Map of the clouds and beyond

Few movies can compare to this wonderful behemoth called Cloud Atlas.

This three-hour movie is told across thousands of years as stories parallel, pile-up and butt heads with one another. The core of the movie is made up of a dozen or so actors, but they all appear in each storyline — as stars in some, extras in others — and occasionally as other races or the opposite sex. Don't look to them for reassurance in this plot; you are destined to get lost. But I think that's the point.

Much will be made about "figuring out" the Cloud Atlas, but to appreciate it you must surrender before it stars. Just let the film wrap around you and close tighter. The plots are full of clues — comet-shaped birthmarks, sparkly pebbles and facial tattoos — but I'm convinced they are clues that lead nowhere except back to the beginning. It all feels very circular, but it never spirals out of control. This is a film that is guided by precise hands, six of them from three directors.

It is based on a book of the same name by David Mitchell. As best I can count it tells six simultaneous stories, though certainly there are more bits hidden within those. There is a plot in 1849 as an America man visits islands in the Pacific to find slaves, business deals and parasites. In the 1930s, a gay English musician creates his masterwork for a prominent composer. Another plot takes place in 1970s, when an intrepid reporter makes startling discoveries about nuclear energy. A modern-day story involves an old man running away from a gangster's thugs and finding an inhospitable boarding house. Two future storylines involve Sonmi-451, a female clone called a fabricant, and then a future race of primitive people who worship her.

I've told you the basic plots in chronological order — the film will have no such narrative compassion — yet I have also told you almost nothing about the film because it is more than the sum of its parts. There's so much to chew on that Atlas gives total freedom to the audience to decide what it all means.

Now I said the word "freedom," which presented itself (to me, at least) as a central theme. Many of the characters find themselves bound into lives they would not choose for themselves: Somni-451 is a programmed restaurant server in a dystopian Neo-Seoul, slaves in the Pacific are whipped into submission, the musician is blackmailed into servitude by the composer, and the primitive future cultures are threatened with enslavement and extinction. "Freedom is the fatuous jingle of our generation," one character says. But is this the answer? Perhaps one of many. I have never seen a movie that allowed — and encouraged — so many different interpretations from its audience.

The actors include Tom Hanks, Jim Broadbent, Halle Berry, Hugo Weaving and South Korean actress Doona Bae, who plays Sonmi-451 in a standout performance. Most of them appear in every plotline, though you won't always recognize them thanks to the film's many prosthetic effects and facial masks. Stay for the end credits because the film shows you all their characters and some may surprise you, including Berry as a blond-haired white woman; I kept staring at her thinking, "I know this actress from somewhere." Each plot has its own flavor and style, and I appreciated Broadbent's plotline full of his English wit and timing. Hanks has some action scenes — as does Jim Sturgess during a Matrix-y hoverbike chase — and they are believable and kinetic. I should also mention Hanks' dialect and language in his future scenes; English hasn't sounded this fresh since A Clockwork Orange.

The movie is directed by the Wachowski siblings — Lana and Andy, of The Matrix fame — and Tom Tykwer, who directed another supposedly unfilmable novel, Perfume: The Story of a Murderer. They managed to keep everything straight by breaking up principle photography, as if the Wachowskis were shooting one movie and Tykwer another. That sounds even more complicated, but they made it work. Their version of Cloud Atlas will be remembered alongside Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey and Terrance Malick's The Tree of Life as some of the most ambitious filmmaking in the history of the cinema. Many directors have undertaken complex tapestries of characters — Robert Altman and Alejandro González Iñárritu come to mind — but never before has a microcosm of interweaving stories taken on such an invigorating life of its own.

As for the ultimate question: What does it all mean? Well, if 10 million people see the film this weekend, then there are 10 million possible answers. And they're all correct. 

Lotsa photos below. All clickable. Try it.

Low tide beaches conflict-heavy Mavericks

Surfers often describe riding waves as peaceful. Euphoric. To be at harmony with nature. At the very least, it’s an exhilarating thrill ride.

Chasing Mavericks has little interest in such things. Not when there are sharks, bullies, drugs, drunk mothers, missing fathers, peer pressure, after-school jobs, betraying friends and girlfriends. The movie is all conflict and drama; no wonder there’s so little room for surfing.

