continuing

ABOUT A BOY

Hugh Grant is really, really dreamy. It’s important to keep that in mind while watching About a Boy, since the overgrown child he plays does some rather dramatically unlikable things, including pretending to be a single father to score dates with single mothers. Directed by Chris and Paul Weitz (American Pie) from Nick Hornby’s novel, About a Boy is the latest salvo in Hornby’s attempt to comprehensively chronicle every form of arrested development known to man. Here, Will (Grant) befriends Marcus (Nicholas Hoult), the son of suicidal mom Fiona (Toni Collette), who’s got her hands so full with her own problems that she can’t begin to understand what her 12-year-old child needs. Luckily, Will’s only a few years older on the inside, and is able to offer the perfect counsel on Marcus’ incipient adolescence. The Weitz brothers bring a tidy gloss to Hornby’s already slightly-too-pat story, but in going for sentiment over pop cultural commentary, they extract a workable story all the same (though references to Xena, Warrior Princess and Mystikal now seem contrived and out of place). Most importantly, though, Hugh Grant manages to kick and scream so, so adorably as he’s dragged into early adulthood. What could possibly matter more? --Sam Adams (Bala; Ritz 16; UA Riverview)

CHANGING LANES

Partly written by Michael Tolkin (The Rapture), from a story by newbie Chap Taylor, Roger Michell’s tale of morality and masculinity is occasionally strangely absorbing. This despite distracting narrative conveniences and bizarre character flips. Ben Affleck smashes into Samuel L. Jackson on the FDR, as both are on their way to important court dates in the city. Affleck is an ambitious lawyer hoping to seal a slimy deal, in which his firm gets hold of millions and he gets made partner (his boss and father-in-law is the ever slimy Sidney Pollack); Jackson is a recovering alcoholic insurance salesman trying to convince his ex not to move to Portland with their two sons by buying a house for them. Affleck leaves the accident scene (and Jackson, in the driving rain). He also leaves behind a crucial file, which Jackson picks up. The rest of the film, much like Falling Down, tracks them through the day, in their own crises and in various emotional and other collisions (Affleck erases Jackson’s credit history; Jackson screws up Affleck’s car), as each tries to get over and get even. While the hijinks are silly and the several see-the-light scenes are awful (see especially the aphorism-riddled encounter between Jackson and his AA sponsor, a sleepwalking William Hurt), Jackson is often riveting. --C.F. (UA Grant; UA 69th St.)

CODE UNKNOWN

Austrian Michael Haneke’s feature makes a curiously late appearance on American screens, just weeks before the arrival of his Cannes Jury Prize-winning The Piano Teacher. The film’s complete French title translates as “Code Unknown: An incomplete account of several journeys,” and so it is; progressing mainly through single shots separated by blackouts, the film follows several characters through the streets of Paris, from Juliette Binoche’s struggling actress to Ona Lu Yenke’s belligerently self-righteous student. The film’s long-take structure -- the most visible cuts are in a scene from the film Binoche is in the process of shooting -- predictably saps some dramatic velocity, but the technique effectively conveys the sense of disconnection and anomie central to Haneke’s portrait of souls adrift in the modern world. (Once or twice, we jump in and out of a scene in the middle of a line, just to increase the sense of dislocation.) Luckily, Haneke’s picked actors you want to watch for long takes; the mere process of walking up and down a street is transformed through their actions and our watching them. --S.A. (Roxy)

CQ

It should come with a label warning “By Film Geeks for Film Geeks,” but CQ’s fond homage to the golden age of European cinema never sinks into mere apery (though it comes with a caboose-full of trainspottery references). Jeremy Davies stars as an American in Paris, a filmmaker who on the one hand is editing a Barbarella-esque flick with art film aspirations (directed by the volcanically-inclined Gérard Depardieu), and on the other making his own desperately uncommercial (and just plain desperate) ciné-confessional, which mainly consists of shots of him sitting on the toilet and pouring his heart out. Writer/director Roman Coppola shows some of his dad’s flair for style, though not much of his grandiosity -- CQ is deliberately, endearingly ramshackle, from the cardboard sci-fi sets to its vintage off-color tones. CQ has its off-brand moments -- Coppola cousin Jason Schwartzman’s turn as a Mario Bava-esque director is particularly grating -- but despite its style-shifting and self-conscious narrative (both flagrant no-nos for first-time directors), Coppola’s valentine is written in indelible ink. --S.A. (Ritz Five; Ritz 16)

