Lars von Trier is a sadistic bastard and, in The Five Obstructions, he unleashes a bruising set of Dogme-esque restrictions on Jørgen Leth, who gleefully accepts a challenge: Remake his 1967 short The Perfect Human at von Trier's mercy. The film itself has such an air of pretension, you'll scarcely believe it's eventual, significantly purer motive, i.e. - the triumph of art for art's sake. Watching Leth return to von Trier with his films is a burst of real suspense (and the films are a hoot of sparky reimagining); Watching von Trier wrestle with his desire to challenge this man he obviously admires becomes great fun, too. Leth squirms as he continually realizes he's baited his own trap, leaking information that von Trier promptly uses against him. It's like a courtroom drama where art is the very thing on trial and it's Leth's job to get it acquitted (this theory works, too, because von Trier obviously loves the cinema but, in the interest of clarity, doesn't mind risking its credibility to strengthen it). The fifth obstruction carries its weight with a clumsy limp, suggesting at the beginning a better way to do it (to have The Five Obstructions, ultimately, be the fifth obstruction), but instead opts for a diatribe worthy of modern Godard (that is to say: crappy). Nevertheless, if there were a living, breathing shorthand for those still not sold on the value of von Trier's Dogme 95 Vow of Chastity, The Five Obstructions is certainly it.

Stephen Sommers stages scene after scene of discussions being held between characters who would not be having said discussions if not for our benefit (as in, "You know, Van Helsing, we've counted on you for many years. As you know, we're a secret Vatican society. And you must certainly be aware that we're all very sorry that you've lost your memory.") The constant use of dialogue in the "as you know" context, even if those words aren't uttered, is a great way to show an audience that you're completely uninterested in delivering a compelling or remotely artful story but, rather, that you're willing to encapsulate all the important info, relegate it to the first fifteen and gradually tease out the important stuff between your real agenda: Big CGI displays of loud, gangly clusterfuck. This should have already been obvious, though, from Sommers' use of MASSIVE, the same technology that rendered the Lord of the Rings Trilogy into a sort of digitally organic mishmash, with very little real or tangible in the foreground for scale. (Yes, I realize a description like "digitally organic" is completely redundant. In some quarters, that would be viewed as the point.) The whole debacle seems to reek of too many cooks spoiling the pot syndrome (i.e. - the sloppy way Frankenstein, Dracula, Dracula's Brides, The Wolfman, Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde, Igor and the Dwergers are all mixed into the story). By turning this into a monster mash or sorts, Sommers waters down each of the respective characters: Eschewing development of any kind, he gives them such specific roles in his simpleton plot, they seem to awkwardly stand around waiting to utter their one-liners. Generally, this contributes to the general theme of the picture, namely that more is better and, worse, that Sommers is interested - but not committed to - camping it up. (For instance, the townspeople all seem to be of a campy nature, but the main characters are utterly sincere; For camp to work, you'll remember, one has to be consistent throughout. Choosing out of convenience is a luxury that spoils the whole show. For a really good example of this, see Sommers get much closer to pulling it off in the only one of his films I don't actively wish I could unsee: The Mummy).  And while fumbling that whole camp thing and keeping to his credo of more is better, Sommers the director is busy trying to out suck Sommers the writer; It's a real toss-up who wins (or loses, I guess I mean). What's especially irritating about this - besides the fact that he allows this charade to top two hours, thereby dragging an already epic moan of pain into an extended death rattle of sorts - is that most of the "more" I refer to in the previous sentence is familiar at best, almost disturbingly comfortable at worst; These commerce for art's sake/Summer (or, in this case, pre Summer) movies are beginning to blur together with an even stronger disdain for anything more than what makes a good trailer. In guiding this mess, Sommers manages to repeatedly reduce Hugh Jackman to the same flat, wise guy reading of every line. He seems to be riffing on his most visible performance to date (as Wolverine in the X-Men films), but to distance it, he's left out what was interesting (namely, the angry, bitter edge). It might appear to look like breaking even except that Jackman plays a character who has everything in the world to be bitter and angry about. A similar fuzz hangs on Kate Beckinsale's discomfiting skills as an action hero (playing a similar character trafficking in similar plot territory to that of her almost good by comparison vampires vs. werewolves epic Underworld last year). Imdb states that Sommers considered the fact that the two roles were exceedingly similar but offered her the part anyway. In the tradition of bad judgment, he does nothing to hide how terrifically she swoons and how poorly she enacts her defiant girl strength (which is, for some reason, an underlying theme in both films). And perhaps his most dubious mistake is misplaying Richard Roxborough's Dracula as a riff on Oldman's masterful version of the count in the otherwise crappy Bram Stoker's Dracula (the inspiration for this greatly altered - since 1993, when it was announced - sequel of sorts). He's flailing, played at exactly the same pitch we'd expect: The flaky, goofy megalomaniac who, like Van Helsing (the character and the film), has - and I'm fudging it here - one mannerism. Whoever is worse - Sommers the director or Sommers the writer - it will tough to out suck this one.