It frames itself as a surfer-dude version of Karate Kid, where a young impressionable kid seeks out adult guidance and training from the wacky neighbor who’s a bit eccentric about his hobbies. Where Karate Kid understood its themes and fluidly guided characters through them, Mavericks repeatedly loses its focus and wanders through its boneyard of conflicts, many of which have nothing to do with surfing.

The film is based on surfer and all-around optimist Jay Moriarty, but don’t Google his name until after you see the movie or you might spoil some surprises. Jay was a boy when he took a spill in the ocean and was rescued by the local surfing legend, Frosty (Gerard Butler, 300). “You just used your entire allotment of dumb luck, kid,” Frosty tells him. Years later, as a teen, Jay (Jonny Weston) convinces Frosty to teach him how to surf big waves.

The wave Jay craves is called Mavericks, an impossible-to-surf set of waves regarded as myth and urban legend by local surfers. If you’ve seen Stacy Peralta’s fantastic surf documentary Riding Giants then you’ll remember that Mavericks is a real monster that has slayed several surfers, including some pros. The waves only break big during a 12-week window in the winter and they crash on sharp rocks that jut out from the coast. Wipe out on Mavericks and you risk being held underwater for minutes at a time, or getting ripped to shreds on the rocks. Oh, and 100 tons of water is repeatedly crashing over your head. Surfing Mavericks, it seems, is suicidal.

The movie takes places in the early ’90s when Mavericks was only known to a handful of adventurous surfers. Jay discovers it after stowing away on top of Frosty’s van as he drives up the coast to the then-secret location. Once he’s discovered, Jay, already a fantastic surfer, pleads with Frosty to train him to the ways of the big-wave surfer. Frosty’s eventual training regimen is unorthodox. For instance, Jay must be able to paddle 36 miles across a bay and hold his breath for four minutes. Jay practices holding his breath in school and passes out at his de4sk to the bewilderment of his classmates. Three-page, single-spaced typed essays about tides and coastal geology are also required. They only start surfing together at the very end.

It’s obvious fairly early on that Chasing Mavericks is not just a surfing movie. Early scenes show Jay caring for his mother (Elizabeth Shue, the Karate Kid girlfriend), who seems to have a drinking problem, or maybe she just sleeps in every morning — the movie’s PG rating prevents it from saying. His dad disappeared years before, which mirrors some of Frosty’s problem; Frosty, meanwhile, neglects his own children, who we barely see. A girlfriend also turns up, if only to cause tension for the emotionally fragile Jay. Then there’s a bully who’s so comically cliché that he seems to have invaded the film from some forgotten high school sitcom. We first meet the bully as he bats side-view mirrors from parked cars — always the sign of a lovely adolescent. The plot finds itself sidetracked to such a degree that we forget the waves and the beaches altogether. The daddy issues are particularly frustrating because they frequently contradict each other. Is Frosty Jay’s replacement father, or is Frosty turning Jay free to care for his own kids? The movie suggests both, as well as other scenarios.

Mavericks succeeds when it stays on topic in the ocean on the waves. I liked the way it presented surf culture as a low-key hobby, not the overwhelming caricature of other movies, where tie-dyed surfers call each other “bra” and they channel the beauty of the waves amid a stoner haze. Frosty does have one questionable line that you’ll end up forgiving: “We all come from the sea, but we are not all of the sea.” Say what?!

Ultimately, though, the film fails to show the exhilaration of big-wave surfing. There’s no sense of speed, or movement, or scale. It’s the film’s responsibility to make us feel a difference between a 5-foot swell and a massive five-story behemoth traveling 45 mph toward sharp rocks. Chasing Mavericks is incapable of showing that. This is especially frustrating at the end, when those big waves should frighten us, but they just seem like one of many conflicts within the plot.

I didn’t much care for Mavericks’ clunky delivery or its vast array of non-surfing story conflicts, but I do recommend the movie to families this weekend. Non-animated family films are hard to come by, and Chasing Mavericks is bound to inspire your children and pre-teens. Just don’t get their hopes up about the surfing, which is often secondary to everything else that’s happening. 

Smashing performances in drunk drama

The medium of film has taught us to pity the drunks. Or outright laugh at them.

Maybe it’s more than that, though, because there has been a constant evolution of alcoholism on film. Audiences laughed at boozy W.C. Fields, they acknowledged the problem in The Lost Weekend, they shamelessly judged Dean Martin in Rio Bravo as the inebriated cowboy. There was also a cautionary period that broadcast to us the dangers of alcohol: Bad Santa, Leaving Las Vegas and Under the Volcano. “Here is how ugly it can get,” they said loudly and plainly.

