the outside beings are that peaceful or civilized.

Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle / ** (2004)

"Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle" is about two guys who get high on dope and decide to go to an out-of-town burger joint, only to have a series of misadventures with colorful characters along the way. There, that takes care of the plot synopsis part of this review.

I deliberately abandon the urge here to stretch narrative discussion regarding the latest Danny Leiner vehicle, because to do otherwise would be to apply more effort than what either the writers or the director employ in devising this simplistic off-the-wall vehicle. Much like "Dude, Where's My Car?", Leiner's first major outing as a filmmaker, this is the kind of endeavor that doesn't need anyone or anything to explain the fine print; all you are required to do is walk into the theater, watch 84 minutes of footage, and then exit without the slightest urge to recall anything that you just saw.

The Chronicles of Riddick / *** (2004)

"The Chronicles of Riddick" is the best-looking science fiction movie since "Minority Report," so ambitious and outgoing on the technical scale that there are moments when the viewers are staring up at the imagery as if it were getting ready to yank them out of their seats and onto the celluloid. It is this precise merit, strangely enough, that gives the picture its only firm ground for a recommendation; strip away the distinctive and limitless production values, and what you have here is your standard superhero-in-space vehicle that surrenders great ideas to an auto-pilot narrative treatment. And that's a surprise, especially when you consider the level of enthusiasm that both on- and off-screen contributors seem to share in this material. The film's technicians see the exteriors through an eye that is reminiscent of the greats in the golden age of science fiction cinema, and the actors emerge as if they are caught up in an elaborate role-playing game that they don't want to end. A shame that the movie's script does such a notable job of undermining their work for a story that moves from one detail to the next like the most conventional Hollywood blockbuster you could imagine.

King Arthur / ***1/2 (2004)

The opening credits of "King Arthur" suggest that the filmmakers are utilizing "recently discovered archaeological evidence" as grounds for a contemporary interpretation of the story, a claim that leaves almost as much doubt in mind as the relevance of yet another retelling of the famous legend. Let's be honest here: do we really need to see another version of this material? Consider the fact that John Boorman perfected the narrative when he did "Excalibur" all those years ago, or the notion that "The Mists of Avalon" has already successfully tweaked that perspective via a famous novel and miniseries. Director Antoine Fuqua should have known better than to insist on pursuing a project in which the appeal of the concept lacks the very basic of purposes, especially considering his mediocre past endeavors ("Tears of the Sun" and "Training Day"). But then again, to second-guess anyone who succeeds Michael Bay as the primary choice for directing a movie is likely as pointless as the premise itself.

Alien / **** (1979)

The ill-fated journey of the Nostromo in Ridley Scott's "Alien" is the kind of epic space excursion that avid 1970s science fiction pioneers like Steven Spielberg and George Lucas would probably discard in early script stages. On a written page, described in broad strokes, the concept lacks the potential visual dynamics of a "Star Wars" and the innovative scope of a "2001: A Space Odyssey." As a finished screenplay, it would be hard to assume the result being anything other than a carbon copy of those low-budget 1950s space exploitation sci-fi horror films that only film-crazed teens would have paid money to see. The revolution of visual effects in the late 60s and early 70s, furthermore, meant that the concept of silly B-movie space travel was no longer something that audiences would fall for. Just as Stanley Kubrick hotwired a new reality for filmmakers with "2001," the genre dominated by fearsome aliens picking off Earth's inhabitants had lost its footing.

The Day After Tomorrow / *1/2 (2004)

"The Day After Tomorrow" follows a small group of characters around as they prepare—and ultimately witness—global warming give way to a new ice age in the northern hemisphere. That the movie manages to accomplish all of this in a span of days in the story is your first clue to how unscientific the material is, but the fact that it manages to do so while allowing Los Angeles to be torn up by Tornadoes and New York be buried under a rising waterline makes it perhaps the most comedic disaster picture of all time. Is this an effective prospect? Alas, not when director Roland Emmerich and his writing partner Jeffrey Nachmanoff want the material to rise above silly escapist entertainment and be regarded as a legitimate source of information. The idea that we have politicians in this country who are using the film as a platform to discredit the Bush administration's global warming plan would probably make a better movie than what is served up here.

Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story / *** (2004)

"If you can dodge a wrench, you can dodge a ball," says an eccentric coach played by Rip Torn as he tosses tools at his team hoping that someone learns to do something other than just stand there and be hit by flying objects. A point like this is much more amusing in context with having seen it in "Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story," but in ways it serves at the ideal platform to begin this review. Why? Because Torn's dialogue plays less like instructions to inexperienced athletes and more like warnings to the audience about the convoluted logic required of such an undertaking. This is not the kind of movie you are going to see because you want comedy that is politically correct or even halfway rational, after all.

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban / ** (2004)

Despite consistent personal skepticism of the "Harry Potter" franchise over the past two years, "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban," the third installment into the series, opened on the screen with nothing less than pure enthusiasm on part of yours truly. At a time when the movie theater has seemingly been bombarded with endless mediocrity, it is pointless to be finicky; and besides, the concept of revisiting Hogwarts and all its magical corridors promised a lot more upfront than most recent blockbusters have been willing to provide for an entire two hours. It didn't hurt matters, furthermore, that Chris Columbus, the director of the deeply-flawed first two films in the series, was only acting as a producer this time around; directing credits instead went to the very talented Alfonso Cuaron, whose highly-regarded Mexican drama "Y Tu Mama Tambien" from a couple years back has given him more than enough good reputation to ensure the "Harry Potter" legacy some kind of fresh perspective here.

Shrek 2 / ***1/2 (2004)

The big green ogre that is the heart of the "Shrek" franchise may very well be the Mickey Mouse of his generation. Whenever he steps on to the screen, before he even has the chance to utter a snide syllable, the audience is instantly drawn to him and his offbeat demeanor. Such distinctions don't happen very often in the art of movie artifice, but when they do, they are usually quite accidental. Consider Walt Disney's own timeless creation, for instance; Mickey Mouse didn't just become the studio trademark because that's the way it was supposed to happen, after all—rather, the talkative little cartoon rodent came into that honor because the viewers had never seen anything like him, and his artificial charisma left a lasting impression that was unmatched. Dreamworks, a known adversary to the Disney legacy, may have inadvertently challenged that distinction in the form of an overgrown (but lovable) swamp creature, who on occasion spouts one-liners, smiles halfheartedly and barks angry demands at those who get on his nerves. But what elevates him above the cliché of cartoon ogres and brutes is a persona that is as infectious and likable as cartoon personalities get, and the fact that the studio introduced this concept to viewers via a film that allowed him to be the primary hero only anchors that observation.

Troy / ** (2004)

Poor Orlando Bloom has never been much of an actor behind the pretty brown eyes and the chiseled physique, but if there is one thing that has always been certain in most of his movies, it's that he gets back-burnered long before the audience has a chance to catch on to his shortcomings as a dialogue reader. So is not the case with the new vehicle "Troy," however; in an ambitious motion picture that contains timeless thespians like Peter O'Toole, Brendan Gleeson and Brian Cox, the plot makes his character, a Trojan prince named Paris, one of the primary narrative centers, an action that leads to moments in which he blankly stares into the eyes of others while struggling with long-winded movie rhetoric, seemingly preoccupied with the fear that he might not be reciting lines exactly as they were written in the screenplay. The result is almost too insufferable for words, a performance so stiff and monotone that it almost makes costar Brad Pitt's own career of one-note renditions seem respectable in comparison.

