Flags of Our Fathers

dir. Clint Eastwood

A man's gotta know his limitations, to quote Dirty Harry Callahan, and as a director, Clint Eastwood seems to have taken this to heart, crafting a remarkable series of movies about the emotional chinks in humanity's armor. As a filmmaker, Eastwood does have some telling limitations of his own, whether it be occasional issues of quality control (The Rookie?), or how, even in his most impressive work, the depiction of characters with outsized personalities can often come off as cartoonishly shrill. (Think the megahillbilly family of Million Dollar Baby, or even Tim Robbins's eye-bugging Renfield bit in the otherwise masterfully tight-lipped Mystic River.) When he's on form, however, his low-key explorations of the walking wounded reward as much as they disturb.

Flags of Our Fathers, Eastwood's much-anticipated depiction of the events surrounding the famous flag raising at Iwo Jima, comes off as a rather puzzling misfire. The canvas here may be too large, or the history too weighty, for the director to find an in. Whatever the reason, as both war epic and historical character piece, it feels weirdly insubstantial. Adapted from the best-selling book by James Bradley and Ron Powers, the film's narrative spends a surprisingly small amount of time on actual combat, focusing more on the later efforts of the three surviving flag raisers to raise war bonds while struggling with their own inner demons. Said approach is intriguing, minus an awkward modern-day framing device that bears the overemphatic stank of screenwriter Paul (Crash) Haggis, yet somehow never delves deeply enough into the psyche of its subjects to register.

Eastwood's honorable, heartfelt, well-acted film has its moments of frisson, certainly—most notably a tense, spooky tunnel sequence that bodes well for next year's more intimate, Japanese-soldier-POV companion piece, Letters from Iwo Jima—yet its overall failure to engage proves insurmountable. During the end credits, there's a stunning montage of old wartime photos, many depicting the actual heroes portrayed in the movie, which leaves you wanting to learn more about the real story behind the images. The strange thing is, you just theoretically did. ANDREW WRIGHT

The Prestige

dir. Christopher Nolan

Yet another period piece about a magician, following the decorative but soppy The Illusionist, Christopher Nolan's The Prestige (based on the novel by Christopher Priest) is crosshatched with gloomy ideas. It claims that people go to magic shows not to be astounded, but to be deceived, and that magic is, at root, a sinister art, absorbing all manner of little cruelties when not embracing outright torture or death. The Prestige is rife with philosophical ambiguities, and I wish I could say it uses them well.

The complicated plot boils down to a mundane feud between rival London magicians, played by Hugh Jackman and Christian Bale. The origin of their rivalry is the death of Jackman's wife (Piper Perabo), possibly at Bale's hands, in a dangerous but well-practiced stunt. Otherwise, their differences are minor. One has a talent for showmanship; the other boasts only ingenuity. One gets to put his grubby mitts on the likes of Scarlett Johansson (usually costumed like a peacock, and outfitted with an accordingly pea brain); the other has to contend with true love. They strive to steal each other's best tricks, and they push each other to unhealthy limits, including an ill-advised consultation with Nikola Tesla (David Bowie, hamming it evil genius) in the electrified chill of Colorado Springs.

But the split trunk of the plot, shooting off into new halves and doubles and mirrors at the slightest provocation, is beyond schizophrenic. There's no rhythm to its budding, no tightening at its most interesting intersections (like the sadistic truth behind the apparent teleportation of a bird). Nolan's film is all formless and shallow until the final payoff—known in magic jargon as "the prestige"—when doubles and sacrifice and character all coalesce into one dark metaphysical conceit. There's no sleight-of-hand here, just sick magic (not slick, mind you, sick), and it's tremendous. ANNIE WAGNER

Shortbus

dir. John Cameron Mitchell

Okay. I'm not going to claim that John Cameron Mitchell invented sex, or that nobody's ever made a hardcore narrative film before. But there's something about Shortbus that feels new and clever. Mitchell recognizes that obscenity isn't in the sexual act being portrayed; it's about the extent to which the audience is asked to participate.

In the case of Shortbus—and, not coincidentally, the best entries in The Stranger's amateur porn contest, HUMP!—the audience is asked to do nothing more strenuous than giggle. The sexy scenes are overlaid with the kind of ridiculous humor that will distract the most dogged voyeur (you try getting turned on while watching someone hum "The Star-Spangled Banner" mid-rimjob), or are strung together in flitting montages that would frustrate the most single-minded masturbator. (Acrobatic heterosex on a piano! Oops, you missed it. Yogic consumption of one's own ejaculate! Oops, you missed it.) No one wants to get off in an art-house theater, and Mitchell lets you have your cake and leave it on the platter, too.

That said, Shortbus relies too much on its friendly, exotic, giddy tone. It's a cozy invention, the NYC Shortbus cabaret whose orgies are presided over by a benevolently catty Justin Bond. But a setting can't sustain an entire movie, and the plot is outright lazy. (Literal climax, anyone?) The energy of the film sputters out halfway through—Shortbus could stand to lose 30 minutes off its flabbily melancholic denouement. ANNIE WAGNER