Smashed takes a different approach entirely by showing a realistic drinker and her realistic problem, but it never allows her to be a helpless victim. The movie follows Kate, a young school teacher who has grown up in a culture of alcohol. In the first scene she wakes up hung over to find she’s wet the bed. “I have a weak bladder,” she tells her husband as an excuse. Her morning coffee has a shot of rum in it, and then she slugs at a flask in the faculty parking lot at her school. She’s trying to fix a tie game between sober vs. drunk, because neither feels that great.

Her husband, Charlie, is some sort of online writer so he stays home all day and plans their evenings at bars, clubs and get-togethers. When he drinks he starts to doze off, but when she drinks she tends to get louder, more aggressive and creates scenes at liquor stores and karaoke bars. She has this unfortunate habit of peeing in places she shouldn't. Her first wake-up call: she vomits in front of her grade-school students, who all ask if she’s pregnant (perceptive kids). Her second wake-up call: she comes to under an overpass on a dirty sofa used by homeless people.

Kate is played by Mary Elizabeth Winstead, who starred in last year’s unfortunate reboot of The Thing. She gives an honest and brave performance, one of the best this year, as a damaged alcoholic. I was surprised by the freshness of her story arc; it is free of many of the clichés that come with movies of this type. Charlie is played by Aaron Paul, whose Pinkman character on Breaking Bad has endured his own addiction. These two young actors work good together because their stories feel genuine; they are not victims of some writer’s pretend interpretation of alcoholism. These could be real stories in your own family, down the street or one cubicle over.

The movie feels especially authentic because it’s not just about alcohol addiction, but about the long road to recovery as well. Once Kate realizes she might have a problem she’s invited to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting with a coworker. She stops drinking, gets a sponsor (Octavia Spencer), starts the 12 Steps and begins to re-shape her life. But nothing lines up the way she thought. Charlie still drinks, her mother openly chastises her for drying up and everywhere are bottles that scream in temptation. As she struggles with all this, Smashed frames Kate within a compassionate bubble. We don’t pity her, judge her or trivialize her ordeal. We just watch and listen.

Addiction has been shown in these ways before, and recently too. Think back to the Christopher Moltisanti sobriety plotlines on The Sopranos. The show spent a great deal of time talking about addiction, triggers and the AA methods. “I will never be normal again,” Christopher would say as he watched people drink socially without consequence. I think also of HBO’s other great show, The Wire, in which homeless addict Bubbles hits bottom and then bounces back up with the help of sponsors, sharing and dramatic life changes. There was love and tenderness in these scenes, and the characters were respected by giving their decisions meaning and value. Smashed mines into a similar message by showing Kate’s sudden collapse and eventual rise, and showing these events under uncompromising terms without cheapening who Kate is and who she will become.

There are characters I’m leaving out, including Nick Offerman (Ron Swanson from Parks and Recreation), who plays the friend of Bill’s who introduces Kate to AA. Offerman’s real-life wife Megan Mullally plays Kate’s school principal, who hears that Kate threw up in class and assumes the students are right, that Kate is pregnant. Of course, she throws a surprise baby shower for un-expectant Kate. Both of these characters do things that we cringe at, but they are realistic actions that mire Kate further in her problem.

The film has a preachy side to it, but I prefer that over a bombastic Michael Bay version of the same movie, where Kate becomes a hooker, or a drug dealer or an assassin as some kind of obnoxious excuse to show her rapid descent. Smashed works as it is because it’s small and isolated, and it sticks to a realistic story. You won’t see anything happen here that doesn’t happen every day in any city in the world. Director James Ponsoldt has a careful eye and it shows as his film progresses from a boozy cautionary tale to an uplifting character piece about recovery; I can't wait to see what he makes next. 

Smashed is a powerful film, and it respects its characters more than most. I hope that Winstead is not forgotten when insiders start throwing around award-worthy names in the next several months. Yes, actors and actresses win awards for playing sad, depressing characters who humiliate themselves for their addictions. But that’s not why Winstead deserves recognition. She deserves it not for the drunk parts, but the ex-drunk parts, because her rise is so much more interesting than her fall.

Bluthering Heights by candlelight

Some people can’t get enough of classic English literature — I attribute that more to Keira Knightley, than to the quality of the books — yet I think even they will grow weary of Wuthering Heights.

