Life is far less complicated, at least in Hemingway’s novels, when women are not around. The middle section of The Sun Also Rises – the manuscript’s idyll – consists of two close male companions fishing and drinking in Spain. Soon though, Lady Brett Ashley reappears, descending into the narrative, and all of the delicate simplicity of life is complicated and perverted.

And so we find Alan Johnson (Don Cheadle): successful dentist, father of two daughters, caring husband – and trapped. Women do little but confuse Johnson’s life; his female patients, the lady at the front desk, his wife, Angela Oakhurst (Liv Tyler) – a psychiatrist who works in the same building – and so the trend continues. His entire relationship with Dr. Oakhurst is built around waiting for her to leave his building so he can rapidly ask her questions as they walk to their cars about ‘a friend’ who feels ensnared, the meaning of his dreams, and if guys should have guy friends and do guy things. It is therefore no surprise that Johnson leaps at the opportunity to enter again into the life of his former college roommate, Charlie Fineman (Adam Sandler).

Charlie is shown alone at the onset of the film – a phantom on a motor scooter materializing into the shot like a younger Dylan or Springsteen, lost into New York streets as Graham Nash’s ‘Simple Man’ strikes the first chord of the film. Critics have already started to ‘dig deep’ into the philosophical quandaries of Charlie’s last name, the darkness inherent in some of Dylan’s songs and their possible implications with relation to Sandler’s hair. Even without this analysis we see that there is something very broken about Mr. Fineman. We learn in the early moments of the film that Charlie’s wife and three daughters died on 9/11.

Alan and Charlie develop a relationship, the first friendship that Charlie has had in years, and the first real male companion that Alan’s had for possibly longer. We see a smile on Alan’s face for the first time in the film, a glint in his eyes that has been dulled by pleasant domestication. This early period of development displays one of the film’s great strengths – it’s levity. In a film set against bleak New York days and nights, exploring two separate examples of isolation and detachment, the humor is surprisingly powerful and intimate. Reign Over Me expertly captures the complicated, growing emotions that start to develop between the pair. Both characters are shown to be damaged, Charlie obviously cut more deeply with fault lines, and while they often clash, the story progresses in such a way so we understand why they continue to be drawn towards the other despite the numerous missteps on both sides – Alan’s early slips when handling Charlie, recovered by his understanding, compassion, and patience; Charlie’s volatile nature, especially when the artificial safety he has intricately crafted is disturbed or threatened, though forgiven through a humanness that has not been completely fractured by the tragedy of his life.

To continue an already strained comparison, there’s as much said in the emptiness of Reign Over Me as there is in the silences between Hemingway’s sharp sentences – and for similar reasons. Hemingway’s injuries in war, the death and destruction he saw in WWI and other conflicts, all contributed to the biting quality of his writing, and the artistry of his craft. The unwavering exploration of Charlie’s psychological response – his post-traumatic stress disorder, the interwoven layers of defense mechanisms, and his violent outbursts – leaves much to be said in Sandler’s pained, silent expressions, in his absences, and not always in his eccentricities, his mumbling, or his active detachment. The refusal to articulate pain, and the lengths we sometimes go to avoid any situation where this could occur, is very much the focus of much of the film.

This silence extends into Alan’s character as well – the incommunicative husband, the ‘ghost’ of his office. Even the tragedy that robbed Charlie of his wife and three daughters, of his family, and of his happiness is not talked about. Alan tells Dr. Oakhurst that he has a friend whose family died ‘in a plane crash’. September 11th becomes punctuation: the end of Charlie’s life, the end of the illusion of safety in New York City, Washington, DC, and throughout America. In this way, silence is explored as a coping mechanism, necessary in so far as to continue progressing forward, and not becoming entangled in the pain of a past event we no longer have the power to change. There are scenes where those who do want to talk about 9/11 are almost shown to be vulgar, as if they are discussing graphic sexual experiences while in the presence of nuns, and thus breaking social convention.

