ALICE IN WONDERLAND Here's the problem with the vast majority of movies based on Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and its sequel, Through the Looking-Glass: They're too tame, too hesitant and too conventional to really tap into the more unsettling aspects of an immortal fantasy that provides as much satisfaction for adults as for children. And now, falling down the rabbit hole of good intentions, is Tim Burton's new take on the classic, a visually stimulating rendition that nevertheless comes off as lamentably timid. Carroll's 7-year-old protagonist has been transformed into a 19-year-old heroine (played by Mia Wasikowska), who escapes from a dull Victorian-era garden party only to find herself tumbling into the strange world known as "Underland." She quickly comes to learn that this mysterious place is ruled by the wicked Red Queen (Helena Bonham Carter), who has usurped the throne from her saintly sister, the now-banished White Queen (Anne Hathaway). Convinced that it's all only a dream, Alice largely stumbles from one incident to the next; her strongest ally proves to be The Mad Hatter (Johnny Depp), who lost his marbles at the same time the White Queen lost her empire. Providing unnecessary backstory to an established character like the Hatter is the sort of boxed-in thinking that often torpedoes the picture. The changes made to the source material are, almost without exception, devoid of true vision or imagination, meaning that the most demented moments need to be embraced whenever they sporadically appear. The only cast member who truly excels is Bonham Carter, whose performance is outrageous enough to meet the demands of the Red Queen's excesses yet also allows a smidgen of pity to be applied toward the character's resigned awareness of her own deformity. The actress clearly holds the winning hand here, trumping all other players in this rickety house of cards. **1/2

AVATAR The only film capable of surpassing Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen as the Fanboy Fave of 2009, James Cameron's massively hyped Avatar at least differs from Michael Bay's boondoggle in that it's, you know, entertaining. On the other hand, the notion that it represents the next revolution in cinema is nothing more than studio-driven hyperbole, because while the 3-D visuals might rate four stars, Cameron's steady but unexceptional screenplay guarantees that this falls well below more compatible marriages of substance and style found in such celluloid groundbreakers as the original King Kong, 2001: A Space Odyssey, Toy Story and Cameron's own Terminator films. Here, the story meshes Dances With Wolves and Pocahontas with, amusingly enough, this year's animated flop Battle for Terra -- it's the year 2154, and the Americans have decided to destroy the indigenous people on a distant planet in order to plunder the land and make off with its riches (plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose). Employing technology that allows humans to look like the blue-skinned locals, the Earthlings send in a Marine (Sam Worthington) to gain their trust, but as the jarhead gets to know these aliens better, he finds himself conflicted. For all its swagger, Avatar is rarely deeper than an average Garfield strip, but Cameron's creation of a new world demands to be seen at least once. ***

THE BOOK OF ELI Talk about apocalypse now. If there's one positive thing to be said about the sudden glut of end-of-the-world tales, it's that the batting average in terms of quality has been on the winning side. Certainly, 2012 was a stinker, but The Road, Zombieland, Terminator Salvation and now The Book of Eli have all been compelling watches, each for different reasons. In the case of The Book of Eli, the first film directed by The Hughes Brothers since 2001's criminally underrated Johnny-Depp-meets-Jack-the-Ripper movie From Hell, it's the potent religious slant that makes it intriguing. Thirty years after a war that wiped out most of the world's population, only one Bible remains in existence. The righteous Eli (Denzel Washington) owns it, planning to use it for good; the despicable Carnegie (Gary Oldman) wants it, planning to use it to forward his own insidious agenda (no mention in Gary Whitta's script as to whether Carnegie is related to Pat Robertson). Admittedly, the spiritual stuff often takes a back seat to sequences of Eli slicing and dicing his way through hordes of sinners. But Washington provides the proper amount of gravitas to his role, and the surprise ending almost matches the denouement of The Sixth Sense as an audience grabber. ***