Emily Brontë’s book is taught in schools and cherished among literature professors, and you can feel those qualities rattling in its film presentation, which is a dizzying, patience-stretching marathon of boredom lit only by candlelight and scored by the barely audible whispers of its cast.

Much of the movie takes place as characters stare out windows … sigh … pondering. Every now and again the film mixes it up and has them peering through cracked doors, wooden slats or grey-green thistles that whip back and forth in the wind that gasps through the hills of the sprawling estate known as Wuthering Heights. The English farmhouse and surrounding property are draped in dour clouds for the entirety, which does nothing to perk up this collage of gloominess.

The movie begins with Heathcliff, a dark-skinned child who finds himself adopted by a white family, the Earnshaws, in the late 1700s in England. His adoptive father raises him as his own, even baptizing him in a Christian ceremony, which causes resentment from the man’s biological son, Hindley Earnshaw, but not from his daughter, Catherine, who takes a liking to Heathcliff. This is the central relationship in the film, and it grows very stale very quickly. Catherine, of course, loves Heathcliff, but her own hand and the hands of others guide her away from the uneducated boy. Buckle up, romantic tragedy ahead. The first sign of calamity is when the father dies, and cruel Hindley makes Heathcliff a servant.

Halfway through, Heathcliff leaves to go to school and experience the world and comes back to re-discover Catherine to only find that things have grown more complicated. There are children now, in-laws and husbands. And Hindley, who was so abusive to Heathcliff, is a deranged drunk. I kept getting the feeling that the movie was leaving out crucial bits of the book (which I have not read). This alone is fine; not everything can fit into a film. But they did have lots of room to include Heathcliff standing at windows, or of Catherine laying in fields, or of the two of them tumbling down hills. It’s all broth, no meat.

While the film was occasionally evocative and moody, it often went too far. At many points I wanted a better cinematographer on set to light the scenes appropriately. Much of the film is shot in the dark with little to no lighting. Candlelight just doesn’t cut it. Working against the film further are its mumbling actors, who I struggled to hear amid their whispering. Combine these two impairments and Wuthering Heights is a challenge to behold.

Certainly there is a big, dynamic story to take in, but it is often clouded by director Andrea Arnold’s limited vision or budget. Fans of Brontë’s Wuthering Heights will probably adore passages of the film, but I doubt it will live up to their expectations, especially when it’s such a challenge to wrestle through with low-lighting, hard-to-hear dialogue and mindless window pondering. 

Great one-liner in red-hot thriller Argo

Argo has a great one-liner that I want to quote to you right now, but can’t. It means good luck, Godspeed, farewell and “get outta my face” all at once. It’s too crude for most newspapers. After you see Argo, which I highly encourage, mutter the line to yourself as you leave. You’ll know which line I’m referring to; it’s unmistakable. [As you can tell, this was written for a newspaper. The line is, "Argo fuck yourself."]

Argo is a masterfully made spy-thriller, one of the best. It’s based on a true story, one that I knew the ending of before the movie started, but it still had me going, winding me tighter and tighter, ratcheting the tension with each new twist, and then hurtling my expectations ever faster toward certain doom. Your fingernails will never forgive you.

In 1979, a mass of protestors stormed the American embassy in Iran, taking 52 hostages. Unbeknownst to the hostages, the Iranians and the American public, six embassy workers escaped the compound and made their way to the Canadian ambassador’s personal residence, where they hid in fear they would be discovered and gunned down in the street.

Once word landed at the State Department and the CIA, the two agencies began planning the Americans’ exfiltration, or exfil, from Iran. One plan was to have the six pose as teachers even though there were no American teachers left in Iran. Another plan had them as agriculture researchers, but never mind the snow on the ground. One wacky plot involved bicycles. And if they don’t know how to ride bikes? “We’ll send someone in to teach them.” One operative suggests they “mail them training wheels and meet them at the border.”

This operative is Tony Mendez (Ben Affleck) and he’s thinking way outside the box, but not the box office. He suggests the CIA set up a fake studio making a fake movie that may need some location shooting in Iran. Tony can travel into Tehran, pretend to be a movie producer and then fly out with his “film crew.” The CIA, hesitant at first, gives the green light, which was fortunate because Iran had a small army of children and women re-assembling shredded American documents that could prove that some Americans had not been captured in the initial embassy raid. Time was running very short.