While silence may allow us to push on and survive, it also limits the interactions we can have, and, as social animals, we need relationships if only so that we can reach our hand out and know that it will be taken. Charlie has been lost into his world of emptiness and sadness, his silence ensures that he will never be forced to remember his loved ones now lost, though limiting the chances of his ever being ‘okay’ again; Alan dissipates into a state of irrational anger and detachment at the situations he’s allowed himself to be positioned into, submissive to his wife and dental partners, allowing his anger to exist, and be contained, within his own personal sphere.

This exploration of voice and voicelessness is deftly handled, and has led many to refer to Reign Over Me as a “buddy film” – a ridiculous moniker that limits and belittles the overall message of the film. The power of the film is in its accessibility; Alan is the everyman, the foil to Charlie’s deeper sadness and loss, and the discoveries they find in themselves through each other are out of the league of any “buddy flick”. These critics’ assertion is comparable to calling The Sun Also Rises a “buddy book” – and the bile you feel rising in your throat is a natural response, don’t worry.

This is a film about breaking, either in an instant or over years of endured pressure, finding the pieces, and finding our voices; which can be difficult for men in a world (sadly) still built on the idea of the endurance and impenetrability of the masculine nature, where men should not ‘act like women’ (though, ironically, women are salvation of the characters of this film). It’s a stumbling affair, there are missteps and mistakes, there are screams where a whisper would have sufficed, and there are moments purely human and humorous. It’s not an easy process, and it’s often never truly completed over the extent of a lifetime, but the instant we give up trying to survive there is little reason left to live.

Director Zack Snyder first introduced himself to the world with 2004’s Dawn of the Dead, his version of a George Romero staple that fiercely divided horror fans despite its notable commercial success. While many chose to breathlessly peck at their keyboards contending the very idea of remaking such a classic, or endlessly debated with each other over a zombie’s ability to run (because such things are quite obviously shackled by the laws of science), I instead greatly enjoyed the movie for what it was: a beautifully shot, blood soaked re-imagining of a story that I already loved. Strangely, the film’s detractors spent a lot of time wondering what the point was, when it was quite obviously to give us two hours of good fun. And now Snyder has done it again, taking Frank Miller’s decade old graphic novel, 300, and fashioning it into a visual force that rivals the best in its genre; the kind of film that demands being seen in a theater. And once more, too many people are missing the point.

Lean on plot and dialogue, Miller’s fast paced comic based on the Battle of Thermopylae was every bit as focused on war and brutality as the men documented on its pages. And while Snyder does a fair bit more than I expected to further flesh out these characters, his film very much shares the novel’s infatuation with bloodshed (in case you’re wondering, this is a very good thing). There is no shortage of fighting to be seen here, and cinematographer Larry Fong frames the violence as an artform unto itself, every cut and slice drawn out so that it can be viewed in agonizing detail. While the significant use of slow motion during these moments may be off-putting to some, I found it brought Miller’s art to life in remarkable fashion. This technique is not limited to just the warfare either, as Snyder is prone to let the camera linger over all of his imagery, perfectly capturing panels of the book at every turn. It’s consistently awe inspiring, and scenes like the awakening of the oracle will leave you wishing you didn’t have to blink.

But beauty is not the only thing that elevates this beyond being a run-of-the-mill action movie. While the tale of 300 Spartan soldiers (accompanied by 700 or so fellow Greeks) fending off multiple advances by a Persian army that vastly outnumbered them is very much true, here it is funneled through legend, passed on without the strict bounds of reality. The version we are witness to is colored by age, and the bias of its Spartan narrator, transforming the Persian enemy into a supernatural menace driven by pure evil, a counterpoint to everything these men are bred to believe in. While the Spartans fight for the glory of a soldier’s death (an ideal not chosen so much as beaten into them since birth), supplied with only their wits and the most spare of armaments, their enemies bring all manner of excesses, adorned in intricate costumes, and often riding into battle on the backs of oversized beasts, or with lumbering, deformed monsters by their side. This is the confrontation as told by one man, the heroism of his allies and the horrors of their enemies both being stretched to fantastically mythical proportions.

