Flawless

DEMI MOORE, MICHAEL CAINE

MAGNOLIA, R

Clever period heist flick is an

unpolished gem

In this heist thriller set in

1960s London, Moore quivers

and mopes as Laura Quinn, a

manager at a De Beers–style

diamond corporation who rises

Flawless’ Moore

only to the middle, doomed

to be excluded from the boys’

club. (Institutional sexism is no

laughing matter, but the way

the film depicts Laura’s opulent

sulking—bouts of sprawling

disconsolately on her brocade

sofa, fits of chain-smoking in the

tub—certainly is.) Caine plays

a Cockney janitor who picks up

on Laura’s disgruntlement and

who did him wrong (Rachel

Weisz). In Nevada, she tries to

sort out the whole meaning-

of-life thing with a cutie-pie

cardsharp (Natalie Portman).

The disconnectedness of these

sketches renders the film a

meandering mood piece—a road

movie with no sense of direction.

John Machado puts

drags her into a plot to lift some

merchandise. Though frequently

clever, Flawless is even more fre-

The Life Before
Her Eyes ½

quently ridiculous—for instance,

UMA THURMAN, EVAN RACHEL

the squeeze on Ejiofor.

nonsensically finagling opera

WOOD

MAGNOLIA, R

glasses into Laura’s hands just

when they’d be useful to read the

School-shooting melodrama

A Fighting Chance

dial on a safe. The film sparkles,

has tedium in its sights

in its way—like a machine-cut

Up in Connecticut, apple-

chunk of cubic zirconia.

cheeked Diana (Wood) leads the

unsteady life of a small-town

Quick-on-his-feet David Mamet revels in martial lore
My Blueberry
Nights

troublemaker, indulging appe-

tites for smoking pot, sleeping

Redbelt ½ CHIWETEL EJIOFOR, TIM ALLEN SONY PICTURES CLASSICS, R

with losers, and pissing off her

NORAH JONES, JUDE LAW

mom. The fun stops when she

Ejiofor—his silkiness familiar from turns as Denzel

over for dinner, giving him the full-court press

THE WEINSTEIN COMPANY, RATING TBD

Washington’s sidekick in American Gangster and

and her goody-goody best friend

of instant Hollywood friendship—a producer’s

Inside Man, and his steeliness a mellow treat

Smooth-jazz superstar in fruity

wind up in the sights of a school

credit on his next action flick, the list of unlisted

big-screen debut

since the organ-harvesting indie hit Dirty Pretty

shooter’s rifle—and Diana sur-

numbers, and a bevy of enchanting promises.

Things—here channels that muscular righteous-

Something’s always rumbling in

vives. Director Vadim Perelman

Those go unfulfilled, of course, as the only thing

Wong Kar Wai’s first English-

toggles between her ill-spent

ness into a portrayal of a man who’s developed

that interests writer/director David Mamet more

language film—thunderclouds

youth and uptight adulthood,

a dangerous crush on his own purity. His Mike

than riffing on the codes of machismo is building

or a subway train or just a vague

with Thurman swanning in as

Terry runs a scrappy L.A. jujitsu academy—a

a devious plot machine. But where the puzzle is

sense of portent—and the

an adult Diana, a professor still

studio seemingly constructed from peeling paint

racket does something to drown

traumatized by the massacre as

and overdue bills—and views fighting for money

The reels of fast talk and con

out the characters’ melancholic

its 15th anniversary approaches.

as a soul-corrupting act. His dedication to that

mewling. Jolted by a breakup,

She’s jumpy and frantic, and

principle shifts once he’s sucked into a byzantine

artistry lead to a climax of

hustle that looks like a chess match played only

gorgeous simplicity.

Elizabeth (Jones, endearingly

so broadly drawn that you

amateurish) first spends her

might start rooting for her own

with pawns, kings, and an excess of wily knights.

The gamesmanship begins after Allen, doing

the whole point of Mamet classics like House of

evenings accepting dessert and

bratty kid to drive her around the

penance for the likes of Wild Hogs and making

Games and The Spanish Prisoner, Redbelt’s central

sympathy from a New York café

bend. Unashamed of treacle—

owner (Law), and then hits the

a repeated dollop of wisdom

a virtue of the same oily smile that lubricates

swindle—a barely logical conspiracy involving

highway to find herself. In Mem-

instructs that “the heart is the

such dreck, sloughs onto the scene as Chet Frank,

stolen watches, filched ideas, sleight-of-hand

phis, she tends bar and makes

body’s strongest muscle”—this

a hard-drinking movie star. On the same night

tricks, and the promotion of a high-wattage mixed

soulful eyes at a lovelorn drunk

would-be tragedy melts into sap

that Mike drops by his brother-in-law’s lounge to

martial arts bout—only serves as a setup for the

(David Strathairn) and the hussy

right through to its trick ending.

plead for a loan, Chet lurches up to the bar and

main event. The reels of fast talk and con artistry

buys a cocktail for a woman who’s decidedly not

lead to a climax of gorgeous simplicity: a fight

his wife. After Mike rescues him from a pummel-

scene in which Mike can only trust in himself, his

ing by the lady’s date, the actor invites the sensei

fists, and an unshakable hunch about honor.

With a soundtrack including Cassandra Wilson’s feathery cover of

SPOTLIGHT ON THE MUSIC OF

My Blueberry Nights

“Harvest Moon” and a couple of familiar slips of lovely gloom from Cat Power, My Blueberry Nights can sound willfully wistful. It perks

up, turning bluesy and churning with force, whenever Ry Cooder’s

score cranks up. With spiky guitars, murky bass lines, and shuffling

drums, Cooder sometimes transforms this cozy teahouse of a film

into a juke joint and sometimes gives the road movie its sense of

Cooder

wanderlust, with a twangy number called “Ely Nevada” feeling like

dust on the windshield.

Jones and Portman work Nights.

MACALL POLAY/ THE WEINS TEIN COMPANY; FRANK MICELO T TA/GE T T Y IMAGES