THE BOUNTY HUNTER The Oscars for Best Sound Editing and Best Sound Mixing frequently go to war movies or science fiction films ­ this year, for example, The Hurt Locker beat out such competitors as Avatar, Inglourious Basterds and Star Trek for both statues. Frankly, I think the criteria regarding these categories should be modified so that the winner doesn't necessarily have to promote technical innovation or seat-rattling verisimilitude, but can instead simply make a torturous viewing experience more tolerable by including some aural pleasures certain to ease the suffering of moviegoers. By that token, I nominate The Bounty Hunter as an early contender for the next round of annual awards. If nothing else, the soundtrack contains a delightfully eclectic mix of songs, from The Rolling Stones' "Hang Fire" and Run-D.M.C.'s "It's Tricky" to Frank Sinatra's "This Town" and Jerry Reed's "She Got the Goldmine (I Got the Shaft)." Whenever these tunes (and others) floated through the auditorium speakers, it was possible to shut my eyes and pretend I was back home, peacefully sitting on the couch with beer or wine in hand. But then the music would subside and somebody on screen, usually Jennifer Aniston or Gerard Butler, would start speaking again, and I was cruelly snapped back to reality. Honestly, what's there to say about a romantic comedy so generic that it might as well have been called Generic Romantic Comedy? As the title character, a slob who's been hired to find his ex-wife and haul her to jail for missing a court date, Butler builds on The Ugly Truth by playing another boorish chauvinist, once again demonstrating that his comedic instincts are roughly on par with those of a great white shark. And as the angry ex, a reporter who's on the verge of single-handedly cracking a murder case (in tight dress and heels, of course), Aniston regrettably shows that she's only dependable when insulated by terrific indie casts (The Good Girl, Friends with Money) or co-starring opposite adorable retriever puppies (aww, Marley!). Predictably plotted, poorly cast (the leads have zero chemistry) and painfully unfunny (nothing here to even crack a smile, let alone bust a gut), The Bounty Hunter is yet one more imbecilic effort suffering from arrested development. *

CHLOE Most films populated by Hollywood stars are generally launched stateside, but it nevertheless should come as no surprise that Chloe had already been making the European rounds. After all, American moviegoers aren't accustomed to seeing films in which the subject of sex is treated in an adult manner, so perhaps the studio determined that Yank audiences needed a few extra weeks to prepare for the experience. Chloe is still a tame affair compared to its counterparts over on the Continent, but at least it's neither juvenile nor prudish, two qualities that taint the vast majority of homegrown flicks. Director Atom Egoyan (Exotica) and scripter Erin Cressida Wilson (Secretary) are no strangers to combining carnal encounters with cerebral ruminations, and here their starting point is the longtime marriage of gynecologist Catherine Stewart (Julianne Moore) and professor David Stewart (Liam Neeson). With the passion and excitement long drained from their relationship, Catherine starts to wonder if David is having an affair with one of his students -- the signs are certainly there. She hires a wide-eyed escort named Chloe (Amanda Seyfried) to seduce her spouse and report back to her, but the good doctor is surprised to learn that the girl's graphic descriptions of their trysts are sexually arousing her. Is she excited by David's illicit activities, or is she turned on by Chloe herself? For a good while, Chloe hums along on the strength of its weighty themes, including the difficulties inherent in keeping a marriage invigorated, the ability of intelligent people to use words to blur others' perceptions of reality, and the manner in which pent-up desire can manifest itself in unexpected ways. It's a shame, then, that the film utterly collapses as it rounds third base. Chloe is a remake of the 2003 French flick Nathalie; I've never seen that picture, so I can't say whether the crippling choices presented here were made by Wilson or carried over from the source material. At any rate, what had worked as a bracing character study of an aging woman afraid of losing everything (Seyfried may essay the title role, but this is Moore's show all the way) lamentably turns into a mopey melodrama with an obvious plot twist, as well as a second-rate thriller in which complicated people suddenly become one-dimensional and the spirit of Fatal Attraction hovers over the entire production. But hey, at least we're spared the boiled bunny. **1/2

