What I loved most: Nothing

What I really hated: Many Equally Bad Things

Let it be said that Dane Cook manages none of the warmth or affability required of a leading man. Kate Hudson no longer possesses the looks to pass off as an ingenue. And Jason Biggs is too old to effectively evince the awkwardness of a puppy-dog best friend just a tad too inept with the ladies. Even so, all three deserve better material than dished up in this blatant attempt at out-Farrelly-ing the Brothers who, with the likes of Something About Mary, made the comic sending-up of our self-consciousness a Hollywood juggernaut . Even with the built-in safety net of a man playing a man playing a jerk for a living, Cook's inflated bravado doesn't succeed at offending the audience's sensibilities so much as it does at raising our contempt. And Hudson and Biggs, let's just say that if they are to aspire to rewarding careers in film, before the diminishing shelf-life of their collective appeal expires, they'll need desperately to expand beyond a repertoire of pained, whining mugging for attention. The overall effort is beyond baffling and the talent's allegiance to this film might be inexplicable; that is, if we didn't suppose that even movie stars need to make house payments.

What I loved most: Anna Faris

What I really hated: Substandard vehicle

The movie is only marginally entertaining, and the gags are, more often than not, aimed at titillating adolescent males. But Anna Faris is a delight and the sight of her absorbed in the demands of physical comedy is engaging enough to warrant one's attention. Forget the plot, as its well summarized by the title. But Faris generates enough goodwill simply by appearing on screen. She is the charismatic engine driving an otherwise forgettable film.

What I loved most: Penelope Cruz

What I really hated: Spanish as contentedly, yet ever artistically angst-ridden

I thoroughly enjoyed this film though I found the American actors, as a collective, strangely subdued, their body language outright flat, as if somehow reduced by having been transplanted to a setting so much more vibrant than they knew or could have imagined (for oddly, here, Allen either fails to/or shows no interest in, mining Barcelona pictorially). I'll qualify that the above is not damning criticism, for the bland appeal of the Americans balances an overall effort that, if not encapsulative the available headiness of Barcelona, does one thing: Provide an immaculate backdrop for an incendiary performance by Spanish Penelope Cruz. She comes across as the one fully developed character in the movie, and, and this is critical, all the while managing to be whip-funny. Thus it's not very big surprise that she pretty much wipes the screen with the American girls (Hall, Johansson, Clarkson) who, in contrast, seem always to be caught in perpetual mid-whine as they attempt to mitigate her force. (And I'm not convinced this was an intentional aspect of the screenplay.) Anyway, the usual Allen hallmarks are in place, ergo, interchangeable with those of any of his previous efforts, to the extent that plot and setting are almost rendered irrelevant: the perfunctory dispensation of the location, the static narration, the abbreviated arc in which events unfold, the jarring tempo by which they manage to resolve themselves -- accelerated even for those depicted as privileged enough to be insulated from the exigencies of world events or concerns, etc., -- and most problematically, especially as it often falls flat, the alternately ingratiating or contemptible self-absorption of the mostly one-dimensional characters whose combined thoughtlessness duly set into motion such proceedings, etc., etc., etc. But Cruz's playing is something to admire, posed but fierce, a raven-haired Bardot -- down to the evocation of B.B.'s carnality, filmed as she is in various states of (modest) undress, shots referencing the gaze of Vadim, even. Her role could have been throwaway, it (along with that of Javier Bardem's glib, yet specifically UN-tortured, at that, artist) is the most stereotypical of those dialogued: the seething Latin spitfire who upends the balance of any situation with her abrasive, unconventional outlook. But Cruz invests her fierce character with (and critically -- the camera captures) a grounded vitality that suggests completeness; and she is the proverbial center of the storm even when she's not in the scene at hand -- this in contrast the breathy, over-articulated posturing evinced by the rest of the crew (Bardem excepted, who is solid, as usual). Cruz is not on the screen enough. Though enough to electrify it.

