Reviews

"I was not an enthusiastic Nazi," a woman's voice-over tells us at the opening of "Downfall," as if to underscore her lack of complicity in Germany's actions in the second World War, or perhaps to convince herself. It is 1943 when director Oliver Hirschbiegel's film about the last tormented days of Adolph Hitler begins, and that voice belongs to the real Traudl Junge (played here by Alexandra Maria Lara), one of several young women smuggled into the Führer's headquarters in East Prussia to interview for a position as his private secretary. When she messes up the first go-round at dictation, Traudl, whose curiosity about Hitler is the catalyst for her adventure, is moved by the dictator's gentleness and generosity. A moment later she is jumping for joy to land such a prestigious position.

Two and a half years later, things are considerably different. The German military has suffered severe losses, Berlin is under artillery attack by the advancing Russians, the great experiment in National Socialism is crumbling like the city, and Hitler (Bruno Ganz) and his key commandants have retreated to the leader's private bunker. But the megalomaniacal Hitler, who irrationally still believes he can produce a Third Reich that is a German "treasure house of art and culture" comparable to that of the ancient Greek and Roman civilizations, not only refuses to give up, but also shouts at his minions that a new military strategy is in effect that will help them win the war. How delusional!

Despite their resolute faith in the Führer, even some of the elite members of the SS have come to mistrust his judgment. Albert Speer (Heino Ferch), the famed architect of the Third Reich, looks askance at Hitler over a table top model of the cultural structures he planned to create for the master race. Field marshall Hermann Göring cannot (or will not) obey orders. Nazi doctors refuse to let civilians and young men die without some attempt at medical attention. When Hitler is told that "fifteen to twenty thousand" of those young men were lost in an effort to fight off the Russians, his heartlessly-spewed response is: "that's what they're for." But he will go out onto the street during a lull in the shelling to honor youngsters as heroes who "history will take note of," and pinch the cheek of one particularly innocent- looking lad.

The bipolarity of a man who himself has gone down in history as one of its greatest monsters is at the heart of "Downfall," the screenplay (by Bernd Eichinger) for which is based on historian Joachim Fest's book (The Downfall: Inside Hitler's Bunker, The Last Days of the Third Reich) and on the memoir of the real Traudl Junge (Until the Final Hour: Hitler's Last Secretary). The film does not ask us to sympathize with this madman (given his actions, how could it?), but it does present a profile of a man who, despite his obvious dementia, still managed to hold sway over those who earlier pledged their loyalty to him and were determined to maintain it to the bitter end. And is it ever bitter.

The claustrophobic confines of the elaborately designed bunker (by Production Designer Bernd Lepel) are reminiscent of the submarine in the German film "Das Boot." We can practically smell its fetid air and feel the walls closing in on us as the Russians close in on the city. Given these circumstances, we can understand how Eva Braun ("Nowhere in Africa's" Juliane Köhler in another terrific performance) can say to Traudl, "The shelling has stopped, let's go for a walk," even if the suggestion is as insane as staying with Hitler.

But like the others who stick it out and who, in many instances, make inhuman, incomprehensible sacrifices to do so, both women descend yet again to that labyrinth of madness.

Aside from the exploration of Hitler's increasingly fragile grip on reality, what is most fascinating about how he is depicted is his appeal, particularly to women. In addition to Traudl and Eva Braun, the short, mustachioed man with the thinning comb-over mesmerized such otherwise strong-willed women as pilot Hanna Reitsch (Anna Thalbach), and Magda Goebbels (Corinna Harfouch), wife of Nazi propagandist Joseph Goebbels (Ulrich Matthes). As such, "Downfall's" strength is greatest when it sticks to these human dynamics rather than when it sidetracks to subplots outside the bunker that have little or nothing to do with the story that unfolds in that enclosed world.

War is the ugliest, or among the ugliest of human actions, and "Downfall" does not glamorize it. On the contrary, despite its technically superb cinematography (by Rainer Klausmann, who also shot "Head On"), there are a number of graphic sequences that underscore the horrors of war, as if we needed reminding. Then again, perhaps we do.

"Downfall" does not necessarily present new information on those last twelve days of Hitler's life, but it does present it in a worthwhile way. In a time of war, such as the one we are currently living in, it is important to remember that monsters are made, not born, and that they lurk beneath the surface of some otherwise very ordinary humans.

As the title suggests, "Bride and Prejudice" is a delightful update of Jane Austen's 19th century comedy of manners about marriage between the classes. Director Gurinder Chadha ("Bend It Like Beckham") and co-writer Paul Mayeda Berges more than successfully modernized the tale.

In this reinterpretation, the Indian countryside fills in for that of Regency England, and Austen's five daughters have been reduced to four, but the essence of the novel -- marriages that satisfy both financial and romantic desires -- remains intact.