Tony jets off to Hollywood to enlist a producer (Alan Arkin) and a friend, makeup and prosthetic designer John Chambers (John Goodman). They create a theater of absurdity to give credibility to the deception: they host a cast reading for the media, they decorate an office, create storyboards and eventually land a spread in Variety. The fake movie is called Argo and it’s a science-fiction adventure film in the spirit of Star Wars from two years earlier.

Eventually, Tony gets into Iran using a Canadian passport and he makes his way to the six embassy workers, but I will let you discover the rest of the plot. I encourage you to read the history behind this “Canadian Caper,” as it was called, but only do so after you see Argo. I would hate for it to spoil the surprises. And speaking of history, stay through the credits to see frame comparisons from the movie versus the real events. It’s remarkable how accurate some of the images are. Also, President Jimmy Carter — who likely lost his re-election bid because of the long Iran hostage crisis — shares some personal memories of the events.

Oscar season’s first pitch and Ben Affleck’s brazen spy thriller knocks it out of the park. I’m talking way out of the park. Over the Green Monster, over Lansdowne, over the Massachusetts Turnpike. You won’t ever see that ball again. This is a supremely well made movie, with lots of moving parts and speaking roles, yet it never loses its focus or its momentum.

Affleck has a careful eye for details, and his decision to give the film a vintage ’70s-movie look was appropriate. The film stock even looks old and yellow. He also knows how to frame and direct tension, which is difficult to do because it means winding up the audience at just the right speed. Too slow and the momentum fizzles and the risks evaporate; too fast and it feels phony. The thrills here sequence up at just the right moments, creating a steady flow of jittery gasps, including some when a van’s gears grind and slip, or when Iranian security calls the fake Hollywood office and no one picks up.

I should also point out that the film does an admirable job explaining why the Iranians were so upset. Some of this done in the opening credits by using storyboards depicting the Shah of Iran and other figures, but then other bits are done within the film as televisions show Iranians explaining their demands and as characters discuss the Shah's extradition from the United States back to Iran to face the Iranian people. By no means is this a complete history of the era, but it's enough to give the Iranians their own purpose other then "they're the bad guys." 

The cast is another home run, Arkin and Goodman especially. They spend much of the movie together, and their chemistry is perfect. They also have lots of Hollywood inside gags: “Negotiate with Iran? That’s nothing. Try the Writers Guild of America?!” Zing! Arkin says the line I can’t quote, and I hope he risks an FCC fine to say it during his Oscar speech.

In an ironic twist, the weakest link might be Affleck — actor Affleck, not director Affleck — because he fails to play up to the level of his co-stars. Arkin and Goodman outdo him easily, but so do small performances by Bryan Cranston, Victor Garber, character actor Zeljko Ivanek and Clea DuVall, who I was delighted to see acting in such a delicate role as one of the embassy workers. Affleck’s performance isn’t bad, it’s just flat compared to the rest of the cast.

That being said, let me reiterate how impressive Affleck’s Argo is: It is easily one of the best films I’ve seen this year. You’ll bite your nails, hold your breath and scratch at your armrest. And then when you get home, you can do it all over again when you read the real story.

NOTE: I'm really liking the press still for this movie, so I'm posting almost all of them. All are clickable. More after the jump.

Some dogs go to heaven ...

What genre is Frankenweenie? The answer to that question can be given using the director’s name: Tim Burton, a man who thinks a neighborhood is defined by the shapes of the shrubs and the neatness of the lawn. Burton’s poor landscapers; that’s a job I don’t envy.

Treading on Edward Scissorhands’ manicured turf, Burton revisits the suburbs — and his very first film — with Frankenweenie, an eccentric stop-motion animated movie that contains all the film flourishes that Burton is known for, from the satirical view of suburbia and the gloomy dirge that hangs over it, to the oddball cast of loners and Danny Elfman’s magical score.

Many people are fans of the Burton aesthetic, but I often wonder if he’s painted himself in a dark, cobwebbed corner. After all, when everyone is a gothic misfit — as is often the case in his movies — that’s like saying no one is. Only so many movies can be designed around that premise, and Burton is pushing his luck. At this point it would be almost more taboo if one his characters bought clothes from the GAP, listened to Lady Gaga or played the individuality-crushing sport of football. Nonetheless, as worn and self-plagiarizing as his stories are, I admired Frankenweenie and all its stop-motion zaniness.

