Bobby Finger Writes About Movies.

I’m surprised Centurion wasn’t developed as a miniseries. Set in 117 A.D. as Roman soldiers attempt to overthrow the Picts in northern Britain, Neil Marshall’s film tells what could have been an 8-hour story in just over 90 minutes. After quick introductions to the characters, a surprise ambush by the Picts leaves nearly every Roman soldier dead. Seven manage to escape – one of whom is our narrator, a Centurion named Quintus (Michael Fassbender). After an attempt to save their captured General Titus (Dominic West) goes wrong, the men spend the remainder of the film being pursued the relentless Picts, who are led by a mute female warrior, Etain. who is seeking revenge on the Romans who killed her family and ripped out her tongue. These characters would have been right at home in a longer, more thoughtful historical epic, but Neil Marshall (The Descent) has created a quick, thrilling, and ultra-violent game of hide and seek that serves them well.

The Romans want to kill the Picts, the Picts want to kill the Romans, and that’s all there is to it. Characters may have less dimension than the first iteration of Pong, but the actors, Fassbender especially, perform like the blood is real. Beyond the regularly unbearable dialogue (“Sometimes there are scars that can’t be seen.”), even the most basic narrative elements are simplified to sub-quantum levels. Quintus is obviously the film’s hero, but why? The Romans are the invaders, and the Picts – though dirtier and more prone to growling – are merely defending their land. Objectively speaking, neither side is that likable. Despite this, we root for team that possesses the narrator. Simple. Fine. Done. Go Rome! I can accept these examples of Centurion’s complete lack of depth because I can also accept that it is performed and produced so excitingly. Sam McCurdy’s photography of northern Britain’s dark landscapes is often breathtaking, Ilan Eshkeri’s score is generic, yet rousing, and Fassbender (Inglourious Basterds) once again reminds us he deserves the lead role in just about everything.

Without a hint of pretension, heads are sliced off, love interests are introduced out of nowhere, and impossible-to-win battles are somehow won. Action movies have been so preoccupied with forced nostalgia and over-hyped gimmicks lately that it’s a treat to see a movie like Centurion embrace something so simple. I don’t need 3D or Sylvester Stallone to enjoy myself at an action movie. The glasses and Stallone’s arms just make me too uncomfortable.

In 2002, Pat Tillman left the NFL and a contract worth millions of dollars to join the US Army along with his brother, Kevin. By April 2004, he was dead. Though initial reports claimed Tillman was killed by hostile forces, it was eventually revealed that the bullets came from US soldiers. Pat Tillman was a victim of fratricide – friendly fire. With great intensity and surprising restraint, Amir Bar-Lev’s The Tillman Story argues that everyone, from those on the scene to George W. Bush, covered up the actual events surrounding Tillman’s death as a way of improving public opinion of the war.

Throughout the initial reports and eventual revelation of fratricide, Tillman’s death was a top story covered daily by major news outlets. Despite this, Bar-Lev methodically unravels the story as if it had never been told before. And in a way, it hasn’t. The key difference between the story we’ve heard for six years and the one told here? Pat Tillman’s family – particularly his mother, Mary. She spent years scouring military documents to uncover the truth about her son’s death and serves as the driving force behind the film.

As revealed by his wife, Marie, Pat had expected to be used as a “propaganda tool” in the event of his death at war and explicitly requested a civilian funeral. This request, like most of Pat’s desires and beliefs, was ignored. The elaborate memorial services and faux-passionate speeches by the likes of Maria Shriver and John McCain have served as distractions that transformed Pat Tillman into a mythic American warrior. Instead of a man who found himself enraged by fighting in a war he deemed “illegal,” Pat has been conveyed as a hero who died fighting in a war he supported without question. Mary Tillman makes sure her audience receives not only an accurate depiction of her son’s death, but more importantly, his life. She’s after truth, not melodrama. After enlisting, his fellow soldiers expected an entitled “meathead,” but what they got was a quiet, near-loner who spent his free time reading Chomsky. And after covering up the true account of Pat’s death, his superiors expected quiet acceptance, but what they got were the Tillmans.