Despite what you might think though, 300 is not quite just two hours of swords clashing and heads flying. Unlike the book, which kept character development to a minimum, Snyder does his best to invoke a stronger sense of humanity in his protagonists, giving the viewer brief breaks from the combat that will be welcomed by many. His King Leonidas (Gerard Butler) is every bit as unflinching in his sense of duty as Miller’s, but softened around the edges just enough to increase his appeal to audiences. Butler does a commendable job of striking this careful balance between man and leader, entering every fray with a savage ferocity, while injecting surprising moments of levity (aided by much of Miller’s original dialogue) at just the right moments in-between.

Additionally, Snyder chose to add an entirely new subplot that focuses on Queen Gorgo (Lena Headey), who remains at home awaiting the return of her husband (as she says: “Either with your shield, or on it”), while fighting her own battle with the city counsel for reinforcements. I wouldn’t say that this is a completely necessary component to the plot, but it does add the slightest hint of intrigue, while helping the audience better understand the politics behind the battle (which are only briefly touched upon in the original version). The unfortunate by-product of this addition is that it further fuels the already raging fire of debate regarding the movie’s political undercurrents, and its a debate that recently entered the realm of the ridiculous when an Iranian official publicly accused it as being “part of a comprehensive U.S. psychological war aimed at Iranian culture”. The fact a film so awash in cartoonish eccentricity could stir up such heated moral outrage is equally hilarious and frightening.

Like Dawn of the Dead before it, this movie’s goal is to be a fun ride, and that’s as far as it goes. Using 300 as a launching pad to a healthy discourse on current affairs is one thing, but this is slanted, revisionist history on display solely for the sake of our amusement, and all but the most nearsighted will admit that the film goes out of its way to let the audience in on that fact. There’s no denying that the Fascist-friendly theme of “might makes right” that laces much of Miller’s work (and was the backbone of the Spartan culture) is very much at the heart of its narrative, but we are not at all expected to agree with it in order to be entertained. And all personal beliefs aside, entertaining us is all that Snyder intended to do.

Joel Schumacher’s limp-wristed thriller, The Number 23, works on the pretense that if you’re too busy doing arithmetic throughout the entire movie, you won’t actually notice how incredibly awful it is. The problem here is that once you get sick of playing Where’s Waldo? with every conspiracy nut’s two favorite digits (and you will get sick of it), there will be nothing left to distract you from the rest of this self-consciously stylized trainwreck.

The film tells the story of run-of-the-mill dog catcher, Walter Sparrow (Jim Carrey), a middle-aged family man who’s quiet life quickly spirals out of control when his wife, Agatha (Virginia Madsen), gives him a curious, self-published book for his birthday. Sparrow becomes enamored with the strange tale of a hard-boiled detective, distressingly named Fingerling (again played by Carrey), and immediately starts drawing parallels between himself and the gumshoe, no matter how reaching they may seem. It isn’t long before Fingerling’s dangerous obsession with the number 23 becomes Sparrow’s own, potentially leading him down the same twisted, murderous path as the character, haunting almost every aspect of his life. I’d say that’s a pretty remarkable feat for any novel, much less one that by all appearances seems to have been written by someone with a severe mental handicap. Certainly makes for a crappy birthday present, though.

The underlying concept is one that balances dangerously between interesting and absurd, and in the clumsy hands of Schumacher and first-time writer Fernley Phillips, it falls soundly into the latter. The script is practically littered with plot holes big enough to drive a Buick through, and the fumbled attempts at David Lynchian caliber weird will leave you shaking your head in disbelief. By the time you’re formally introduced to the bulldog that serves as “protector of souls”, you’re liable to have a neck cramp.