Victor Frankenstein (Charlie Tahan) is a teen living in a suburban wonderland. The parents in this hamlet of New Holland are normal folks, so normal that Martin Short voices the dad and Catherine O’Hara voices the mom. Their last name may be Frankenstein, but they’re fairly boring, even Victor, who’s a shade or two lighter than many of Wynona Ryder’s or Johnny Depp’s iconic Burton roles. Victor has no friends, just his dog Sparky, his trusty and loyal sidekick.

After Sparky is squished into chili in a car accident, Victor rebuilds the doggy corpse, hoists it up a pulley during a rainstorm and waits for lightning to jolt the pooch alive. This scene, with many whirling parts and lots of arcing electricity, is nifty and fun. Best of all, the experiment works and Sparky is once again a member of the family, though Victor must hide his reanimated pet, with its leprous limbs that fall off randomly, from his well-meaning parents and his curious classmates, one of whom serves as Victor’s Igor, a hunchbacked little minion. I liked the hunchback kid, especially the way the other characters seemed unfazed by his obvious and severe hunch and also his maniacal cackle. At one point he wants to make a death ray for the science fair, and is rebuffed by the science fair rules that stipulate “No death rays!”

Once word of Sparky’s resurrection surfaces at school, all of Victor’s classmates want to know his secret so they can jolt their own pets — including a sewer rat, a packet of sea monkeys, a turtle and a mummified guinea pig — back to life. These tests don’t go as well as Sparky’s and the kids end of creating abominations that terrorize the town. The final fight takes place at a fiery windmill, just like the original Frankenstein movie and also Burton’s Sleepy Hallow.

Frankenweenie, like an old horror movie, is shown in black and white and that format serves it well by setting an appropriate tone. The plastic characters are the stop-motion grandchildren of Burton’s Nightmare Before Christmas and the children of Corpse Bride — they’re all elbows and knees, with long matchstick limbs, except for the fat characters who are so morbidly obese they they’re bellies undulate as they move. If you’ve read my reviews long enough then you know I adore stop-motion movies, and Frankenweenie is a fine example, though I much prefer the other horror-inspired stop-motion movie from this year, ParaNorman.

My favorite part of Frankenweenie is Victor’s science teacher, an ominous mortician of a man with a name made of what I thought was every letter in the alphabet; it sounded like the students were saying “Mr. Rice Krispies.” He has an Eastern European accent, a mouthful of long cigarette-shaped teeth and a deep love of science. His demonstration on electricity is so intense that it seems to channel Sam Kinison, Lewis Black or any of those other comics who unhinge the louder they get. He is utterly flabbergasted when the townspeople have him fired for teaching science (and not religious zealotry). “In my country we love science. Even my plumber has a Nobel prize,” he tells them. For a few short moments, Mr. Rice Krispies manages to hijack the plot and make a valid argument for science in schools. It’s hilarious, heartfelt and completely convincing.

Frankenweenie is not the best stop-motion animated movie this year — ParaNorman and The Pirates! Band of Misfits are both more fun — though it certainly is noteworthy. Even more noteworthy is this little fact: Hollywood has not given up on stop-motion, one of filmmaking’s oldest tricks. That makes this stop-motion fan very happy.

As with all stop-motion movies, I'm including most of the press photos. All are clickable. More after the jump. 

Stop-motion lives ... and Frankenweenie pix

Three stop-motion movies in a year! Who has a blog, can’t spell “nauseau” without looking it up and is ecstatic beyond words? This guy. (I’m pointing at me, but you can point to yourself if it applies.)

Like this year’s ParaNorman and Pirates! Band of Misfits before it, Frankenweenie exemplifies the need for stop-motion movies to continue being made in Hollywood, which is somehow obliging everyone with more stop-motion movies (!!!) even though the medium isn’t bringing in Avengers-amounts of money.

I won’t endlessly wonder why these movies keep getting made, and instead be grateful that they are. Here are some behind-the-scenes shots from Frankenweenie. I love the scale of the characters and how the filmmakers are often holding them up and peering into their little eyes. It’s like a real-life Toy Story. (Also, what is wrong with Tim Burton's hair?)

Garner butters up in all-American satire

Butter might be the first movie to implicate your movie popcorn in the plot.

Did you know butter sculpting was a national pastime in some states? I didn’t. I kept thinking about that Brad Paisley fast-food ad about all-American things: “Bald eagles, monster trucks, toddler pageants, spray tans, dog sweaters.” Add to that list butter sculpting, at least in places like Iowa, where Butter is unflatteringly set.