I'm Not Scared / **** (2004)

Our movies have become starved for protagonists that exist outside of the shell of the conventional, and in Gabriele Salvatores' "I'm Not Scared" we see one director's attempt to nourish that prospect. Young and adventurous, Michele (Giuseppe Cristiano) is an Italian boy who dreams almost as often as he speaks, acting on impulse no matter who his critics are, often reciting lines from comic books while he ponders consequences of decisions before ultimately making them. In the Italian countryside, of course, there's only so much trouble you can get into, but when Michele wanders out of the lush wheat fields he considers a personal playground and onto a seemingly-abandoned lot, he finds himself at a position that no kid of his age should have ever had to face. The consequences of his curiosity might have been any normal child's undoing, but here they become the platform for which Michele can rise above his standard and live the stories of heroics he reads daily in his comics.

The Punisher / ***1/2 (2004)

The renewed popularity of comic book screen adaptations illustrates a promising new turnaround for the standards of cinematic blockbusters, in which conflicted heroes and multifaceted villains become primary driving forces behind substance instead of ambitious visuals that exists purely for the sake of assaulting the senses. The concept alone is an accessible one for filmmakers because comics already come prepackaged with the essentials: extensive back story, thorough character exposition, personal and moral conflicts, and landscapes that bring even the most zealous action into a relevant context. If there sometimes lies a problem in this approach, however, it's that an already-established backbone can sometimes encourage directors and writers to forget about the padding and go straight to the big explosions or the dramatic confrontations, which creates a severe sense of detachment as a result. Granted, even though some of the more cartoonish translations have still resulted in still-respectable results (consider Ang Lee's "Hulk," for instance), it takes real gusto and nerve for someone to abandon nearly all sense of adrenaline and simply concentrate on the material they are given. There lies the real virtue in watching such famous stories pop out at you on the big screen.

Kill Bill, Vol. 2 / **** (2004)

The first sight we see in "Kill Bill, Vol. 2" is Uma Thurman's the Bride gazing at the camera as she speeds down a highway, her eyes fierce with anger and her decisiveness firm. Reflecting back on the occurrences that have brought her to this point, she recalls the old "roaring and rampaging" movies about revenge from the 1970s, relating them specifically to her recent activities. "I roared," she insists. "I rampaged," she insists even more. "And when I arrive at my destination," she admits with a slight twinge in her voice, "I am going to kill Bill!" So goes the opening moments of a grand finale to the saga that began just six months before, in a movie with such a stellar quirkiness and skill in its energetic conviction that it was unlike anything we had ever seen up to that point (and indeed, it deserved its rank on my top ten list of 2003 as the #1 film of the year).

The Alamo / * (2004)

John Lee Hancock's "The Alamo" is less like a movie and more like a detached concept, 135-minutes of speed and adrenaline in which loud explosions, gunfire, personal sacrifice and the occasional long-winded speech are all stacked up to create the impression that a lot of crucial things are happening on screen when they actually aren't. What this ultimately results in is an experience that is barely worth the ink that is printed on the ticket stub. Aside from the fact that the film has no tact, shows no enthusiasm for its subject and forgets about every element of narrative at every possible interval, it lulls the viewer into this paralyzing state of madness where theater seats almost become cages. It doesn't help matters, either, that the endeavor itself is stretched much farther than the source material requires it to be. As friend and colleague Bonnie Crawford perfectly noted on the way out of a recent evening screening, "did it really take that long for the Alamo to fall?"

Games People Play: New York / ** (2004)

It's easy to write off the whole reality television fad because of its grotesque overexposure, but peeling away the immense hype reveals a concept that, for better or worse, is strong enough to serve as the center of inspiration for countless generations of imitators. The idea only seems exhausting because our networks have commercialized and exploited it beyond comprehension. Consider, for instance, the callousness of a show like "Fear Factor" or the dehumanizing tone found in a "Joe Millionaire"; why these shows have both failed and succeeded has nothing to do with the reality shell and everything to do with their content, because their material, no matter how broad, is still subject to the same criticism and/or praise that the substance of a traditional sitcom or television drama might endure. Besides, if the perception itself really did lack the required relevance that most of its critics suggest, would it have lasted this long?