Like Pat’s family, this film is passionate, but never irrational. The straightforward manner by which Bar-Lev presents the facts of the cover-up make its implications seem even more ominous and incendiary. And facts we don’t know, like why Tillman was shot to begin with, aren’t just conjured out of mere rage.

After footage of infuriating and inconsequential congressional hearings with, among others, Donald Rumsfeld, The Tillman Story ends on an unsurprisingly devastating note as a family member says, “I don’t think there’s much else that can be done.” Despite the Tillmans’ refusal to keep quiet, the sounds of cheering fans, parades, and jet show salutes will be immeasurably louder, at least for the foreseeable future. To the public, Pat Tillman is no longer a person; he’s just a story.

Modern audiences have been conditioned to suspend disbelief upon entering action movies. They contain methods of escape, destruction, and murder (read: problem solving) that simply do not exist outside of filmed entertainment and require blind acceptance of an alternative universe operating under inexplicable rules and laws. This explosive absurdity, however, is the action movie’s appeal. And though it is being sold as more thoughtful and believable than its brethren, I believe that Christopher Nolan’s Inception is equally guilty of requiring its audience to suspend disbelief as Phillip Noyce’s more outwardly absurd Salt.

Both Inception and Salt demand a certain level of blind acceptance to be enjoyable, but in different aspects of their structure. Salt’s narrative, though facile and unlikely, is not entirely unbelievable: a Russian woman is raised from birth to be an adult spy who infiltrates the US government from the inside. Inside Salt’s universe, we are convinced of the narrative’s plausibility because of its simple and pretense-free presentation. Suspension of disbelief occurs during its action: the physically impossible (in our world) stunts and set-pieces Jolie and her costars take part in throughout the frenzied run-time. During one of Salt’s many attempts to evade capture, she takes part in an exercise made famous by Frogger - jumping from semi to semi on a complicated freeway interchange. It’s a wonderfully choreographed moment that’s thrilling, absurd, and completely implausible. In a later scene, she jumps down an elevator shaft from level to level with the grace of a bird and the plausibility of an alchemist. Always in motion and leaving explosive destruction in her wake, Salt breaks most laws of physics in an effort to resolve a fairly predictable and pedestrian narrative.

No attempt to explain its titular character’s abilities outside of "she’s been wall trained” is made in Salt because the rules in its universe are, essentially, our own; Salt can merely exploit them. The universe of Inception, however, is the movie. Expository dialogue about the dream world’s rules and intricacies are required before the audience can make any sense of actions taking place inside it. This includes the issue of the compounded slowing of time when entering dreams (and meta dreams), the usage of “kicks” to abruptly wake up, and the state of “limbo” one enters after going too deep. Whereas Salt’s universe is a familiar action-movie standard, Nolan has the burden of explaining his universe because it’s his own, never-before-seen creation.

Initially I was annoyed by the praise given to Inception and the willingness of audiences and critics to ignore its implausibility simply because of narrative intricacies - intricacies that, when scrutinized, make as little sense as Angelina Jolie controlling the speed of a van by tasing its driver’s neck. Why didn’t the flight attendant wake the team up? Why is leaving Limbo so difficult? Why doesn’t weightlessness extend beyond just a single level? Why don’t all kicks wake the dreamers up? How can one even enter the dream of someone who’s already dreaming? (A video on CollegeHumor points out most of these quite well.) I didn't, however, ask similar questions about Salt.

I have grown from disdain for Inception after the post-viewing examination and returned to the enjoyment I felt while watching it all unfold. Just as the actions throughout Salt are implausible, so is the universe that dictates action in Inception. We’re used to suspending disbelief for one, but not the other. What’s original and exciting about Salt is that it utilized the disbelief we’ve been conditioned to suspend in the most absurd and extreme way possible. What’s original and exciting about Inception is that it managed to transfer that required suspension of disbelief to a different plane entirely. The fast one Nolan pulled was that he almost made us think he made an action movie that's impenetrable to scrutiny. He shifted the action movie paradigm, and that’s worth applauding - but so is Salt’s loud, absurd embrace of the old one.