Artists begin by mashing together little sticks of butter to create giant blocks, from which they will carve their masterpieces. Never mind that the medium of butter — in a horrifying shade of Simpsons yellow and just all-around kinda icky — does not help elevate a sculpture’s artistic appeal. This does not stop these butter sculptors from hilariously carving the Last Supper, a scene from Schindler’s List or “Neil Diamond as Jesus” into tasteless butter-kitsch. Other works include “Newt Gingrich on a horse” and a scene of the JFK assassination complete with Jackie O. climbing over the back of the limousine to retrieve a piece of the dying president.

The absurdity of butter is its central component, and if you are to appreciate its satirical tone, then you must accept a world where butter is not only the currency of the film, but also its economy, religion and science.

Butter-sculpting champion Bob Pickler (Ty Burrell) is being forced into retirement. “Time to give some other people a chance to shine,” the butter-sculpting chairman tells him. This is not good news for Bob’s wife, Laura (Jennifer Garner), who calls herself the first lady of butter. Laura, a Midwest version of Sarah Palin — complete with attacks on the “liberal media” for not covering butter competitions like the Super Bowl — decides to take up butter carving herself to remain in the yellow-tinted spotlight.

Meanwhile, 12-year-old Destiny (Yara Shahidi) is shuffled back and forth to foster families until she ends up with the Emmets (Rob Corddry and Alicia Silverstone), a sweet couple who encourage good things from their new family member. For a reason that’s not explained, Destiny takes an interest in butter carving, which leads to calamity at the county fair when Destiny’s sculpture of Harriet Tubman upstages Laura Pickler’s creation in a way that cuts right to her core. Laura casts aside any notions of sportsmanship, or even common decency, to launch a vicious attack on the innocent tween and her natural gift for shaping butter.

The movie, which draws some of its cheery spirit and satirical edge from Jason Reitman’s Thank You For Smoking, plays fast and loose with its composition. The plot is narrated by many characters, including a cheating huckster played by Hugh Jackman, who plays the character like he did his research from an Iowa Walmart. Laura also does some narrating, especially during a key sequence when she discovers her husband, “the Elvis of butter,” has paid a stripper for sex.

The stripper, played with a charming zest by Olivia Wilde, is never far from any storyline after her run-in with Laura and her bewildered husband. She aligns herself with Destiny, if only to make Laura suffer. The vengeful stripper might be the best part of Butter. I liked how she kept trying to get her $600 that Bob owed her, but then her services are required for another Pickler family member and the number jumps to $1,200. At one point she takes Destiny to the mall where she points at the Victoria Secret store and says, “That’s where I buy my work clothes.” Destiny, rightfully, asks where she works. “Barnes & Noble,” the stripper tells her. Olivia Wilde needs her own movie with this character.

Also interesting is Garner as the butter diva. She overplays the role, but it works because Butter is just satirical enough for a performance that borders on parody. Garner plays with a subtle racial undertone; her Laura thinks she deserves the butter crown not because she’s the best, but because she’s white and privileged and that’s the way it happens in Iowa. “This is exactly why I stopped watching American Idol,” she says as Destiny, a black girl, is awarded the top prize. (In another scene, Laura condescendingly tells a group of children with Down syndrome: “You people are the small flashlights that help the dark world find its lost car keys.”) The racial subtext doesn’t get too explicit, but it’s present throughout the whole movie and you only have to squint a little to see some topical national issues — voter ID laws, perhaps — bubbling to the surface in this cauldron of butter.

As much as I enjoyed the jokes, much of Butter feels like a work in progress; in some places you can almost see the scaffolding around the script. I didn’t quite believe how quick Destiny took up butter carving; it needed a scene or two to explain her fascination. And Wilde’s role should have been expanded, including her first butter carving competition, which ends with a joke so weak that you could easily outdo it with your own gag. Although there are flashes of comic brilliance, the movie seems unaware of its own potential by presenting jokes in mediocre ways or by missing great comedy opportunities.

Still, Butter is very funny and full of likeable, though sometimes deplorable, characters. It’s rated R, though I’m curious as to why they didn’t cut some F-words to get a PG-13 rating. Or, the reverse, they should have made it raunchier to justify the rating. In any case, you will find much to love in Butter.

Whatever you do, though, just don’t call it margarine.