Aishwarya Rai, who Time Magazine dubbed the most beautiful woman in the world, plays Lalita Bakshi, the character that replaces the novel's intellectually spirited protagonist, Elizabeth Bennet. Despite her exquisite good looks, polished English, and fine mind, Lalita, the "jewel of Amritsar" (the modern Indian town where she lives), is content to remain with her family until the right man comes along.

That man might be Will Darcy (Martin Henderson), the scion of American hoteliers, who arrives in Amritsar with his friend Balraj Bingley (Naveen Andrews), ostensibly to attend a local wedding. The real purpose of the trip, however, is for Darcy to take stock of a nearby seaside resort that his family is considering adding to their holdings, and for Bingley to find a wife.

At the wedding celebration, the English-bred Bingley falls for Lalita's older sister, Jaya (Namrata Shirodkar), and the Waspy Darcy is smitten by Lalita. But Darcy's nervousness and bumbling conversation cause Lalita to snub him. Nevertheless, Lalita agrees to accompany Jaya on a trip to the shore with Darcy and Bingley in order to cement her sister's hopeful position as Bingley's bride-to-be.

The love/hate connection between Lalita and Darcy intensifies when Darcy, prodded by Bingley's snobbish sister, Kiran, (Indira Varma), expresses his very western philosophy. In her disgust, Lalita sums up Darcy's arrogant too-American attitude. "You want people to come to India without having to deal with Indians."

Shortly thereafter, Lalita meets Johnny Wickham (Daniel Gillies), a mate from Darcy's past whose interest in Lalita stirs not only the plot, but also Darcy's passions. The story is further complicated by the arrival of the nerdy Mr. Kohli (an amusing Nitin Chandra Ganatra), whose traditional values and "no life without a wife" mindset have driven him back to India from Los Angeles to make a match. The rest of the events unfold in a predictable but entertaining manner.

The latest Bollywood-style film to hit American theaters, "Bride" overflows with beautiful people, colorful costumes, lively music and spirited dancing. (Did I mention the beautiful people?) As with other films of this genre, much of the action unfolds as characters break into song and dance. But what sets "Bride" apart from many of its predecessors is that, in addition to their high caliber entertainment factor, these musical interludes advance the plot without overwhelming it. Original music by Anu Malik and Craig Pruess successfully blend contemporary rhythms with conventional instrumentation, and one particularly sexy, though chaste, concert is performed by pop artist Ashanti.

For Chadha, who was born in Kenya and raised in England, the material might seem an unlikely choice. But the director has a strong connection to her cultural roots, and, like Austen, is aware of the tug-of-war between modern and traditional values. As she did with "Beckham," Chadha explores those contradictions to good effect here.

"Bride" is beautifully cast (literally), with winning performances across the board. Tech credits are equally assured. Although "Bride's" release coincides with what is typically a dull season, it would be a welcome addition at any time of year. As one of its songs says, "life is great, let's celebrate," and "Bride" gives us cause to do just that.

Do you believe in magic? How about miracles? Not to worry. The imaginative "Millions" will have you doing just that.

Told from a child's perspective, "Millions" is set in a London suburb twelve days before the currency conversion to the Euro (a conceit of the film), after which the British pound will no longer be accepted as legal tender. This fact drives the plot, but "Millions" (which has an Aesopian quality I'll get to in a bit) is much more than mere plot.

When the film opens, it is moving day for Damian (Alex Etel), an angelic-looking, freckle-faced boy; his slightly older, pubescent brother, Anthony (Lewis Owen McGibbon); and their father (the always reliable James Nesbitt). The boys' mother, we learn, has been dead one year.

We first see Damian and Anthony racing their bikes alongside the train tracks, then lying in a field and imagining what their new home will look like. Stop-motion animation, in this and other, similar sequences, appropriately reminds us that "Millions" is not only a tale told by a child, but that that child is rather unusual, to say the least.

Damian, who only "wants to be good," sees saints and reels off their vital statistics -- their birth and death dates -- the way other boys do baseball or soccer stats. Although Damian's brother genuinely loves him, at their new school he reminds Damian not to be "too conspicuous" in his oddity so that he will be able to fit in and make friends. But the in-the- flesh saints, swirling halos and all, with whom Damian converses -- including St. Peter, St. Francis of Assisi, The Martyrs of Uganda, and a comical pot-smoking St. Clare (did you know she was the "patron saint of television"?) -- are much more fascinating to him.

It is during Damian's conversation with St. Clare (Kathryn Pogson), conducted within a cardboard box fortress he constructs in a field beside the railroad tracks, that an over-sized athletic bag full of money lands on him. Naturally, he believes it is sent "from God."

What to do with this windfall becomes a point of contention between the two brothers: Anthony wants to buy things, and Damian wants to give it to poor people. In some manner, both brothers get to fulfill their wishes. That is, until they discover from a schoolmate that the real source of the money is an elaborately staged robbery scheme, and that the thieves are still very much at large. At this point, plot takes over, though not heavy-handedly.