“If you’re inclined to laugh, laugh. If you’re not inclined to laugh, don’t laugh,” Todd Solondz said while introducing his newest movie. “But I do believe this is the saddest film I’ve ever made.” Though I thought he would speak more than he did, and perhaps even conduct a Q&A, Solondz’s introduction to Life During Wartime was perfectly adequate. I can think of no better way to prepare an audience for this movie than his nasally, nervous voice explaining the conflicting emotions they’re about to face. Dark and unsettling moments involving pedophilia and suicide are presented with the dry humor that we expect from Solondz. That expectation, however, doesn’t reduce the discomfort we inevitably feel after laughing, nor the discomfort we inevitably feel after realizing that we've seen this all before.

Life During Wartime is a sequel to 1998’s Happiness, but uses an entirely different cast to continue the story. Ciarán Hinds is Bill, the psychiatrist/pedophile who has just been released from prison and is attempting to make contact with his oldest son. Allison Janney is his ex-wife, Trish, who has just moved her family from New Jersey to Florida and is dating an older, Israel-supporting man named Harvey. Ally Sheedy is Helen, a poet-turned-screenwriter who lives in a Hollywood mansion filled with Emmys and deflected guilt. And Shirley Henderson is their younger sister, Joy, wrenched with guilt and unhappiness after leaving her ex-con husband in the opening scene. In an attempt to get her life together, she’s visiting both sisters in a cross-country trip. The ensemble cast, specifically the three sisters, handles the dichotomy between extreme discomfort and humor beautifully.

Like Solondz's Palindromes, Life During Wartime's casting switcheroo serves a thematic purpose, but feels much less like a gimmick (though it still is one) than its predecessor. These are all people running away from their past, specifically the events of Happiness, and are attempting to forget and/or forgive. Despite their change of scenery, partner, or career, the ghosts of their past still haunt them – and in Joy’s case, the ghost is literal. After breaking up with him in Happiness, Andy (then played by Jon Lovitz) committed suicide. His bipolar ghost (now played by Paul Reubens) follows Joy on her trip, alternating between acerbic tirades and pleas for forgiveness. Even Trish’s youngest son, Timmy (an impressive Dylan Riley Snyder), finds himself struggling with these issues. He grew up believing his father was dead, but learns of Bill’s crimes and recent release from prison just days before his Bar Mitzvah – for which he’s written a speech on forgiveness and forgetting. In it, Timmy suggests that it’s “better to forget and live without all that pain, instead of forgiving and remembering.” Jacqueline (Charlotte Rampling in a brief role), Bill’s post-prison one night stand, makes a similar declaration in one of the film’s most powerful scenes.

A bleak examination of change, forgiveness, and the impossibility of each, Life During Wartime is more of the same from Todd Solondz. “The past is the past. Dead. Gone. Wipe my hands. Forgotten. We live in Florida now,” Trish says to Joy while they eat lunch under the palm trees. I think Mr. Solondz, like his characters, believes forgetting is a better option than forgiving. His movies, however, suggest that he also thinks that neither is truly possible. And though I appreciate his reliably pessimistic and unhappy world view, it is, like the "gotcha!" casting, a gimmick that's wearing thin. 

Devendra Banhart & Beck - Life During Wartime

(Lyrics by Todd Solondz)

Grief porn. It takes something we should be deeply upset and affected by, and deeply upsets and affects us in the most entertaining way possible. In movies like this, grief is glamorous – even desired. In The Greatest, grief adorable, heartwarming, and devastating, but...mostly adorable.