And Carrey doesn’t fare much better, barely treading water in the role of Sparrow, and feeling hopelessly miscast as the dark and mysterious Fingerling. His forced, brooding mannerisms always feel just shy of satire, as do his strangely lispy, poor-man’s Philip Marlowe voice-overs. Throw in a couple late 90’s style tattoos, and a penchant for clutching a saxophone that he never seems to actually play (not that it would help), and you’ve got yourself one supremely nerdy excuse for a bad ass. His cause is certainly not furthered by the fact that most of the dialogue in the book’s universe is ludicrous at best, betraying a screenplay writer who’s watched far too many Film Noirs without actually listening to any of them. Much like The Black Dhalia, another rather painful throwback to the days of Raymond Chandler, the weak writing and schticky performances make for many moments of unintentional comedy (but not quite enough of these moments to warrant actually sitting through the film).

The best thing I can manage to say about The Number 23 is that it’s not incredibly hard to look at. Matthew Libatique, the talented cinematographer behind Pi and The Fountain, jumps through visual hoops that almost make you forget how ridiculous the rest of the film is. Almost. His storybook-esque introduction into the book’s world proved to be the highlight of the entire production, and while Fingerling’s stomping grounds often feel like a somewhat transparent mesh of Se7en and Sin City, they still prove to be far more interesting than the characters that live within them.

But no amount of clever art direction and artificial lighting can mask the preposterous and overwrought mystery, particularly as it accelerates towards its mind-numbingly illogical reveal. If I had been at all emotionally invested in the film upon discovery of the big “twist”, I might have actually felt insulted. Fortunately, I had stopped giving a damn long before it actually got there. While Schumacher’s greatest crime against humanity remains putting nipples on Batman, The Number 23 can safely be added to his growing list of monumental failures.

I couldn’t help but feel a little bit sorry for Roy Solomon (Dylan McDermott), the well-meaning, down-on-his-luck father in The Messengers, the first Hollywood offering from Asian horror sensations the Pang brothers. Him and his urban kin have had a rather rough go at it lately (though for a long time we’re not quite certain why that is, or why we should even care), and he only wants to start fresh, relocating to a run-down “fixer up’er” in the middle of God’s country to try his hand at farming America’s last great crop: sunflower seeds. Yet Roy and I have some disturbingly different ideas on what kind of home qualifies as a “fixer up’er”. To me that term would cover anything with ample amounts of cracked paint, leaky plumbing, and maybe an annoying bug infestation or two. He, on the other hand, expands the defintion to include all manner of dilapidated hell-holes that look like something out of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, only minus the bone room and meat hooks. Of course, it wouldn’t be a formulaic haunted house movie without the unwitting family moving blithely into a home obviously inhabited by a great evil with no regard for proper maintenance. And a formulaic haunted house movie is exactly what the Pang brothers have set out to create.

The Messengers starts off strongly enough with a black and white flashback detailing the horrific events that led this once stately manor down the road to ruin. The opening images whip by, as we hang on every lightning quick cut to catch sight of a monster always kept ever so slightly out of view. It’s an attention grabbing taste of what you’d expect from a pair of directors ready to make their mark in Hollywood after achieving hometown acclaim with 2002’s The Eye. But it’s over before we know it, and we’re soon launched into present day to ride shotgun with the dull-as-dishwater Solomon brood on their car ride into misery.

It isn’t long before the film shifts from bad to worse, as the horror movie cliches are laid on hard and fast. From the two children (teenage Jess, and her mute brother Ben) whom are cursed with the ability to see phenomenon unknown to their parents, to the ominous flock of crows who spend their time either casting murderous silhouettes across every inch of the sky, or outright attacking anyone who dares tread below, we’ve seen all of these ideas before, and very often in better movies. But as capably as the Pangs crib notes from the likes of The Sixth Sense and The Amityville Horror, they are seemingly completely unaware of how to recreate any of the tension and suspense that made those films famous. Jump scares and false alarms come in abundance, and the screenplay is littered with moments that involve grey skinned ghosts spastically scuttling from room to room, but all quickly fall victim to the law of diminishing returns. While it’s certain the Pangs aren’t lacking in style and cinematic flair, they have a serious problem with setting limits. This is most notably apparent in an excrutiatingly drawn out scene played from the opposing perspectives of Jess and Ben, as we watch the little boy quietly observe a ghost sneaking up behind his oblivious sister. Clearly meant to be one of the movie’s dramatic highpoints, it instead drags on to almost comical effect, feeling less like a fright and more like an overly long series of shots involving foreheads and finger pointing.