The Return consistently carries the one-easy-moral aesthetic of a short film, but drags itself out, attempting a tone of a somewhat commonly quiet brand. By stocking unknowns at every corner - most of which, I'm cheated to report, stay unknown - the movie continues to beckon us on it's fishing trip turned stubbornness pissing contest between two adolescents and their recently returned father (where he came from or why he was out of the picture for twelve Christmases is, initially, the film's biggest unknown). As the thing alternates between a kill-or-cure bonding ritual and a mysterious prod for the truth, it comes clear, at long last, that the whole thing is a set of symbols and metaphors, none of it really meant to play literally. The problem with this - and I usually like films that pull this off - is that the film never seems interested in making the this-for-that cues clear until its final moments. "Why not", I wondered? The boys suffer greatly, the father is obviously traumatized - or at least ailing in some way - but thhe film itself seems helpless to define abstraction - - so much so that it seems to hide behind a facade of literalness. Part of its great strength is how gorgeously it's shot, image after image of perfectly composed frames. Its crispness betrays it. The Return winds up having a double meaning. By the time we reach that point, we're not at Blue Car-sized annoyance, but we're damn close.

A solid proof, if ever there were one, that Dreamworks is a second rate animation studio toiling with rickety flashlights in the gaping shadow of Pixar. Surface gags - pop culture throwaways, ocean puns and human life grafted to the underwater - barely swing this long lesson about the value of being yourself. (There's an obvious play that could be made for anti bourgeoisie sentiment, but Shark Tale nicely relegates that to a few minor quips from our hero's would-be girlfriend, voiced by - of all people - Renee Zelwegger). Lest I forget that Martin Scorcese riffs on his speed talk for a few moments before utterly humiliating himself as the sleazy owner of a car wash turned agent, let so easily off the hook at close (although he's not alone), I could barely fit my dropped jaw through the aisle. Will Smith is measurably likable in the lead (voice) role, while De Niro lampoons himself much more safely than Scorcese and other, various bit roles that hit (including Doug E. Doug and Ziggy Marley as Rastafarian henchman) and miss (Angelina Jolie as a drippingly sexy (?!) fish). Not to say that Shark Tale isn't passable as a mere diversion. Not in the least. But after having been spoiled for so long by animated features that cater to both sides of the equation (that's parents and kids), it's almost a sour burp to watch one that tries desperately to pull it off - - and fails so miserably. The Love Conquers All ending is probably not an especially safe bet, given that in real life sharks that pretend to be human gangsters would have murdered - without reproach - a large school of fish pretending to be happy capitalists. The stretch here, one that was easily avoided through better writing (not to mention the actual, contrasting existence of humans) in Finding Nemo, isn't the only blatant similarity. Shark Tale is the result of executives, I'm sure, that fondle the same genitals as the rival Alexander pics, the rival Columbus pics and the rival Joan of Arc pics. Aren't there enough ideas in the sea?

Russell's film deserves, probably, a whole lot more admiration and commendability than it does active enjoyment. The audacious nature of its very existence (to say nothing of its place in multiplexes) is enough for me to recommend it to everyone I know, hoping to ape P. Greg's somewhat ill clarified law: "I don't really want to see that film, but I'd gladly give it my money so the director can make more films". There are certainly moments of inspired zaniness - even comic brilliance - but Russell makes a terrible mistake: He weighs down his expertly staged screwballism and firebrand absurdity with long, tedious rants of philosophical doublespeak that spin by us so fast, we can't possibly digest it in time, leaving each scene to build a foggier, less solid foundation than the last (until, eventually, our focus collapses and we begin to enjoy it moment to moment - - which is clearly not the director's intention). The promise, though, is such that I'd gladly sit through it again, even freeze the frame on DVD to sit and think about ideas before proceeding (at least until I'm semi clear on them; I'll admit, I'm not the brightest of bulbs in the econo-watt stash). What's really extraordinary about I ♥ Huckabees - besides the uniformly terrific cast (Tomlin, Hoffman, Law, Schwarzbaum, Wahlberg, Watts and Huppert are all spectacular) - is how dissimilar it is to the rest of Russell's oeuvre. While Spanking the Monkey and Flirting With Disaster were cut of the same cloth - then-this-happened taboo smashing comedy - and Three Kings (his best film) covered more ground in its first act than most films do in three sequels, I ♥ Huckabees is a menagerie of anti genre attitudes and art house gimmickry. The use of CGI in ordinary scenes (squares, as on the poster, begin to move in the frame) and in the wild fantasies of our hero (Schwarzbaum, mostly imagining horrific images of Law succeeding) is unique enough, but the terrifically playful Jon Brion score and the relatively loose structure of the film (Russell repeatedly invites seemingly incidental characters to share equal weight with the main story as if he's expanding our consciousness) make I ♥ Huckabees the prime candidate for a repeat viewing. I'm not saying I'm going to watch it again so that I can justify liking the thing. There's major problems here (the last bit of the film - the way it wraps up, particularly - is a bit of a plateau) and significant gloss (viewing it without the vanity of its incomparably rare qualities may derail the thing entirely), but also a certain enticement to buy into it - - even if the only thing you're buying is complete and utter illusion.

Wonderland goes to Ireland, only with a much less stable - and confidant - filmmaker. Veering on cartoonish in spots, bordering on nihilistic in others and sappy ass convenience to plague it's "everybody's connected" riff, Intermission is only as charming as television (and that's to say not too charming). Ferrell, though indulging a role that's both antithetical to his whole "I love Ireland" message (that he seems to spew at any interviewer that creeps within five paces) and an unwitting conundrum (vicious murderer or charming rapscallion?), still manages to set himself apart from most of the rest of the cast (although, to be fair, Cillian Murphy from 28 Days Later and Shirley Henderson from 24 Hour Party People are each spiffy and it was nice to see Trainspotting's Kelly MacDonald again; Why Colm Meaney bothered, though, is beyond me). Less a film than a reunion of decent-ish actors from the British Isles willing to participate in the most mundane, wrap-every-loose-end-up-extra-tight indie film anyone could dream up for them.