A car accident has taken the life of an 18-year-old driver, Bennett Brewer (Aaron Johnson), leaving the passenger, Rose (Carey Mulligan), alive, heartbroken, and pregnant with Bennett’s child. With her father unmentioned, her mother in a mental hospital, and her first semester in college postponed for a year, she arrives on the Brewers’ doorstep with little more than a suitcase. The home is inhabited by a broken family, the pieces of which resemble something that once fit together with a cheap glue - a portrait struggling to remain whole. “You’re supposed to ring this every time you think of Bennett,” Allen (Pierce Brosnan) tells Grace (Susan Sarandon) as he hands her a bell. He admits the silliness of the exercise, retrieved from a new book about grief, but never offers a point. Did he even read it or did he skim the pages while browsing the self-help aisle? Grace accepts the bell in silence and begins ringing. And ringing. And ringing.

Rose quietly and charmingly attaches herself to Allen and Bennett’s younger brother, Ryan (Johnny Simmons). She learns that Allen and Grace are currently dealing with his recent affair, and that Ryan considers himself to be “the fuck up” of the family, given monthly drug tests by his mother. Unlike Grace, whose grief reverberates throughout the home, Ryan, Rose, and Allen are written to ignore the pain until their inevitable third-act breakdowns, forging new friendships with one another instead of dealing with the larger subject at hand. Frustratingly, Rose’s baby is rarely mentioned, with discussions of her future as a single teenage parent brushed to the side in place of the standard sonogram and baby-kicking-stomach moments. How she intends to raise the baby is of little interest because Mulligan looks absolutely precious with a short haircut and protruding belly. And when it's finally born, the family’s heartache disappears during a quirky car ride to the emergency room. The ups and downs of Shana Feste’s screenplay are so fluid - so lacking of any surprise - that it’s easy to think you’ve seen The Greatest before. With performances that tower above its scenes filled with beachside breakdowns, untouched rooms of the deceased, and counseling sessions, The Greatest is cookie-cutter grief porn with expensive dough.

Unlike Jonathan Demme’s Rachel Getting Married, which rightfully presented grief as something awful and irreparable, The Greatest ends with characters smiling into the camera while side-hugging their stronger, newly repaired family. There’s something strangely gratifying about watching this type of grief on screen. Problems dissolve, beautiful people remain beautiful, and the newborn baby has successfully taken the place of the deceased relative. We smile and cry, with tears that had been prepping for departure since reading the synopsis on Netflix. Maybe one day we’ll get the opportunity to grieve. If we could all be so lucky.

Much like the protagonists in action movies find themselves in a car chase somewhere between the opening and closing credits, characters in family comedies are almost required to share a scene at the dinner table. With family members sitting in the same seats with the same people day after day, the dinner table is a place rooted in such a strong routine that any deviation from the norm is immediately noticed. It’s the perfect place to observe, making it a dangerous place to reveal. Observing Jules (Julianne Moore) and Nic’s (Annette Bening) family dinners in The Kids Are All Right has proven to be the biggest pleasure at the movies this year.

Together since Nic was a resident in medical school, she and Jules are going through a rough patch in their marriage and home life. Their love has become more routine and less passionate. They think their 15-year-old son Laser (Josh Hutcherson) is gay, finding themselves concerned not because of his perceived identity but because he won’t talk to them about it. Their daughter, Joni (Mia Wasikowska), is preparing to get up from the dinner table for good, leaving for college in just a few weeks. Joni has just turned 18 (now able to request information on her “donor dad”) and Laser has asked for a big favor. “That could really hurt moms’ feelings,” she tells her brother.

Enter Paul (Mark Ruffalo), the one with the sperm, on his motorcycle. He owns a successful restaurant with fruits and vegetables provided by his organic community garden in town. After their first meeting, Laser is disappointed with the man he imagined all his life, but Joni finds him fascinating. Eventually, their moms discover the secret meeting and reluctantly agree to let them spend more time with the sperm donor. Even Jules, the homemaker, is intrigued by Paul – accepting his offer to be her new one-woman landscape design company’s first client. Nic, however, finds him absolutely insufferable.