CLASH OF THE TITANS 3-D or not 3-D -- that's not even a question as far as Clash of the Titans is concerned. In the wake of Avatar's phenomenal success, studios are shamelessly slapping the 3-D format onto whatever pictures are in the can, failing to take into account that Avatar's visuals were so stunning because the picture was shot in 3-D. Clash of the Titans represents the laziest use of the process to date: I repeatedly removed my special glasses during the screening and could scarcely tell any difference between 2-D and 3-D. My advice? Avoid any theater charging more to see this in 3-D; it's not worth the extra cash. As to whether the film itself is worth seeing in any format, that's a closer call. Fans of the 1981 original won't find many improvements here: Ray Harryhausen's lovingly crafted stop-motion effects have been swapped out for the usual CGI sound and fury; the ingratiating sense of camp has been obliterated, replaced by a solemnity signaled by furrowed brows and stone faces (and not just on those who encounter Medusa); and the amusing banter between the gods (played by the likes of Laurence Olivier and Maggie Smith) is noticeably MIA. On its own terms, however, the film is passable spectacle. As Perseus, the mortal son of Zeus (Liam Neeson) who must thwart Hades (Ralph Fiennes) by defeating a string of ghastly beasts and saving both a city and its princess (Alexa Davalos), Avatar's Sam Worthington is merely OK, but his character is backed by a colorful assortment of warriors who make his journey memorable. Fiennes' portrayal of Hades may not have fallen far from the Voldemort tree, but he nevertheless cuts a menacing figure. And while most of the mythical creatures (Medusa, the Kraken) pale next to Harryhausen's achievements, the monstrous scorpions prove to be an exception, and superb FX work allows their battle with the humans to emerge as the film's action highlight. Those hoping for a Harry Hamlin sighting (he played Perseus in the original) will be left hanging, but rest assured that there's a clever cameo appearance by another vet of the '81 release. It would be cruel and unfair to viewers to reveal the exact scene here (clue: it involves a non-human character), but it's an amusing gag, and it slices through the rest of the picture's glumness with the precision of a sword crafted by Zeus himself. **1/2

THE CRAZIES After a mysterious virus is accidentally unleashed on a small Iowa town and turns many of its inhabitants insane, the military arrives to quarantine the area and contain the threat. But it soon becomes clear that, to the unaffected humans, the soldiers are as hazardous to their health as their crazed neighbors. While this remake of George Romero's 1973 film is more smoothly realized than its predecessor, it's also been streamlined for mass consumption, removing all thorny sociopolitical subtext, avoiding a cruelly ironic conclusion (arguably the high point of the '73 model), and throwing in far too many cheap scares. The use of lowbrow shock effects (i.e. when someone suddenly jumps into the frame, or a loud noise suddenly fills the soundtrack; see The Wolfman for more examples) is a real shame, since the more effective moments suggest that director Breck Eisner could have built genuine suspense had he been given the chance: One character's encounter with an electric medical saw is both hair-raising and humorous, and an attack inside a car wash is effectively staged. More scenes like these would have truly goosed the proceedings, but as it stands, The Crazies is creatively too measured for its own good. **

CRAZY HEART Robert Duvall appears in a supporting role in Crazy Heart and also serves as one of the film's producers. His participation in this project makes complete sense: He wanted to personally hand the baton off to Jeff Bridges. After all, Duvall won his Best Actor Academy Award for 1983's Tender Mercies, and now here comes Bridges, the odds-on favorite to finally win his own Oscar for playing the same type of role essayed by Duvall -- that of a rumpled, boozing, country & western star who enters into a relationship with a sympathetic woman at least two decades his junior. Bridges' grizzled character goes by the name Bad Blake, and that first name describes less the man who bears it -- he's fundamentally decent although, like most drunks, irresponsible and exhausting -- than the circumstances of his present lot in life. Washed up, perpetually inebriated, and playing honky-tonk dives while his protégée, Tommy Sweet (Colin Farrell), fills up massive arenas, Blake stays in the fight even though the odds are against him. But suddenly, unexpected developments on the personal and professional fronts hold real promise. Sweet turns up and, clearly fond of his former mentor, offers him an opening slot on his tour and the opportunity to write new songs for him. And Blake, a multiple divorce' and unrepentant womanizer, finds a chance at a lasting relationship when he meets and falls for reporter and single mom Jean Craddock (Maggie Gyllenhaal). Will Blake finally encounter true happiness, or will he find some way to screw everything up? Adapting Thomas Cobbs' novel, writer-director Scott Cooper throws enough curve balls into the expected plotting to keep the narrative from completely dissolving into formula. This is Bridges' show from start to finish, and he seems to be taking particular glee in letting it all hang out (sometimes literally, as a generous gut is frequently glimpsed bursting through an open shirt). Jeff Bridges is a great actor and Bad Blake a great character, and that's more than enough to make this otherwise unexceptional picture sing. ***