And the story certainly doesn’t fare any better, and is in fact practically non-existent. You’d think a script operating on an airtight running time of just under 90 minutes would make quick work of the kind of character building and background exploration we’d need to feel attached to this family, but screenplay writer Mark Wheaton apparently disagrees. We’re certainly made aware that Jess is an outcast in her own home, and that her pissed off and fed up mother (just barely brought to life by an incredibly wooden performance from Penelope Ann Miller) wants nothing to do with her, but we spend far too much of the movie wondering why. By the time they decide to enlighten us, just shortly before they introduce one of the most ridiculous plot twists imaginable, we’re far beyond giving a damn.

Despite the fact I wasn’t blown away by The Eye, I had decently high expectations for what Danny and Oxide Pang could accomplish with a Hollywood-size budget. Sadly, what should’ve been a refreshing dose of Asian-style horror ended up instead falling victim to every genre convention in the book. And banality aside, there’s something seriously wrong with a horror movie when the scariest idea it puts forth is a father willing to take in a shotgun wielding drifter mere minutes after meeting him.

There were many flagrant reasons to disregard this film as a simple minded venture into the violent world of action films: Rotten Tomatoes rated it on opening night at 29%, the average reader rating on the Washington Post’s review is one star out of five, and Smokin’ Aces stars not only Common, better known for his musical endeavors, but also fellow musician-turned-actor Alicia Keys. Despite all of this, I walked into the cinema with decently high expectations (seriously, how can you completely disregard any film with Ryan Reynolds in it? Let alone one also featuring Jason Bateman?), and those expectations were met and surpassed.

With movies like Smokin’ Aces there is only one real goal - to entertain, and it follows through on its ambitions. From segments of extreme, over-the-top violence, reminiscent of another great beyond-over-the-top action film Running Scared, to the bizarre nature of the Tremor Brothers (three of the many hit men going after the six figure bounty placed on Vegas entertainer turned state’s witness Buddy ‘Aces’ Israel’s head), Smokin’ Aces delivers over and over again. There are faults: occasional flat patches of dialogue in an otherwise snappy flick, strange schizophrenic pannings between scenes of gore and savagery to shots of human pain and sentimentality overlaid with atmospheric piano, but the film has far too much going for it to get bogged down with small details. Like the final minutes of True Romance stretched out into a feature length film, with obvious cues taken from both Quentin Tarantino and Guy Richie (though these influences remain merely influences and fail to find their own voice or deliver like Pulp Fiction or Snatch), Aces allows us to gleefully throw logic out of the window and watch 50 caliber bullets tear through hotel windows and FBI agents, a man fall on a chainsaw, and witness some of the most depraved and bestial characters all compete for our attention as this film shamelessly pushes onwards through more scenes of brutality, wit, and plot twists.

No, this film will not be remembered as a ‘classic’, nor even a ‘cult classic’, but it should be remembered for being one that delivered on its promise - it entertained. I laughed, I was able to look on as blood covered elevators, hotel rooms and Ryan Reynolds’ face, and the film looked great, wonderfully displayed in colorful and contrasted tones. My heart strings were left untugged, but my love of fast paced action movies, splatter filled shoot outs, and the bizarre were completely indulged in this strange orgy of a motion picture. I may have only given it a three out of five, but those are lovingly filled stars.

Friday nights at the cinema should leave you walking out of a movie unable to truly determine which scene was your favorite, which bit of punchy dialogue made you laugh the most, and, ultimately, to not make you wish you could have that $10 back (or more if you bought the $5 soda and $5 popcorn with synthetic butter flavored syrup). Smokin’ Aces is just that type of film; the perfect embodiment of our collective need to see eccentric abandon on the silver screen.