Much of the humor comes from the palpable sense of familiarity among the family; like the way Nic and Jules imitate Paul’s speech while shopping for hoses at Home Depot, or the way Joni and Laser react so differently to the oft-told story of the way their mothers met. It’s a screenplay (by Stuart Blumberg and director Lisa Cholodenko) filled with seemingly mundane, though hilarious, observations about marriage and family life, but what makes it such an impressive accomplishment is the importance of each passing glance or declaration. Make no mistake that this is a comedy, but even the lines that are initially played solely for humor come back to bite us. Every moment matters.

Every performance does, as well. Wasikowska and Hutcherson are as impressive as young actors get, but it’s the adults, Bening and Ruffalo in particular, who carry this movie from dinner scene to dinner scene. Ruffalo plays his character's mix of immaturity and success perfectly, seducing both the characters and the audience with seemingly zero effort. In the movie's most memorable scene, even Nic finds herself falling for Paul's charms after discovering their shared love for Joni Mitchell. Every ounce of amiability she feels, however, disappears after discovering the other thing they share. Not every movie can sell a silent moment of revelation like this, but The Kids Are All Right earns it. Hard.

Though there are six months remaining, I’m almost positive I won’t see a better movie than The Kids Are All Right all year. And, judging by the amount of laughter throughout and deafening applause during the credits, many of you won’t either. It’s a movie with characters as familiar with each other as we are with them. Heart: warmed. Stomach: exercised. Rave: finished.

There is a moment of sudden, brutal violence in Winter’s Bone that, though tame compared to the red gushers found in modern horror, is filled with a head-lowering, eye-shutting dread. Like a static shot of a garbage disposal blade as a hand wriggles around searching for a lost item, the movie is an exercise in prolonged uneasiness. The metallic clinks echo, the frustrated voice offscreen grunts, and we’re certain the blade is going to start spinning any second now...Wait for it...Just wait for it.

Winter’s Bone follows Ree (Jennifer Lawrence), a 17-year-old struggling to care for her younger siblings and heavily medicated mother, as she searches for her father who has recently skipped out on his bond.  If he isn’t located in time, the bond collectors will take possession of their home, leaving the children and their mother with nothing. Certain she can locate him and surrounded by people who think otherwise, she wanders the bleak landscapes of the Ozarks from house to house, distant relative to distant relative, attempting to use shared blood as leverage for the disclosing of secrets. Even though Ree has no intention of using information she learns for any other reason than locating her father, she is perceived as a narc. (No one wants to talk because, you know, they all cook crack and don't want run ins with "The Law.") But against all odds, and some fairly heavy threats, Ree keeps going. Lawrence gives her character a hesitant bravery, perfectly capturing the conflicting persistence and fear of a young girl who knows her family’s future is in her hands. The burden is terrifying, and so are her encounters - specifically the aforementioned act of violence. Director Debra Granik brings a muted urgency to this journey, with each revelation, no matter how inconsequential, quietly building more dread for what will come next. But considering the environment, this is an easy task.

Surrounded by malnourished livestock, abandoned vehicles of every kind, and not nearly enough food, every character is living in poverty. Selling drugs is the only supported career path and jail is all but inevitable, but their situation is never used as a way to undeservedly extract emotion. Yes, they are poor, and yes, they eat squirrels, but that is never a distraction. Despite the extreme and pitiful conditions, Winter's Bone progresses naturally and without a hint of pretense or parody. Every moment plays out with a judgment-free humanity; from the violent climax to the surprisingly touching exchange between Ree and an Army recruiter. It's a humanity that intensifies very moment, making the stakes seem that much higher. Upon entering the screening, I heard a pair of women who appeared to be in their mid-seventies discussing their expectations. “I certainly hope this is meaningful,” one said.

Her friend paused, then replied, “I’m sure it will be.” We all sat down and began waiting.