DEUCES WILD

It’s the summer of 1958 and Brooklyn’s Deuces are at war with a rival gang. Because -- as you see in a distressingly hysterical opening scene -- Deuces leader Stephen Dorff’s first brother died of a heroin overdose, now he’s especially keen to protect his not-so-bright baby bro, Brad Renfro. Renfro falls for the rival gang leader’s kid sister (Fairuza Balk, who looks fine in ponytails and saddle shoes, but has as hard a time as anyone making this hoary story seem relevant). The guys argue, posture, and fight, and in between, they comb their hair. Tensions increase when local kingpin (Matt Dillon) wants to cash in on developing drug traffic in the neighborhood. Dorff protests strongly (while trying to make time with his Barbie-doll girlfriend), Renfro throws himself fully into his newfound romance, Balk wants to move her crazy, Christmas-carol-singing mom (Debbie Harry) out of town, and Frankie Muniz shows up as a local kid in need of a father figure. A rumble ensues. Director Scott Kalvert is best known for Basketball Diaries, but this film teeters from one cliché to another. --Cindy Fuchs (UA Cheltenham)

DOGTOWN AND Z-BOYS

Documenting and unabashedly celebrating skateboarding’s creative explosion during the 1970s, Stacy Peralta’s Dogtown and Z-Boys, laconically narrated by Sean Penn, recalls the youthful genius of the Zephyr Skating Team, assembled by Jeff Ho, Skip Engblom and Craig Stecyk. Consisting mostly of local, underclass latchkey kids, the team’s members congregated around Dogtown, then a rundown section of West Los Angeles comprised of Hughes Aircraft and Douglas factories, low-income housing and a drug rehab center -- as the film’s narration puts it, “the end of Route 66.” Once their vehicles allowed more flexible moves, skaters became increasingly inventive, emulating surfboard gymnastics and imagining ways to get themselves up in the air; meanwhile, California was hit by a drought in 1976-77, and drained swimming pools became the skaters’ turf. All this was captured in incredible stills and movies by photojournalists Stecyk and Glen E. Friedman. Dogtown includes interviews with Alva, Peralta, Jay Adams, Peggy Oki, Bob Biniak, Shogo Kubo and Paul Constantineau, as well as appreciations by those indebted to the culture, like punk artists Henry Rollins and Ian MacKaye, as well as the magnificent Hawk, here appropriately deferential. Given Peralta’s investment in Z-Boy culture and mythology, it’s not surprising that the film, which won audience awards at the Sundance and AFI festivals, assumes a seductively vigorous and pumped-up style. Much like the Z-Boys, the self-described “freaks of the sport,” the film is fun and often thrilling to see. Self-love is part of the process, the faith that made the brilliance possible.--C.F. (Ritz Bourse)