BROOKLYN'S FINEST Brooklyn's Finest certainly isn't Hollywood's finest. This tired police actioner admittedly picks up during its second half, but by then, patrons may be too deep in slumber to be woken even by the constant gunplay, shouted profanity or blaring coincidences that clang against each other with Crash-like precision. Speaking of Crash, that film's Don Cheadle shows up for ensemble duty here as well, playing one of three NYC police officers whose lives will intersect at various points during this pedestrian picture's running time. He plays Tango, an undercover cop who isn't sure if he can betray the powerful crime lord (Wesley Snipes) who trusts him like a brother. Meanwhile, Sal (Ethan Hawke) is tired of trying to support his large family on his measly salary, so he figures there's no harm in pocketing the cash found in the drug dens he helps bust. Finally, there's Eddie (one-note Richard Gere), a surly loner who has only one week to go before his retirement. Antoine Fuqua previously directed Training Day (for which Denzel Washington won his second Oscar), but here he's tackling a script with training wheels, as Michael C. Martin (making his feature-film writing debut) can't escape from the ghosts of cop flicks past. The only modest surprises occur at the very end -- not everyone gets the fate that might be expected -- but at that point, most viewers will be ready to walk a different beat altogether. **

GREEN ZONE The popular notion that goldfish only have a memory span of roughly three seconds has long been denounced by many as a myth, but that length of time sounds about right for the significant portion of the American population that hides under the bed fretting over fictional "death panels" while conveniently forgetting the Middle Eastern bloodbath that clearly branded George W. Bush and cronies as war criminals, a scarlet letter that will remain firmly in place until End of Days. To these folks, I present Green Zone, which comes across like a Young Readers version of the superb Iraq war documentary No End In Sight. Unfortunately, these folks are unlikely to expose themselves to anything that doesn't get the Glenn Beck Seal of Approval, meaning that we're left with yet another product that will only preach to the choir. But there's nothing here that will surprise anyone who's been paying the least bit of attention. Set in 2003, this stars Matt Damon as conscientious Chief Warrant Officer Roy Miller, who eventually realizes that there are no WMDs in Iraq -- that the whole war is based on a lie -- and does his best to expose the truth. Damon's intensity and Brian Helgeland's incident-packed script compensate for Paul Greengrass' panicky direction -- the action-packed final half-hour is especially messy, with no clarity of character or situation -- but the whole enterprise is rather simplistic in its moralizing. Green Zone basically plays like Iraq War for Dummies -- not that such a manual isn't needed, mind you. **

HOT TUB TIME MACHINE Viewers wary of getting burned in Be Kind Rewind fashion (clever premise, tepid results) would be well-advised to approach Hot Tub Time Machine in a cautious manner. That isn't to say the movie doesn't deserve its solid endorsement; it's merely to point out that, despite its irresistible hook, this isn't the ultimate 1980s tribute film that the world -- well, OK, the '80s generation -- has eagerly been anticipating. Director Steve Pink and his trio of writers create four distinct individuals to head up the picture: Adam ('80s player John Cusack), nursing a broken heart after his girlfriend leaves him; Lou (Rob Corddry), so obnoxious that even his few friends can't stand being around him; Nick (Craig Robinson), who suspects his wife is having an affair; and the much younger Jacob (Clark Duke), Adam's nerdy, couch-potato nephew. With Jacob in tow, the three 40-somethings return to the resort that figured prominently in their youth; it's there where they encounter a hot tub that transports them back to 1986, when leg warmers were the norm, C. Thomas Howell was a movie star and -- kids, you may want to sit down for this one -- MTV actually played music videos. Pink and his team could have coasted with this premise, but once viewers get past the obligatory raunch (a necessary salute, I suppose, to such atrocious 80s comedies as Private School and Porky's Revenge), they might be surprised to discover the level of genuine wit on display. As far as the '80s research goes, some sloppiness is definitely on view -- one character makes a reference to 21 Jump Street even though that show didn't premiere until April 1987. And some of the missed opportunities are too glaring to ignore: Given the abundance of youth flicks during that decade (the Brat Pack and beyond), didn't anyone think to ring up Anthony Michael Hall or Judd Nelson with the offer of a cameo appearance? Admittedly, Hot Tub Time Machine might play better to those with more than a passing familiarity with the era. More specifically, its target audience might best be summed up by this statement uttered by Lou after making a new friend: "We actually have a lot in common: We both love tits and Motley Crue." ***