We all met outside Regal Union Square at 10:00PM EST on Tuesday night where two lines stretched around the building in both directions. When passersby noticed these well-formed lines, they would ask what we were all waiting for. A reasonable question. After all, when you see people waiting, it stands to reason that it’s because of something worth waiting for. Such was not the case, however, with The Twilight Saga: Eclipse.

I have not read or seen The Twilight Saga: New Moon or The Twilight Saga: Twilight. I did, however, read both plot summaries on Wikipedia and ask my friend (who has read all the books) for a brief recap on the way to the theater. By the time the film opens on Bella and Edward laying in a bed of wildflowers discussing their relationship with complete disinterest, I knew none of these recaps were at all necessary. (Keep in mind that from here on, lines placed in quotes are from memory and may not be exact.) (Additionally, keep in mind that had I written down the actual quotes, we wouldn’t find ourselves in a better position.) “I’m from a different time,” Edward tells Bella as he explains why they cannot have premarital sex.

“I have to get home by 4:00,” she replies. This is how people converse in The Twilight Saga: Eclipse. Words drift from the speaker’s mouth to the listener’s ear and affect only eyebrows in the process. They furrow as if saying, “Why are we still talking?” It’s a question I asked silently quite often and audibly more than once.

The plot centers around a redheaded vampire creating an army of newly turned vampires because, allegedly, they’re more powerful than old ones. Powerful newbie vamps are one of The Twilight Saga mythology’s many conveniences, a list that also includes A) Edward’s sister, Alice, can see into the future; B) Edward can read minds; C) Though werewolves and vampires hate each other, they live as neighbors; and D) The Cullens aren’t ever turned on by Bella’s blood.

Overall, everything’s just too easy in The Twilight Saga: Eclipse, making this central plot of the recently-undead coming to kill Bella completely lacking in suspense. Alice knows when they’re coming, Edward knows what everyone’s thinking, none of the Cullens want to kill Bella (even though her blood is supposedly like Wagyu beef), and those werewolves suck up their pride and prove instrumental in defeating the baby bloodsuckers. It’s no spoiler to reveal that Bella escapes death, providing her a lifetime wherein she can continue to be inexplicably desirable to creatures of all kinds. It’s a baffling ending, not only because Bella somehow lives, but because the two men who vie for her heart continue to be smitten with the emotional void that is her face – something straight off of Easter Island. Edward and Jacob spend two hours flirtatiously fighting over who really deserves to have Bella, while Bella watches in perpetual drowsiness. The boys’ fighting culminates in a tent during a late night snowstorm. As Bella sleeps beside Jacob to keep warm (because Edward’s blood is cold, remember?), the two sexually frustrated non-humans whisper fight with grinted teeth and eyes that seem to be fighting back winks.

The fighting stops, the redhead dies, embarrassingly rendered werewolves finally leave the screen, and everyone keeps their virginity. Once again, we see Edward and Bella in that field of wildflowers discussing their upcoming nuptials. No one has changed. Nothing looks different. Aside from the engagement ring (that would make a Cracker Jack box laugh) on Bella’s finger, it’s almost as if the ridiculous mess that occurred over the previous week hadn’t happened. The tired, indifferent faces of these two superstars suggest that nothing, not even their love, means a thing to them. Funny, it doesn’t to me either.

Hundreds of millions of dollars later, we all know what Toy Story 3 is about. Toyowner Andy is preparing to leave for college when his toys find themselves accidentally donated to a daycare center. They race against the clock to make it back home before Andy leaves them forever. It’s a simple story, much like the humor. Set in a world free of pop culture, we laugh at the situations, not at the references. There is no generational roadblock preventing laughter during this movie, just as there is nothing preventing our tears. This refusal to be “hip” combined with a deep commitment to telling the best possible story is what makes Pixar the benchmark for family movies.