The charming "Millions" marks a departure for director Danny Boyle ("Trainspotting," "28 Days Later") and writer Frank Cottrell Boyce ("24 Hour Party People," "Hilary and Jackie"), both of whose previous efforts explored darker themes. The union of these two creative talents provides an extremely satisfying experience, albeit a much lighter one, than those credits suggest.

"Millions" benefits from spot-on casting, well-paced editing (by Chris Gill), and a lively soundtrack (which includes The Clash, The Muse, Vangelis, and original music by John Murphy). Cinematography, by Anthony Dodd Mantle ("28 Days Later"), further enhances the film's blend of fantasy and reality: its rich primary color palette reinforces the child's eye- view, and a number of high-angle shots suggest a more watchful perspective that, at the right moments, establishes an appropriate element of suspense.

But "Millions" is more than the sum of its parts. Without getting preachy, the film is an allegory about faith, and the difficulties we all face in being good. Money aside, being even ever so slightly corrupt is sometimes just too easy for us fallible humans. Even for Damian, who is just a boy. And boys will be boys. He has learned how uncomfortable grownups get when he tells them his "mum's dead," and he has no qualms about repeating this phrase when the likely result of doing so will be a reward of sweets. Despite his contrition, the tactic is not beneath him.

If something as innocent as sweets can cause us to stray, what chance do we stand against a big bag of free money which, as Damian says, "makes it harder to see what's what"? Indeed.

The ability to see what's what and to simplify the often complicated aspects of being human is the spirit of "Millions," which suggests that there is no predicting what anyone will do next, even in the film business. Say hallelujah.

"Head On," which won the Golden Bear at the Berlin Film Festival, is heady, provocative material.

Cahit Tomruk (Birol Ünel) is a forty-something punk rocker who lives in a haze of alcohol and drugs. He earns his living picking up post-concert beer bottles in a Hamburg club.

Sibel Güner (Sibel Kekilli) is a twenty-one year old high school dropout whose attitude toward life is best summed up by the Cyndi Lauper hit, "Girls Just Want to Have Fun." Never mind that Sibel tries to kill herself; what she wants is "to live."

Both Cahit and Sibel are Germans of Turkish descent who meet in the psych ward after separate failed suicide attempts. Not necessarily the ingredients for your standard love story, but "Head On," which takes its title in part from the way these two dive into their baser desires, is surprisingly romantic.

The premise that drives the plot is the sham of a marriage that Sibel coaxes Cahit to agree to in order to garner her freedom from the oppressive restrictions of her traditional Muslim family. They will be "like roommates," she promises Cahit. In return for his vows, she will stay out of his way and keep his apartment clean.

Cahit consents. Introductions are made, Cahit is approved by Sibel's family, and the union, however questionable, is given their blessings. The wedding comes off well enough, with both Cahit and Sibel seeming to revel in the culture that fundamentally binds them. No matter that neither one of them wants to honor those roots.

It's no surprise, but things immediately begin to disintegrate.

Cahit continues to see Maren (Catrin Striebeck), the hairstylist he occasionally beds, as Sibel engages in casual sex with a series of men whose only value to her is the experience she can obtain from them. It's painfully obvious that these two deceivers cannot live up to the pretense, but they are woefully unaware that their actions have consequences.

The stage is set for a collision of life-shattering proportions as their individual and bound lives careen further and more hopelessly out of control. The suspense is not in wondering if an accident is waiting to happen, but rather when, and how.

In this regard, "Head On," with its Greek-like chorus that periodically reminds us that a tragedy of epic proportions is unfolding, does not disappoint. Writer/director Faith Akin ("Im Juli," "Solino") has crafted a film that is not unlike a freeway disaster: despite the wreckage, it's impossible to turn away.

The compelling nature of the film is made more so by its two key performers. As Cahit, Ünel possesses a Mick Jagger-like presence, if a somewhat more dissipated version of that rock legend. He is an aging man who refuses to acknowledge his maturity, a child who does not recognize boundaries and who is given to violent public temper tantrums.

Kekilli's Sibel is at once refreshing and repellent, a wild child of insatiable lusts in a sensuous woman's body. The actress's history as a porn star is not wasted here. This is a physical role, and Kekilli is clearly comfortable in her body, whether clothed or disrobed.

Together, they create a tension that, given their characters' circumstances, hits all the beats. Despite the sense that these two troubled people are riding a runaway train to destruction, there are moments of tenderness between them, as when Sibel prepares a Turkish meal, or cuts Cahit's hair. Such moments hint at the possibility of domestication that leave us wanting more, even though they are woven into a tapestry of tangled events.

"Head On" (more literally, "Against the Wall") presents these events against a background of complexities that include the difficulties immigrants face in retaining their culture in a foreign country. In this case, it's the Turkish people who have come to Germany for work who are at issue. Akin, who is a German of Turkish descent, fleshes out the story line with subtle references to these social problems. He lets you know they exist, but he doesn't push your face in them.

Instead, he focuses on Cahit and Sibel, on whether or not they can change their world instead of changing the world, as a psychiatrist in an early scene suggests.