ENOUGH

J-Lo rocks combat boots. It is truly a wonderful moment when she laces on her steel-toed kicks as she prepares to beat down her abusive husband (Billy Campbell). Unfortunately, you have to sit through a lot of awkward plotting in Michael Apted’s movie to get to it. First, Jennifer Lopez is a waitress, then she marries this completely creepy millionaire. (He appears to be a contractor, as he wears a hardhat on a site in one scene, but otherwise, no clue where he gets his scads of cash.) A montage of wedding pictures suggests they’re happy (under a feeble cover of “This Guy’s In Love With You”). She has a child, cooks dinner a few times, then finds out -- oh my goodness! -- he’s a wily prick who tells her he’ll have girlfriends and beat her up, and she’ll learn to like it because, he announces, “it’s my rules.” Juliette Lewis looks lost as the best friend, Bill Cobbs has one scene as a lawyer who informs Lopez that because she’s never reported the abuse, she’s “screwed,” and Campbell will likely kill her. The good news is, when she leaves and he tries to kill her, she tracks down her estranged wealthy father (the terrific Fred Ward, on screen for a few minutes only), who provides her with enough money for a new house, martial arts lessons, an extra vehicle, and some high-tech gadgets with which she rigs a big showdown with Campbell like she’s getting ready to meet Freddy Krueger. The bad news is just about everything else, except those boots. -- C.F. (AMC Andorra; AMC Orleans; Cinemagic; Ritz 16; UA Cheltenham; UA Riverview; UA 69th St.)

FRAILTY

A single father (Bill Paxton, who also directed) conscripts his two young sons (Matthew O’Leary and Jeremy Sumpter) into a life of religion-fueled serial killing. Dad believes he and the kids have been called by god to “destroy demons,” and spends some years, beginning in 1979, doing just that -- demons who happen to be disguised as humans whose names show up on a list dad receives via his visions. One of the sons grows up to be Matthew McConaughey, who recalls his unfortunate childhood for a Dallas-based FBI agent (Powers Boothe, who only has to show up to significantly up the creepy ante of any movie). The night of this extended flashback session is stormy, the kid-terrorizing memories are filled with conventionally awful, Night of the Hunter-ish shadows and dramatically skewed camera angles, so you can see the sledgehammer coming at you from various victims’ points of view. Dad’s emotional and physical abuses of resistant older son O’Leary is nerve-racking, no doubt. The movie plays with perspective, such that your narrator describes scenes he couldn’t have known, and so the big pay-off surprises come at the expense of some narrative logic. But if you go with the creepy flow, you can achieve a decent sense of horror and dread, if that’s what you’re looking for. Besides, Paxton says that Fred Durst “told me his audiences would love it.” That must count for something. --C.F. (UA Riverview)

THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST

Oliver Parker (An Ideal Husband) hasn’t aimed for anything like a definitive version of Oscar Wilde’s best-known comedy. He and his prodigiously talented cast treat the playscript like sheet music, which is not to say that they feel free to muck up the proceedings with improv-y business, but that they’re happy to take the opportunity to have as much fun as humanly possible. The result is pleasantly jazzy, as refreshing as a brisk walk and as sharp as a ruby-handled dagger. Rupert Everett (Algy), Colin Firth (Jack), Frances O’Connor (Gwendolen), Judi Dench (Lady Bracknell), Tom Wilkinson (Dr. Chasuble) and Anna Massey (Miss Prism) polish Wilde’s hard little gems with evident glee, and even if Reese Witherspoon’s English accent only barely passes muster (and you have no idea how it pains me to admit that), her comic timing is at least the equal of her limey peers (that’s better). If it doesn’t strive for posterity, this Earnest achieves the height of momentary delights, and that’s probably quite as Oscar would’ve had it. --S.A. (Bala; Ritz East; Ritz 16)

INSOMNIA

The inability to get any sleep is, for Al Pacino’s significantly named Dormer, thematic, much as Leonard Shelby’s lack of short-term memory was in Christopher Nolan’s previous effort Memento. Detective Dormer’s called in to solve a horrific murder, the brutal beating death of a high school girl, at the hands of someone who then washed her hair and clipped her nails before he left her body at the local garbage dump. But Dormer, too, knows something about stepping over lines. He comes equipped with a complicated, evidently shady history, and there’s tension between him and his partner Hap (Martin Donovan). This argument leads eventually to what appears to be a terrible accident, Dormer’s fatal shooting of his partner while they’re chasing the shadowy suspect, Finch (Robin Williams), across a foggy terrain. Will says the now-disappeared suspect shot Hap, and since no one saw anything, it looks like he’ll get away with it. Finch, a cheesy crime novelist who professes “admiration” for Dormer’s profession, then names himself Dormer’s new “partner,” since he knows what happened with Hap. Their relationship evolves speedily, all about looking and being afraid to look, bobbing and weaving. Into the midst of this boy-boy action steps Ellie Burr (Hilary Swank), the eager young detective assigned to help get Dormer around town. Even when she suspects something’s not quite right, she hopes her idol will pull it out and not be the fallible, if well-intentioned vigilante he seems to be.--C.F. (AMC Andorra; AMC Orleans; Baederwood; Bryn Mawr; Ritz Five; Ritz 16;UA Cheltenham; UA Main St.; UA 69th St.)

