Hacksaw Ridge, Loving, Arrival, Don't Call Me Son, The Eagle Huntress, The Uncondemned, King Cobra

Hacksaw Ridge

Loving



Arrival

Don't Call Me Son



The Eagle Huntress

The Uncondemned



King Cobra

Quick capsules from a surprisingly light November at the movies:

Unbroken, Big Eyes

Big Eyes

Unbroken

 

Lest I be accused of too many Santa Claus star ratings, let’s get to the bad stuff.

Her

"Her" is the stupidest movie to wash down the pike in a very long time.

American Hustle

It's getting to be an annual tradition.

Man of Steel

Director Zack Snyder’s approach to the Superman saga in “Man of Steel” is probably the smartest: to pretend none of the other movies had been made.

On the Road

The two best things about Walter Salles’ “On The Road” are Garrett Hedlund’s portrayal of the life-eating, pansexual Dean Moriarty, the dominant character of Jack Kerouac’s novel (Sam Riley’s Sal Paradise is truly just along for the ride), and of course Kerouac’s invigorating words themselves: “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like Roman candles across the night.” There’s always something beautiful and bittersweet about the effects of the passage of time on the relationships between young men (the women – Kristen Stewart, Kirsten Dunst, Amy Adams – are purely secondary), and by the end this itinerant picture packs a surprising wallop – surprising because, along the way, watching other people eat life does become a bit boring.

Trouble with the Curve

In the formulaic and crushingly predictable studio movie “Trouble With the Curve,” Clint Eastwood portrays Gus Lobel, a scout for the Atlanta Braves who doesn’t let a little macular degeneration get in the way of his Luddite misanthropy. The “get off my lawn” orneriness from “Gran Torino” has crusted and begun to scab; “Curve” isn’t offensive in the same way as “Torino,” but it’s equally unpleasant.

The Master

A powerful sense of letdown hangs over the pseudonymous Scientology prehistory “The Master.” It’s impossible not to wonder what more might have come of the mating of director Paul Thomas Anderson with the self-made myth of the certifiable failed science fiction writer L. Ron Hubbard. Anderson has made several terrific films and at least one masterpiece, “Magnolia.” He’s a director of towering, Tarantino-esque vision, but throughout “The Master” his set pieces lack the impact to match their solemnity. At 138 minutes, I couldn’t wait for it to end.