As the final refrain of the chorus tells us, "Over there on the mountain a beacon is burning." It is a beacon of love, even for misfits.

Despite its subject matter, "Million Dollar Baby" will bring a million dollar smile to your heart, if only metaphorically. As with the previous year's "Mystic River," a similarly dark though decidedly different film, veteran filmmaker Clint Eastwood reveals his authority with the art of storytelling through the nuanced behavior of his characters. In this, the director's 25th feature film, Eastwood proves there is such a thing as a quality film that can appeal to the masses.

Based on Rope Burns: Tales from the Corner, F.X. Toole's collection of stories about prize fighting, "Million Dollar Baby" is a throwback to the kind of films that Warner Bros., the studio which financed it, produced in the Golden Age of Hollywood. Eastwood's mastery with the material is such that he has crafted a timeless film, one that will be as much of a treat fifty years from now as it is today. And what a treat it is.

Eastwood plays Frankie Dunn, the curmudgeonly owner of the Hit Pit, a gritty, money- losing boxing gym in downtown L.A. Once known as the "best cut man in the business," Frankie now spends his days going to church, reading Gaelic poetry, and training Big Willie Little, a fighter whose desire for a shot at the title is hampered only by Frankie's mantra that he'll be ready in "two or three" more fights. That Big Willie disagrees becomes not only a point of contention between the two men, but also an early turning point in the plot.

Overseeing the day-to-day needs of the Hit Pit is Eddie "Scrap-Iron" Dupris (Morgan Freeman, in one of the best turns of his career), an aging former fighter who lost an eye in his last bout, and whose tendency towards gambling has left him virtually penniless. It is to Freeman's credit and astute understanding of the character, however, that Scrap is never pitiful. On the contrary, the quietly philosophical janitor, who is also Frankie's best friend, is the emotional glue that anchors the film and keeps its center intact. He not only maintains order in the often chaotic, testosterone-laden gym, but also provides advice to Frankie in subtle, ambiguous ways. The moments when these two interact on screen, as in the scene about Scrap's holey socks, provide much of the film's comic relief. They also illuminate into the bond of affection the two share.

Into this unlikely mix comes Maggie Fitzgerald (Academy Award winning Hilary Swank, for "Boys Don't Cry"), a big-hearted young woman from the wrong side of Missouri's tracks whose only desire is to have Frankie train her. "I don't train girls," Frankie tells her, but Maggie's headstrong ways prevent her from accepting this as a deterrent. Despite Frankie's resistance, Maggie continues to show up at the gym, trains well into the nights she doesn't wait tables near the beach, and begins to improve her skills under Scrap's occasional, secretive training tips.

Frankie's multilayered defense mechanism is no challenge for Maggie's determination. His warning to her that "tough ain't enough" only further encourages her. In a scene that lays the foundation for the rest of their relationship, Maggie tells him that boxing is the only thing she ever felt good doing. Frankie relents, with the understanding that the two will part ways as soon as her training is complete and she's ready to enter the ring. But Frankie's own heart, "so big, he's doomed to take a fall," overrides this caveat, and he winds up doing "something he hated doing." He takes a chance.

In addition to teaching Maggie the necessary mechanics of the sweet science, Frankie constantly reminds her of the first rule of the fight game: Always protect yourself. But as Scrap's voice-over tells us, people never take their own advice, and Frankie is no exception. As time seamlessly passes during Maggie's career development, Frankie embraces her and her winning spirit in a way he cannot with his own estranged daughter. Such magnanimity can only be rewarded by heartbreak, and from there it's only a matter of time before they careen into the inevitable.

Much has been made over the years of Eastwood's quiet style of working, and the fact that he repeatedly employs the same creative team. One benefit of this practice is the work of the nearly ninety-year-old production designer Henry Bumstead, whose desaturated color palette contributes to the film's somber tone. The conjunction of Bumstead's production design with cinematographer Tom Stern's mostly chiaroscuro lighting creates a spare and haunting look that is rare among modern films, but one that works successfully in this context.

Such a backdrop calls the greatest attention to the actors, and one would be hard- pressed, even during this mad-dash-to-Oscar season, to find any better. Hilary Swank once again proves dauntless when it comes to taking on physically demanding roles without compromising the characters' humanism, but it is Eastwood and Freeman who turn in the kind of nakedly honest performances that suggest a natural understanding of character that comes with age. While one might expect this from these veterans, it is the rare film that provides the opportunity for them to display their skill. That alone makes "Million Dollar Baby" a winner.

"Born Into Brothels," which won the 2004 Sundance Audience Award and was nominated for an Academy Award, explores the lives of eight children born in Calcutta's Sonagachi red light district, where approximately 7,000 women and girls work as prostitutes.

Initially, independent photographer Zana Briski sought to document this universe, where "everything is illegal," in her still work. But her agenda changed when she began living among the district's disenfranchised families and entered their lives, specifically the lives of the children with whom she clearly fell in love. Rather than present their world through her own perspective, Briski provided the children with inexpensive, point-and-shoot 35mm cameras and taught them how to use them. It is from the images the children captured, and the experiences they had in doing so, that the film's drama and emotion unfold.