MONSOON WEDDING

Monsoon Wedding tries to borrow visual energy from the so-called “Bollywood” spectacles of Indian cinema, but all Nair and cinematographer Declan Quinn manage to evoke is hubbub. Aditi (Vasundhara Das) is struggling both with her arranged marriage to Hemant Rai (Parvin Dabas), who has flown in from Houston for the marriage and will take her back when he goes, and with the decision to take control of her on-again off-again affair with a married man. (“I’ve read too many magazines,” she tells a friend. “I know what happens.”) Even when political concerns regarding India are raised, it’s only as background noise to the question of which boy ends up with which girl. It’s a lively film, but it’s so eager to please that it avoids all but the most clear-cut moral stances: The idea of arranged marriage is ultimately ratified; none of the film’s romances cross racial or class lines; and what seem to be hints about one character’s possible homosexuality vanish like smoke. There’s no indication at any point that any of the characters’ problems extend beyond the domestic realm, or at least can’t be solved within it.--S.A. (Ritz East)

MURDEROUS MAIDS

Inspired by a real, and frequently dramatized, French case, Murderous Maids (Les Blessures Assassinés) returns to the scene of the 1933 crime, where sisters Christine and Léa Papin murdered and mutilated the two woman of the household where they were employed as maids. Director Jean-Pierre Denis offers an explanation that relies on pathology rather than sociology; after the young Christine is involved in a fight at her convent school, the bloodlust in her eyes is palpable. As the adult Christine, Sylvie Testud veers from domestic obedience to feral intensity, the latter of which most frequently comes into play when she’s separated from her sister Léa (Julie-Marie Parmentier), or in conflict with her mother. (It’s not surprising Jacques Lacan used the Papins as a case study.) As their relationship becomes more intense (and eventually sexual), Christine’s derangement grows, and Testud looks more and more as if there’s just enough blood pumping through her to keep her on her feet. Denis resists drawing any kind of moral from the case, though clearly poverty and the cruelty of the Papins’ employers played a part. In Testud, though, we see something animal, beyond reason or correction, and a glimpse of that is all we need. --S.A. (Ritz Bourse)

MY BIG FAT GREEK WEDDING

Toula (Nia Vardalos) is Greek, 30 and unmarried. It’s the last part that is killing her hyper-Hellenic family, who thinks she should quit dabbling at college courses (“She’s got enough education for a woman” says her father) and just settle down and start a family. So when Toula falls in love with Ian, the man of her dreams (Sex in the City’s John Corbett), everything’s just wonderful -- except he isn’t Greek. What follows is essentially Meet the Greek Parents: The large, gregarious family is suspicious of Ian the Protestant and -- gasp -- vegetarian, who tries his best but obviously doesn’t fit in, and Toula becomes increasingly embarrassed by her ethnicity’s eccentricities. Will the couple gain the family’s approval and end up having the wedding? If so, will it be big, fat and Greek? Well, I don’t want to give anything away. Second City alum Vardalos wrote the screenplay, based on her semi-autobiographical one-woman show, so her knowing, frazzled performance and many of the details of her character’s over-attentive family life ring true. Michael Constantine and Lainie Kazan shine as Nia’s restaurant-owning parents; Dad Gus’s fixation on Windex as a panacea is particularly amusing. If director Joel Zwick’s staging is a smidge too hammy and sitcommy to work completely, keep in mind that this 25-year TV vet learned ethnic comedy working with the likes of Chachi, Balki and Mork.--R.G. (Ritz Five; Ritz 16)