What I loved most: Tackles the Grand Themes

What I really hated: Falters in the Attempt

The source material for this effort is dense, literary and that is evident in the thoughtful reverence Coppola gives the script. Those big, stumbling themes: existence, love, resurrection are examined and he finds some lovely threads upon which to focus, in order to throw his team. A very high bar is set and there are luminous set-ups in the plot: a man whose body manifests the reverse of the aging process, the motivation and mindset of such a man who finds that he now possesses the resources and mental agility to investigate and source the origin of language (!), thus, moreover, the travels he undertakes and travails that confront him in his quest, etc. The actors are nimble but their collective acuity feels too studied, as if they had been drilled that in the tackling of such fantastic material, there is but one approach and that is to play it sententious and straight-faced, to invest the activity with a reservation that while consistent, manages to nullify the adjudicative role of human instinct, which in addition to the evident investment in intellectual analysis (everywhere on display), conjoins to determine the true arc of one's life. And, fascinating and mind-warping as the events that unfold prove to be, even the character's spontaneous gestures feel scripted, to the extent that one then becomes acutely aware of the implausibilities inherent in such a complex set-up. As an example, the frenzied emotional turmoil undertaken by the female protagonist comes across especially stage-y, as if she is hitting the A-B-C's laid out in a silent screen acting manual. It's an interesting film, but the overall effort doesn't manage to transcend the proceedings. All the solemnity invested the thematic material robs the film of its potential to invoke wonder. And wonder is the crucial element, is it not?

What I loved most: The Greek Island Setting

What I really hated: Just About Everything Else

It's not that I'm against suspension of disbelief on the part of modern audiences when filmed characters, with straight, earnest faces, address the viewer and break into song. It's an understandable default that has been resorted to with the reemergence of the musical theatre format in recent years. But it is a prop that reveals itself as a crutch, in flimsy constructions, wherein a less than imaginative, linear narrative corrals the lyrics of familiar songs primarily, it would seem, in order to override glaring lapses in character development. It is a charge that can be leveled, proclaimed fundamental even, to such enterprises, as with the marginally less formulaic Hairspray, but then, such a contrived set-up can be convincingly and winningly resolved, as in the superior staging of the film Chicago. The hummable songs here do not rise not above the handling. They are delivered with stilted and -- apparently intentional -- amateurism, which while suitable the high school musical reprisal, otherwise solicits little charm. The appropriation of the lyrics, as a device to advance the thin plot, proves ridiculous, and worse, renders the melodies lost in their croaked translation, as if the players were shot mired in rehearsal. The overacting is painful and the humor is broad, too broad and wink-wink for the abrupt cuts in continuity to be convincing. Perhaps for those who enjoy the source music, fun is inherent in such a package as this; and the gamesmanship requires no further probity, as the resultant product will always be above critical attack. This ought to be the case, that is, if there was any fun to be had. For me, while I like ABBA, (some) musicals, Meryl Streep, Colin Firth et al.; I simply think the sum of them is not enough to justify such heavy-handed effort. This movie just plain stinks. To be fair in the reporting, I'll offer the disclaimer that the audience to the sold-out viewing I attended would certainly disagree, they were laughing uproariously throughout the film, almost as if on cue.

What I loved most: The depiction of the developing, rural American South

What I really hated: Length

The film is too long by about 45 minutes. The first half hour and last half hour lack focus, especially in the attending to or laying down of, the parameters for the mythic inferences implied by the title. The reverence accorded the "outlaw" James , are put forth through an invasive, problematical narration (i.e. there is altogether too much of it) and never appears warranted. But the evocation of that period in American history, especially its depiction of the South, is meticulous and mesmerizing. Brad Pitt is very good as James, mercurial and flinty and charming when necessary. Affleck is almost as good. See it for their performances and if you're into the thing: for the fascinating (almost voyeuristicly so) glimpses of the life-style assemblages and interiors of average, pioneering homesteads and stomping grounds that were glossed with in Gone With the Wind.