Opening with an introduction of its eight subjects (both male and female, aged ten to twelve) and the dismally hopeless, harsh reality of their lives, "Born Into Brothels" follows the children as they wander, cameras in hand, through the streets of Calcutta. These scenes, and those where Briski teaches them some of the fundamentals of photography, such as framing and composition, are intercut with their powerful stills. Credit goes to Briski and co- director Ross Kauffman for allowing the children's' inner lives to be revealed by their own still photos, many of which are a luminous contrast to their stark, demeaning existence at the brothels.

Briski says there is "no logical or rational reason" she invests herself so completely in this endeavor, but she is much more transparent than she lets on. While she is no Mother Teresa, Briski is an educated, independent woman who clearly yearns to imbue her subjects with a similar sense of self, as well as the means to achieve it. To that end, she works tirelessly to try to rescue these youngsters from their grim surroundings and perhaps even grimmer futures, and seeks some educational facility that will accept them. Given the setting, the task is not as easy as it sounds.

Despite the progress made in recent years toward the development of democracy in India, it is still in many respects a third-world country, a bureaucratic nightmare with an inbred class system which even the most devout westerners cannot overcome. As one nun tells Briski when the filmmaker seeks her help in locating a school for the children, "nobody will take them" because they are the offspring of prostitutes.

Briski's despair, however, is not matched by her students. While they know there is "no opportunity without education," they possess a tangible exuberance for life, despite their presumed destiny of joining "the line" of prostitutes and "mean men" who came before them. They may not like it but, dreams notwithstanding, they accept it as their fate.

Briski's unflagging energy propels her ever further toward her goal of helping these most deserving children, and ever deeper into the swarm of confusion that governs India's teeming masses. Through the ups and downs of this journey of the spirit that pulls us in many complex, emotional directions, we are compelled to ride it out with her and her charges because, as one of the more talented and promising of the children reminds us, "it is the truth." Seeing it may not make us as wise as this child, but it does reinforce our faith that, even in a bafflingly troubled world, one person can make a difference.

It has been said that desperate times call for desperate measures, a concept that director Stephen Frears explores to great success in "Dirty Pretty Things." Frears, whose previous films include "My Beautiful Laundrette" and "The Grifters," has a knack for getting inside his characters' minds and revealing their inner workings to his audience with heartfelt compassion. Such is the case again.

Chwetel Ojiofor plays Okwe, a Nigerian refugee in London who works two jobs. As a cabbie, he tells a potential fare, "I am here to rescue those who have been let down by the system," and he's not kidding. Shortly thereafter, we see him sharing his illegal identity with his fellow drivers, for they are all in the same precarious position of trying to earn enough to survive while evading the immigration authorities.

Also eluding the authorities is Senay (Audrey Tautou of last year's "Amelie"), a young Turkish woman who reluctantly shares her meager flat with Okwe in order to make ends meet on her equally meager and equally illegal salary as a chambermaid in the seedy Baltic Hotel. It is there one night that Okwe, in his second job as the hotel's concierge, comes upon what he believes is a human heart clogging the plumbing in a room previously used by a local prostitute (Sophie Okonedo). From here, the film's story takes off.

Okwe should know what a human heart looks like because, we learn, he was a doctor in Nigeria, a family man who was forced by circumstances to leave his daughter behind. Either out of the desire to suppress his feelings and memories, or the sincere need to keep working, Okwe stays awake with the help of an herbal leaf. In lieu of sleep, he plays chess with a friend, an Asian hospital custodian (Benedict Wong) who works in the morgue. It is through this relationship that Okwe gains access to the hospital's other resources, including the pharmaceuticals he provides to his fellow cabbies who are infected with gonorrhea.

Despite Okwe's efforts to keep his past identity secret, the scheming and manipulative Señor Juan (a deliciously nasty Sergi Lopez), the Baltic's unscrupulous manager, discovers the truth and presents Okwe with an offer too despicable for him to accept. It is only when Okwe discovers that Senay, now employed as a factory worker and hounded by the authorities and an abusive boss, has agreed to participate in Señor Juan's scheme, that Okwe agrees. To say more about the plot would unfairly reveal too much.

Working from Steven Knight's script, Frears choreographs a believable dance of growing love between Okwe and Senay. That their love is constrained by unspoken and (until the end) undisclosed extenuating circumstances does not diminish the power of the bond that is forged between them. Indeed, but for the connection they share, neither Okwe nor Senay might be able to muster the strength to hold fast to their dreams.

Their present exile as anonymous members of London's working class notwithstanding, Okwe and Senay do have dreams. For Senay, it is to go to New York where, she fantasizes, the trees are always lit up and the policemen ride white horses; for Okwe, it is to return to his native land. For both, the prospect of realizing such futures seems dismally bleak. Until, that is, they accept a sordid offer in exchange for cash and forged passports. (It is from a line of this offer's dialogue that the film takes its title.) In what is surely the film's most thrilling and surprising moment, Frears gives the viewer a splendid opportunity to cheer for the long-oppressed underdog, now empowered.