THE SCORPION KING

Pro wrestling phenom Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson has got your Middle East conflict right here. He’s the titular brick shithouse in this prequel to a sequel to a remake of The Mummy; you can’t say Universal isn’t squeezing every last drop out of its franchises. If this one does well, expect a few Roman numeral knockoffs, a roller coaster or three, a cartoon, a Harem Girls on Ice show, and maybe even a sitcom: Love, Assyrian Style. As the last Akkadian assassin Mathayus, The Rock finds himself in the hard place of having to kill warlord Memnon’s gorgeous sorceress, who has the clairvoyant ability to take names before kicking ass. But you know right off the bat Memnon is the real baddie; he’s the one with the British accent. Executive produced by wrestling svengali Vince McMahon, the film consists of a series of excuses to fight, followed by violent (but bloodless, like wrestling) mayhem. If there’s a lesson to be learned from all the nonstop PG-13 carnage, it isn’t a history lesson: catapults and gunpowder, 30 centuries B.C.? Not so much. But that’s not The Rock’s fault. He’s at least as charismatic and likeable here as Arnold was in essentially the same movie, Conan the Barbarian. If anybody ever makes a prequel to a sequel to a remake of, say, Predator or Kindergarten Cop, here’s your star. Power to the People’s Champion. --R.G. (UA Grant; UA 69th St.)

SPIDER-MAN

Think of Spider-Man as Batman in reverse. Tobey Maguire makes a perfect Peter Parker, the rare actor who looks more at home playing the alter ego than he does the super-hero. But once billionaire military contractor Willem Dafoe samples his own strength-enhancing drugs, is driven mad, and becomes the scowling, villanous Green Goblin, it’s all over but the spidey-sobbing. Director Sam Raimi, who’s floundered film by film ever since leaving the world of low-budget genre satire behind, finds the perfect mix for the movie’s first half, an aw-shucks populism that’s both tongue-in-cheek and utterly affecting. David Koepp’s script spoons on the schmaltz, but coming out of Tobey Maguire’s wide-eyed visage, you almost believe it. (Love interest Kirsten Dunst fares less well, looking more vapid than vampy.) Unfortunately, and bewilderingly, Dafoe is allowed no room for camp, which means his Goblin is all scowl -- at least, what you can see of it behind his cool-looking but ultimately self-defeating helmet. (At times, his dialogue might as well be dubbed in Japanese.) Raimi’s self-deprecating touch works wonders without being disingenuous, but eventually, genre requirements win out, as they always do. --S.A. (AMC Andorra; AMC Orleans; Cinemagic; UA Cheltenham; UA Grant; UA Main St.; UA Riverview; UA 69th St.)

SPIRIT: STALLION OF THE CIMARRON

Yet another animated historical revision courtesy of producer Jeffrey Katzenberg: Spirit is a wild mustang of the Old West, captured by a really mean cavalry colonel (voiced by James Cromwell). During his torture by starvation and ropes, Spirit befriends a similarly abused Lakota brave named Little Creek (Daniel Studi). On their escape from the bad white men, Spirit is torn between his longing to go return to mom and the rest of the herd, romance with Little Creek’s mare (named Rain), and affection for the young brave himself. Though the film was obviously conceived and made long before 9/11, Spirit’s battle for his “homeland” turns bizarrely timely, what with the cavalry behaving like terrorists, then an Iron Horse chasing him, literally, down a hill, to explode in a land-wasting fireball. Stranger still is Spirit and LC’s eventual “triumph” over the villains: Everyone knows how short-lived this will be, that the wild horses and Native Americans do not actually “win.” With a leaden score by Hans Zimmer and worse, much worse, freedom-exalting songs by Bryan Adams, the film is very pretty, with clever animation approximating athletic camera tricks, but the tale is so wrong-headed as to seem willfully ignorant. --C.F. (AMC Andorra; AMC Orleans; Baederwood; Narberth; UA Cheltenham; UA Main St.; UA Riverview; UA 69th St.)