By now, we know Andy’s toys so well, it’s hard to think anything they do will surprise us, but Toy Story 3 contains some the most exciting and emotional moments Pixar has ever rendered. A thrilling escape from the daycare, led under the mob-like rule of Lotso Huggin’ Bear, is a high point in showcasing Pixar’s creativity and imagination, while the film’s climax ranks as the most haunting scene in Pixar’s history. It is a scene filled with dread and silence. Just as their opening shorts tell entirely fulfilling stories without dialogue, the Woody, Buzz, Jessie and the others say more in this scene with the reach of a hand than they could possibly convey with dialogue. Remember, these are toys.

In his review, Harry Knowles (the founder of Ain’t It Cool News) wrote that he was dissatisfied by the film’s ending and is hoping for a second trilogy that will continue the story of Andy and his toys. Now I don’t want to go off on a tangent or transform this blog into a center for personal critiques, but Mr. Knowles’ review represented a complete misunderstanding of Toy Story’s final chapter and overall message. Since the first film in 1995, the Toy Story series has been about dealing with growing up from the perspective of characters who never age. Frozen in time, the toys watch the world undergo endless transformation. Their only pleasures coming from friends and owners, both of whom regularly come and go. It’s a tragic fact of life. And it’s deeply human.

That’s why the audience blubbers and snorts at the end of Toy Story 3. Not only do we realize the series has finally ended, but we all remember and dread our own moments of change. Adding a second trilogy to this series would ruin its message. Not only is it time for Andy and the toys to move on, but also for us. It’s time to let the next great movie series force us tear up in front of strangers – just as long is it’s made by Pixar. I don’t think any of us are ready to let them go quite yet.

Leo Minosa regularly finds himself stuck in the Native American cliff dwellings when digging for old artifacts. Like his beautiful wife Lorraine’s thoughts about divorce and escape from their tiny desert town of Escadona, NM, Leo’s risky voyages underground are frequent. But to small-time Albuquerque newsman Chuck Tatum (Kirk Douglas), this most recent cave-in is a human interest story worthy of national attention – an opportunity to return glory to his byline. Chuck and his youngest colleague, Herbie, stumble upon the incident when attempting to fill up at an isolated gas station and diner owned by the Minosas. Behind the building, at the free and rarely visited cliff dwellings, a speeding police car gets Chuck’s attention. In minutes, he’s self promoted as the leader of the Leo’s latest rescue operation.

Released in 1951 with the revised title, The Big Carnival, Ace in the Hole is not only an indictment of the American media and its habit of exploiting subjects for professional gain, but of everyone who falls for it. In this case, Tatum is after a heap of cash and a Pulitzer to use as its paperweight. His method is to dramatize and prolong the excavation from a simple 12-hour procedure to a tense, theatrical ordeal – one that eventually draws national media coverage and crowds by the thousands, complete with a traveling carnival. Engineers knowingly use less than ideal methods of rescue due to Tatum’s insistence. The county sheriff ignores the sleazy ringleader’s actions in return for front page photos and free campaigning. Even the public is condemned for lapping up Tatum’s concoction, with spiking newspaper circulations and growing crowds at the carnival transforming them into ambulance chasers.

Though based on a pair of actual events from that time, it’s painfully relevant almost 60 years later. Kirk Douglas’ beastly Chuck Tatum takes much of that credit, anchoring the film with an obsessive, disturbing performance that straddles the line between caricature and reality. Douglas is playing an actor, a man who alters his identity as often as it takes to get what he wants. He begins a violent relationship with Leo’s wife to fulfill his masochistic desires, he mentors the wide-eyed young Herbie as a way of becoming an idol, and, of course, creates this “Big Carnival” for the finances to continue the cycle. His tender dialogues underground with the trapped, dying Leo are bookended with the rants of a maniacal egotist outside; and the transitions between each are sudden and effortless - making both characters more even more unsettling to watch.

In the end, Ace in the Hole is a bleak, angry movie. Wilder’s trademark breeze and zip are there, but used to illicit shock and disgust –  perhaps even guilt. We watch the final moments debating whether or not we deserve to be condemned by the film, but join in agreement that Chuck Tatum deserved everything he gets. Because that’s the big story, isn't it?