THE LAST SONG Steve McQueen, Sally Field and George Clooney are among the many actors who successfully transitioned from the small screen to the large one (and don't forget that fellow named Clint), but Miley Cyrus seems more likely to join the ranks of Kirk Cameron, Tony Danza and the Olsen twins, thespians who attempted to make the leap but fell short by about 10 miles. In this adaptation of the Nicholas Sparks novel, the Disney Channel product stars as Ronnie, a brooding teen who's none too thrilled that she's forced to spend the summer with her father (Greg Kinnear) at his beachside home (filming took place in Savannah and Tybee Island). Still angry at him for divorcing her mom (the ageless Kelly Preston), she shows her disapproval by turning down acceptance at Julliard, refusing to eat dinner with him, and, well, pouting whenever she's in his presence (that'll teach him!). Initially, Cyrus' character is supposed to be this anti-establishment rebel, but the actress suggests "punk" about as much as Barney the Purple Dinosaur. At any rate, she eventually mellows out after meeting local hunk Will (Liam Hemsworth), a jock from a rich family. From here, the film slogs its way through the usual hoary conventions, including Will's snotty circle objecting to Ronnie's lack of wealth and prestige and the sudden terminal disease sprung on one of the principal players. Cyrus isn't quite ready for her big-screen close-up, as evidenced by her clumsy pauses (as if she expects canned sit-com reactions after her every utterance) as well as her exaggerated enunciation that's more suited to the boob tube. But let's not be too rough on the child: It's hard to put one's best foot forward when dealing with a script that's the literary equivalent of cement shoes. *1/2

REMEMBER ME I'm not saying it's impossible for the surprise ending of Remember Me to work (not to worry; no spoilers here); however, it needs to be attached to a project a lot more distinguished than the one on display here. But because the bulk of Remember Me is clumsy, mawkish and marked by some truly heinous dialogue, the conclusion proves to be staggering in its tastelessness, and one gets the impression that scripter Will Fetters came up with this "gotcha!" moment first and then banged out enough drivel leading up to it in order to have a completed screenplay to shop around. Twilight's Robert Pattinson maintains his gloomy 'tude here as well: He's cast as Tyler Hawkins, who loves his precocious little sister (bright Ruby Jerins), runs afoul of his distant dad (Pierce Brosnan), and still misses the older brother who committed suicide six years earlier. Through labored screenwriting, Tyler meets and falls for Ally Craig (Emilie de Ravin), who's also been touched by a death in her immediate family. Most of Remember Me is banal and insipid, conditions brought on as much by director Allen Coulter's inability to stage a scene as by Fetters' cringe-worthy lines. Pattinson and de Ravin are earnest but never quite connect as screen lovers, while Tate Ellington's character of Aidan Hall, Tyler's roomie and best bud, is the most obnoxious sidekick/comic relief seen in many a new moon: The character's description of his penchant for bedding women of all nationalities -- "I've planted my flag in every country!" -- is particularly gag-inducing. Nothing, however, is more retch-worthy than that ill-conceived climax, which will strike the easily manipulated as deep but will cause most discerning viewers to recognize it for a cheap trick that should come with some sort of trigger warning before it unfolds. *

REPO MEN Not to be confused with 1984's dissimilar Repo Man but easily able to be mixed up with 2008's identically plotted Repo! The Genetic Opera, Repo Men mostly plays like an uninspired rip-off of Logan's Run plus Brazil plus Total Recall plus Monty Python's The Meaning of Life plus ... well, I could do this all day. Suffice it to say that there's little here to excite anyone except maybe the gorehounds. A futuristic saga with more blood than brains, this centers on Remy (Jude Law), whose career as a repo man for a company called The Union means that whenever someone falls behind on their payments for the mechanical organs keeping them healthy, it's his job to track the person down and forcibly remove the expensive piece of hardware by any means necessary (as expected, the client often doesn't survive the procedure). Like any good citizen of this country, Remy only cares about things that directly affect him, so it's only after he's injured and subsequently outfitted with a new heart he can't afford that he thinks, "Hey, maybe what I've been doing to people isn't so nice!" No kidding. Now equipped with a self-serving conscience, he finds himself on the run, being chased by his partner and best friend, Jake (Forest Whitaker). Whitaker's inventive performance is an asset, but Repo Men, based on Eric Garcia's novel The Repossession Mambo, isn't able to take its potentially provocative storyline past the alternately silly, lazy and illogical scripting by Garrett Lerner and Garcia himself. To be sure, there are moments of inspiration (the child surgeon, for example), but for the most part, here's another piece of clunky sci-fi hardware that could use an overhaul. **