STAR WARS: EPISODE II -- ATTACK OF THE CLONES

A follow-up to the successful but widely criticized The Phantom Menace, Clones plays like its own Phantom Edit, remixing the earlier movie’s modest successes while handily improving on most of its faults. Like a lot of movies dominated by digital effects (The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring among them), Clones looks best when there are no people on screen. A handful of the movie’s pixilated panoramas are truly breathtaking, but much of the time Lucas’ flights of fancy are almost comically prosaic. As the middle installment in a trilogy, Clones has a lot of business to accomplish, which means our heroes are constantly scuttling about the galaxy, chasing after assassins and revolutionary plots, which is good, because as long as Lucas keeps his balls in the air, you’re less likely to notice the absurdly portentous dialogue or the semi-pained look on the actors’ faces. With Clones, the series takes a giant leap forward, meaning it’s almost as good as the worst of the original trilogy. To repeat what I wrote two years ago, the new trilogy desperately needs a Han Solo, a charismatic character who doesn’t take everything quite so seriously. The best Lucas can provide for comic relief here is the occasional awkwardly self-conscious aside, or a misconceived set piece that looks like a futuristic version of a 1950s diner. Attack of the Clones is still empty calories, but at least this time, the sugar hasn’t gone rancid. --S.A. (AMC Andorra; AMC Orleans; UA Cheltenham; UA Main St.; UA Riverview; UA 69th St.)

THE SUM OF ALL FEARS

Action-packed, full of elaborate plots, exotic locations and itself, the fourth Jack Ryan movie is, more than anything else, alarmingly out of date. While it may be pretty to imagine that the CIA does a bang-up job of monitoring terrorists, plots and wayward nuclear devices, the truth is that faith in the Agency was waning long before Sept. 11. Directed by Phil Alden Robinson, The Sum of All Fears sees super-analyst Ryan (this time played by Ben Affleck, following Alec Baldwin and Harrison Ford) outsmarting his Cold War-fixated superiors. Since you know he’s going to live for at least two more movies, it’s hard to be too worried by the many clear and present dangers that pop up -- say, a nuclear warhead that’s been missing since the Israelis lost it in the desert in 1973. He can’t die. Shoot, he can’t even be seriously maimed. And so, Jack Ryan persists -- even, preposterously, in the face of nuclear holocaust. Stretching possibilities this time out, Alan Bates plays Dressler, an Austrian neo-Nazi with a ferocious grudge against the axis that beat down Hitler and lots of cash to spend. He hunts down the missing nuke, steals some Russian scientists, and smuggles the bomb in to the Super Bowl in Baltimore, which U.S. President Fowler (James Cromwell) happens to be attending, as a display of national “unity” and confidence. Such a tactic now hardly looks as farfetched as it might have when the film was made. But predictably, Jack’s day-saving looks fairly anti-climactic after this special-effects jamboree.--C.F (AMC Andorra; AMC Orleans; Ritz 16; UA Riverview; UA Cheltenham)

UNDERCOVER BROTHER

Keep that funk alive. Between NBA commercials, Snoop videos, and the recently increased visibility of Bootsy Collins and George Clinton, the funk seems to be everywhere, including the Net, where Undercover Brother, the animated series, has been holding it down at urbanentertainment.com. The titular hero spends his time kung-fu fighting, afro-picking and generally delighting the ladies; recently he kicked Eminem’s ass. Now comes the big screen version, written by the series creator and novelist John Ridley and Michael McCullers, directed by Malcolm D. Lee and starring Eddie Griffin in a wide wig, porkchop sideburns and skinny leather pants. The plot operates on the Austin Powers/Charlie’s Angels level of satire, but brings a welcome socio-political edge that fart and t&a jokes tend to squash. Even better, it’s funny. UB joins the underground B.R.O.T.H.E.R.H.O.O.D. -- including Aunjanue Ellis as Sistah Girl, hilarious Dave Chappelle as Conspiracy Brother, Chi McBride as the Chief, and Doogie Howser as their eager intern -- in order to fight The Man, by way of The Man’s minion (Chris Kattan), who just can’t help but dance when he hears Mary J. Blige’s “Family Affair.” UB “passes” in the white world by learning details of past Friends episodes, tangles with she-devil Denise Richards (they rightfully butcher “Ebony & Ivory” at a karaoke bar), gets on the Love Train and, above all else, protects his funky ’fro. --C.F. (AMC Andorra; AMC Orleans; Cinemagic; UA Riverview; UA Cheltenham)