It is to the plight of these underdogs, these members of London's working class who are consigned to lives of quiet and anonymous desperation, that the film unglamorously dedicates its purpose, for they are the ones who comprise the city's human infrastructure, the unseen force that keeps its wheels turning. Frears approaches the material and his characters with an even emotional hand, neither turning them into pathetic caricatures nor heroic survivors. He presents them humanistically, against the backdrop of a London that is teeming with life and rife with grit, an underbelly of the city not often seen by American movie-goers. Cinematographer Chris Menges makes the most of his skills here, depicting London's seamier side without polish or frippery.

Although "Dirty Pretty Things" is successful as commentary, it is an equally entertaining, non-genre thriller. Despite its fetid environs, the film is a breath of rarified air. While those desperate to escape formulaic, franchise fare may want to shower afterwards, they will not be disappointed by any of the dirty, pretty things in this film.

The indomitable power of one man's spirit in the face of overwhelming adversity is the subject of "The Pursuit of Happiness," directed by Gabriele Muccino. Inspired by the real life events of Chris Gardner, a 1980s San Franciscan who lost just about everything but his faith in himself, "Pursuit" tells the story of an everyman who overcomes some serious living nightmares before he can achieve the American dream.

In a satisfyingly dramatic departure from his usual boisterous roles, Will Smith plays Gardner, a family man trying to keep his head above water in the Reagan-era economy. Early sequences show him making calls on doctors and hospitals in an attempt to sell the portable bone density scanners, which provide "only a slightly better image than an x-ray at almost twice the cost," into which he has sunk his entire fortune.

Gardner need only sell two of these machines per month to cover his overhead which, judging from where he and his wife, Linda (Thandie Newton), and their 5-year-old son (Smith's son, Jaden, in his professional debut) live, can't be much. Sadly, his efforts at entrepreneurship only lead him deeper into debt: he loses his car, is behind in his rent, and he's remiss in his taxes.

These financial woes place an understandable strain on the marriage. When Linda, already exhausted from working double shifts at a laundry, reaches the end of her rope she decides to let go, but not before she belittles her husband for dreaming that he can become a stock broker. No matter that that dream is accompanied by a plan, however farsighted.

Gardner is admitted into an elite brokerage training program, a 6-month long unpaid position in which the competition is fierce. That he has what it takes to succeed -- the ability to be "good with numbers and good with people" -- is without question. But a man, not to mention one with a child, still has to have enough money to live and to eat. It's an understatement to say that, without income, their survival becomes an enormous challenge.

The film follows Gardner as he runs (and runs and runs) all over the city to meet the demands of his declining lifestyle, struggling all the while to stay one step ahead of the next disaster. And there are many. It's a wonder he doesn't give up.

But, like the men who founded our country and wrote the Declaration of Independence on which our democratic principles are based, he doesn't. In fact, it is the preamble to that document, and its specific language about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, that informs Gardner's thinking and the film itself. (The incorrect spelling of happiness in the title is taken from some graffiti Gardner takes issue with.)

Smith more than capably carries the film (and sometimes his son) on the shoulders of this already overburdened character, especially in the more heart wrenching scenes. Anyone with children (and even those without them) will recognize and respond to the love he exudes for his son, and the sense that he must stop at nothing to protect him. Come prepared with a hankie or two, and save at least a corner for the sob-filled finale.

The younger Smith is precocious, but not obnoxiously so. One is hard pressed to imagine another child in the role, so well do these two interact. Perhaps it is the chemistry between the real father and son that contributes this harmony, or maybe the boy is a natural. Regardless of the reason, the relationship works.

Cinematographer Phaedon Papamichael ("Walk the Line," "The Weather Man"), gives San Francisco an appropriately somber '80s recession look. Smith's gray-tinged Afro and disco- era moustache further convey the period with subtlety.

Although the despair of potential homelessness hardly seems like the stuff seasonal feel good films are made of, "The Pursuit of Happiness" will leave you feeling good about the world. At least until you have to go out and face it again.

"Miss Potter," based on the life of Beatrix Potter, the best selling author of children's books of all time, is an enchanting film.

Directed by Chris Noonan ("Babe") and written by Richard Maltby, Jr., whose theatrical background is no doubt the reason the 94-minute film has such a jaunty pace, "Miss Potter" is not a standard biopic in that it has the ability to appeal to pretty much everyone, with the exception of the very young, which I'll get to in a moment.

Opening images of a pair of hands carefully choosing the pencils and brushes that are the tools of the writer/illustrator's craft, paired with a voice-over that tells us that "there is something delicious about writing the first words of a story," reveal Potter's passion for her craft. Her affection for what she calls her "friends" -- the bunnies, frogs and ducks who are the subjects of her tales -- is equally strong. So strong, in fact, that we wonder, as do the two gentlemen who agree to produce her work, if Miss Potter (Rene Zellweger) isn't just a little daft.