SHUTTER ISLAND Just how obvious is the big "twist" that concludes Shutter Island, Martin Scorsese's adaptation of Dennis Lehane's novel? So obvious that some folks who haven't read the book are figuring it out simply by watching the trailer. But just how accomplished is the picture anyway? Enough that viewers will happily be led down the rabbit hole by a director with the ability to distract them with every technique at his disposal. Delivering yet another topnotch performance that might help him win some sort of lifetime achievement award before he even hits 40, Leonardo DiCaprio stars as Teddy Daniels, a U.S. federal marshal who, with his new partner Chuck Aule (Mark Ruffalo), travels to a mental asylum located on a remote island off the Massachusetts coastline. The year is 1954, and the lawmen are there to investigate the disappearance of one of the inmates. But although the head of the facility (Ben Kingsley) assures them that they'll have the full cooperation of the entire staff, it soon becomes apparent that everyone has something to hide, and Teddy must suss out the truth even while plagued by debilitating headaches, gruesome flashbacks to his World War II years, and disturbing hallucinations involving his deceased wife (Michelle Williams). Scorsese's in pulp fiction mode here (see also Cape Fear and The Departed), which essentially means that this is one of those pleasing instances when "B"-movie material is given the "A"-list treatment. The screenplay by Laeta Kalogridis is packed with so much intriguing incident that it's easy to not even notice the plotholes until post-movie reflection, and all the craftspeople who won Oscars for Scorsese's The Aviator are back on board, resulting in an immaculate presentation that fully engages the senses. And while the major plot pirouette will disappoint discerning viewers, it's followed by an ambiguous coda that insures all moviegoers will exit the Island with at least something to ponder. ***

THE WOLFMAN Loosely based on the 1941 classic The Wolf Man, this disappointing new take casts Benicio Del Toro in Lon Chaney Jr.'s iconic role of Lawrence Talbot, the British-born nobleman who returns to his family estate after spending most of his life in the United States. Estranged from his aloof father, Sir John Talbot (Anthony Hopkins), Lawrence prefers the company of his late brother's fiancee, Gwen Conliffe (Emily Blunt), but he fears for her safety after a wound from a ferocious creature periodically turns him into a monster. Although he's physically right for the role, Del Toro's line readings are unbearably stilted, and he brings none of the playfulness that Chaney contributed in his rendition. In short, he's a brooding bore. Fresh from triumphing as the title character in The Young Victoria, Blunt is alarmingly one-note, hampered by a sketchy part that allows her to do little more than pout and fret. As for Hopkins, he's clearly indifferent to the whole project, and one suspects his eyes kept darting back and forth between the dopey script in one hand and the hefty paycheck in the other as he mulled over whether to accept the part. The makeup design by Rick Baker is excellent, although the transformation scenes aren't nearly as thrilling as the pivotal one in 1981's An American Werewolf in London (for which Baker won the first of his six Oscars). Yet what sinks the film on the technical side is the abundance of CGI effects; these simply come off as (no pun intended) overkill, with Johnston pouring on the gore in an effort to disguise the fact that the picture contains nothing in the way of genuine suspense or scares. Johnston's heavy use of cheap "gotcha!" moments (i.e. when the setting is quiet and then something suddenly LEAPS! into the frame or DASHES! across the screen) likewise points to his inability to coax any authentic reactions out of audience members, who will probably be too busy tittering at the risible dialogue anyway to concentrate on much else. As for the epic battle pitting werewolf versus werewolf -- well, let's just say it couldn't be any less frightening had the filmmakers elected to pit Pekingese against Poodle. *1/2