UNFAITHFUL

It’s a windy day, and Connie Sumner (Diane Lane), a happy-enough suburban housewife, is determined to go into the city (that would be New York) in order to do her errands. Teetering on her high heels, loaded with packages, she’s struggling to get a cab when boom, she runs smack into a young man, Paul (Olivier Martinez), who is carrying a stack of old books. Both go down. And you have once again entered the bizarre world of director Adrian Lyne, at once broadly metaphorical, oddly abstract, and painfully literal. Connie takes respite from the wind inside Paul’s huge SoHo apartment, where she introduces herself to the beautiful, 28-year-old French bookseller as “Constance.” Paul eyes her lustfully, but restrains himself seductively, tending to her scraped knees. Poor Connie’s smitten. She doesn’t mean to be. She loves husband Edward (Richard Gere) and son Charlie (Erik Per Sullivan), but can’t seem to stop thinking about Paul, even back home. Though she feels conflicted, Con (as Edward calls her) starts to conjure reasons to go into town, where she spends long afternoon hours with Paul, arranged in filtered light and stylish sexual tableaux (sumptuously filmed by Peter Biziou). The first part of the film carefully traces Connie’s roller coaster emotions, exacerbated by reckless forays with her beau. As her actions become increasingly inexplicable and Edward catches a clue, Unfaithful abandons her point of view for his. He decides to confront Paul (who rather resembles Gere in his American Gigolo days), whereupon his jealousy literally makes him ill. Here the film resorts to a very cheap trick, taking Edward’s unfocused perspective, as if this visual makes his whacked-out actions comprehensible. Hardly. Unfaithful here plummets into Lyne’s netherworld of moral relativity, where obsession substitutes for love and women forgive all. --C.F.(Ritz 16; UA Main St.; UA Riverview)

Y TU MAMÁ TAMBIéN

High schoolers Julio (Gael García Bernal) and Tenoch (Diego Luna) are looking forward to what appears an uneventful summer. Shortly after saying goodbye to their girlfriends at the airport, they meet beautiful, Spanish-born Luisa (Maribel Verdú), married to Tenoch’s pretentious novelist cousin, Jano, and they invite her to drive with them a made-up beach they call “Heaven’s Mouth.” Though Luisa’s plainly aware of the limits of her adventure, there’s more at stake for her than immediate gratification. The film too, is full of narrative layers and visual nuances that challenge assumptions you may have about the characters’ desires and backgrounds. The journey is punctuated by images of what goes on in Mexico: police checks along their route to the sea, poverty-stricken neighborhoods, and community activities. For another, a voice-over cuts in frequently, narrating not so much what’s happening on screen, but what you don’t see and can’t know. These audio flashes forward and back have very little to do with Julio and Tenoch’s present “action,” that is, their evolving friendship (complicated by their classed differences), their sexual liaisons with Luisa, their expected “coming of age” stories. But, taken as interventions into the usual linearity of a road-trip movie, these stories become profoundly relevant, some glimpses of truth unavailable to the characters as yet, and showing how the characters invent and perform themselves. Its interest in the vagaries and shifting colors of truth make Y Tu Mamá También an unusual film: Though the boys inevitably learn that pursuing your immediate desires can lead to unexpected consequences, they, and you, may appreciate and savor what remains unknown.--C.F. (Ritz Five)




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