This notion is quickly laid to rest, however, when we see the author, escorted by fledgling publisher Norman Warne (a sedately sweet Ewan McGregor), confidently direct the printing of her works, an endeavor not generally expected of single women in 1902 London, and not deemed acceptable by its society.

Among those who find this effort distasteful are Potter's parents (Barbara Flynn and Bill Patterson), a pair of "social climbers" who seek to marry their only daughter to a man of means. That she refuses these overtures is the crux of their often contentious relationship.

In lieu of marriage, Potter immerses herself in her work. As her success blossoms, so does her relationship with her champion, Mr. Warne, who introduces the author to his sister, Millie (Emily Watson), another spinster. The two women develop a palpable bond, based primarily on their like-minded philosophies about life.

Precisely how Potter developed her ideology is never told, but flashbacks to her childhood reveal an independent girl (charmingly played by newcomer Lucy Boynton) with natural storytelling abilities and a love for drawing the small animals she encounters while summering in England's bucolic Lake Country with her family. It is from these experiences that Potter fashioned her famous "Tales of..." series.

In an effort to bring Potter's experiences with the books to life on the screen, Noonan incorporates a series of technically adept animation sequences. These are completely effective in delivering the sweetness of Potter's tales, and they will appeal to even the youngest viewers. But the film offers too few of them to be satisfying. As a result they become a tease, a sort of trailer to get us to buy the books. While there are many reasons to buy and read Potter's books, using a film to get us to do so feels like too much manipulation.

In all other ways this is sound and pleasurable film-making. Performances are what one would expect from so seasoned a cast, with Zellweger bringing her natural cherubic quality to the role of the author. Production design (by Martin Childs), which incorporates a color palette that matches Potter's work, and cinematography by Andrew Dunn ("History Boys," "Mrs. Henderson") are elegant but not ostentatious, and are reminiscent of the look of "Finding Neverland," another film set in turn-of-the-century England.

In the hundred or so years since Beatrix Potter created her venerated children's series, a lot has changed in the world. One thing that hasn't, however, is that we still love a good story, particularly one that warms our hearts and makes us feel good about the world. "Miss Potter" does precisely that.

Once upon a time, love meant never having to say you're sorry. In "Breaking and Entering," a fairy tale of a different order, love is apparently about nothing but. Sadly, all of those apologies don't make us feel any better. Maybe that's because, by the time the film ends, we're not quite sure they're heartfelt.

In yet another collaboration with director Anthony Minghella ("Cold Mountain," "The Talented Mr. Ripley"), Jude Law plays Will, an architect who, with his partner Sandy (Martin Freeman), has just set up shop in King's Cross, a London neighborhood that is on the cusp of being gentrified but which still is known for its high crime rate. Think crack, prostitution and, yes, burglary.

Naturally, the high-tech architectural firm gets burglarized -- several times -- by a gang of immigrants who employ teenaged boys of superior athletic ability to initiate the break ins. One of these boys, Miro (Rafi Gavron), is as fascinated by what he finds at the firm as he is proud of his ability to earn a living in nefarious ways. This, of course, becomes a pivotal plot point that -- not to give anything away -- anyone paying attention will spot the moment it appears on screen.

In an attempt to do what the police (and apparently an effective security system) can't, Will and Sandy stake out their space at night, initially as a team and then just by Will, who forms an unusual relationship with Oana, a local prostitute (played to perfect humorous pitch by Vera Farmiga).

Will's distraction nearly causes him to miss another robbery in progress. But at the last possible moment he gives chase to Miro, who he follows to an apartment in a housing project. It is disingenuous of Minghella, who also wrote the screenplay, to ask his audience to buy why, at this point, Will doesn't just call the police.

Maybe it's because Will recognizes that, once again, he can practice the same rescuer skills he employed with the two people he lives with, Liv (Robin Wright Penn), his common law wife, and Bea (Poppy Rogers), her functionally autistic daughter. Maybe it's because, this time, he'll be able to get it right.

Whatever the reason, Will is compelled to satisfy his curiosity about Miro by visiting the apartment where the teenager lives with his seamstress mother, Bosnian immigrant Amira (Juliette Binoche). What transpires between these two is to be expected from a pairing of two such good looking actors/characters who cannot possibly not be attracted to each other.

That Will behaves totally irresponsibly throughout all that ensues is grist for the mill. That Minghella thinks he can make it all okay by having Will utter a series of "I'm sorry's" that are the equivalent of kissing a boo-boo better is to underestimate everyone involved.

It is to the credit of this fine cast that they all manage to turn in creditable performances, especially Wright Penn, who manages to do so much with so little. Of all the actors, though, the ones who turn in the most outstanding performances are Gavron, Rogers and, of course, Farmiga. This is a season of finely-honed supporting performances, and "B&E" offers some excellent examples.

To emphasize these performances, however, is to overlook one of the more important "characters" in "B&E". Minghella's films, including the critically acclaimed and commercially successful "The English Patient," prove that the writer/director is adept at integrating landscape-as-character into his films, and "B&E" is no different. Indeed, without King's Cross, and the artistry with which it was photographed by Benoit Delhomme, the film has very little reason for being. It is all the more unfortunate, therefore, that the script is not more specific about the class problems at which it barely hints.

Perhaps there is an apology adequate for such an oversight (not to mention the very unsatisfying ending), but "I'm sorry" just isn't it.

"Children of Men" is, in many ways, an allegory, one we can only hope and pray never manifests in our lifetime.

When the film begins, everyone in Britain is mourning. Not because another beloved princess has met a senseless end, but because baby Diego, the world's youngest person at slightly over eighteen-years-old, has just died.

The year is 2027 and age (or youth) is so important that it is measured down to the minute. This reverence for life, or certain people's lives, is significant because it underscores humanity's doom due to the infertility of women.

Ironically, in the dystopian society that Britain has become, not every life is of equal value. The country has closed its borders. Its military forces round up Fuji's (a cheeky name for illegal immigrants), who are "hunted down like cockroaches" and carted off to prisons (actually ghettoes) that would make Abu Graib look like a vacation destination.

But immigrants aren't the only ones who have to live in fear. The ubiquitous electronic media encourage all citizens to "report any suspicious activity" they might encounter, whatever that might mean. Under these circumstances, death by cop just may be a better alternative.

One man who apparently tries to avoid that end is Theo Faron (Clive Owen), a dissipated, whiskey guzzling former outspoken liberal who struggles to survive by leading an ordinary life. Or at least as ordinary as he can in such an oppressive society.

Unfortunately for Faron, he is recruited by Julian (Julianne Moore), his former lover, now the leader of an all-purpose radical faction that will stop at nothing to unmask government corruption. Julian's quest is to obtain papers for Kee (newcomer Claire-Hope Ashitey) so that the young woman may be safely delivered into the hands of The Human Project, an underground organization whose mission is to preserve humanity. Why this is necessary is no mystery, except perhaps to Faron, but it is such an important plot point that it would be unfair to reveal it.

Whether for love or money, or perhaps to feel that old rush of adrenaline he used to get when he and Julian were young and innocent, Faron agrees. He turns to the reclusive Nigel (Danny Huston), an old friend who is holed-up among some of history's great works of art, such as Michelangelo's "David," and Picasso's "Guernica." You have to give Nigel credit. Despite his head-in-the-sand mentality, he is committed to ending his days surrounded by things of beauty.

This elaborate set up is the launching point for the rest of the plot, which carefully weaves back story into the narrative. Director Alfonso Cuarón ("Y Tú Mamá También," "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban"), who co-wrote the screenplay with Timothy Sexton (HBO's "Live from Baghdad") based on the P.D. James novel, does not overlook any opportunity to present a visual connection between today's world and the one depicted in the film. Citizen's pay homage to baby Diego in public floral displays (not unlike those in honor of Princess Diana, as seen in Stephen Frears' "The Queen"), Muslim fundamentalists march down streets bearing arms and banners, and sluices emit sludgy liquid into rivers. All of this is taken to extremes in the film. It is a world in which everything, if not everyone, has gone mad.

Missing from the script, however, is any sense of what is going on beyond this limited universe. "The world has collapsed. Only Britain soldiers on," one newscaster reports, but we are never told how or why this calamity came about. Why humans cannot reproduce is never overtly stated, but it isn't unreasonable to believe that environmental pollutants and the "flu pandemic of 2008" are, at least in part, responsible for humanity's demise. Why, though, are other animals exempt (in one scene a kitten claws Faron's pants leg), and where are all the scientists when you need them?

This apocalyptic vision of a bleak and not-too-distant future is nothing new in film or literature ("1984," "Brave New World," and "Blade Runner" come to mind). But Cuarón presents his vision in such a mirthless landscape that it makes us hope we won't be alive to see if it manifests twenty years from now.

Cinematography, by Emmanuel Lubezki (who provided a very different look to last year's "The New World"), is astonishingly real, a verité style that exudes a raw, cold grittiness apropos the material. Editing (by Cuarón and Alex Rodríguez) invokes immediacy, particularly in the battle scenes of the film's climax.

Performances all around are strong, with Michael Caine doing a turn as a former liberal political cartoonist turned hippie counterculturist, replete with long hair and an ample drug stash, and Chiwetel Ejiofor ("Dirty Pretty Things") playing against his usual good guy image. But the film is carried by Owen, who proves once again that he is this generation's Richard Burton, and by Ashitey, whose lines of comic relief are delivered with the proper earnest tenor.

"Children of Men" is an effective cautionary tale, a reminder that what we do today has a direct impact on the future. As one person says, "It's very odd what happens in the world without children's voices." Let's hope we don't ever have to live in such joylessness.