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EASY VIRTUE Alfred Hitchcock directed a silent film version of the Noel Coward play Easy Virtue back in 1927, which is sort of amusing given that Coward's works are known for their verbal wit and audio elegance – factors that hardly benefit from the employment of title cards. Director Stephan Elliott's new version finds the characters speaking loud and clear, only what's being heard isn't always unfiltered Coward. Elliott has poked and prodded the original source material, resulting in a picture that suffers from a clear identity crisis. Set in the 1920s, the film stars Jessica Biel as Larita, an American race car driver who has just married dashing young Brit John Whitaker (Ben Barnes, Narnia's Prince Caspian). Larita travels to his English estate to meet his family, and that's when the familial fireworks begin. John's snooty mother (Kristin Scott Thomas) loathes Larita, and his two sisters (Kimberly Nixon and Katherine Parkinson) eventually follow suit; only John's dad (Colin Firth), a sarcastic layabout still shellshocked from his experience during the Great War, has Larita's back. Easy Virtue is a charming period piece that benefits from several prickly scenes as well as fine acting by the British thespians – I especially enjoyed Kris Marshall as the all-seeing butler who takes everything in stride. But it's Elliott's attempts at modernizing the material that end up sabotaging the project. Biel is crucially miscast in the central role,and while the use of contemporary music in period pieces has worked in the past (Moulin Rouge, A Knight's Tale), Elliott's drafting of newer tunes ("Car Wash," "Sex Bomb") among vintage hits feels tentative and never gels with the rest of the soundtrack. In the end, the frothy Easy Virtue is easy to like but hard to wholly recommend. **1/2
GHOSTS OF GIRLFRIENDS PAST Ghosts of Girlfriends Past has more to offer than Matthew McConaughey's past rom-com dalliances; it's still formulaic, disposable nonsense, but at least it benefits from a stellar supporting cast to prop up its leading player and a reliable source – Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol – to steer it in the right direction. McConaughey plays Connor Mead, a fashion photographer who goes through women the way viewers of Titanic went through tissues. His boorish behavior threatens to ruin the wedding of his younger brother (Breckin Meyer), but his womanizing Uncle Wayne (Michael Douglas) returns from the grave to show him there's more to life than just wooing the women. A more versatile actor would have sold this material more efficiently than McConaughey; as it stands, his tanned, aging-frat-boy routine allows his character to remain such an unrepentant, misogynistic creep for such a good chunk of the running time that almost all sympathy has been lost for this character by the time he finally begins to see the light. Luckily, co-star Jennifer Garner is a step (or 10) up from such vapid past co-stars as Kate Hudson and Jennifer Lopez, and she works hard to coax out his rakish charm. She succeeds more often than not, meaning a small measure of genuine warmth enters the frame during the latter portion of the film. While she (and Meyer) provide the emotion, others pick up McConaughey's slack by providing the laughs – especially indispensable are Robert Forster (as the father of the bride) and Douglas, both amusing as dissimilar examples of aging, curdled machismo. **1/2
THE HANGOVER It's what's known as putting matters in perspective. Folks who bash Judd Apatow for his various endeavors need only catch The Hangover to see that it's unfair to dismiss his pictures simply because they refuse to always toe the politically correct line. What's more, the majority of his films benefit from fluid plot developments, interesting characterizations, and gags that remain funny even in retrospect – conditions not enjoyed by this slapdash effort in which soon-to-be-married Doug (Justin Bartha) heads to Las Vegas to enjoy a final blowout romp with henpecked Stu (Ed Helms), dimwitted Alan (Zach Galifianakis) and prickish Phil (Bradley Cooper). After waking up to discover that the husband-to-be is MIA, the trio stumble around Vegas trying to piece the mystery together, a taxing jaunt that puts them in contact with two sadistic cops, a sweet-natured hooker (Heather Graham), and a pissed off Mike Tyson (as himself). That a convicted rapist like Tyson would be showcased in such fawning, reverential fashion ("He's still got it!" admires Stu after the former boxer decks Alan) pretty much reveals the mindsets of the filmmakers and their target demographic. This represents the worst sort of pandering slop, the type that appeases impressionable audiences who don't even realize they're being insulted. It insinuates that practically every man is a shallow asshole who revels in his Neanderthal habits, and that every woman falls into the category of shrew or whore. Unlike Apatow's characters, recognizably flawed people who nevertheless remain likable and interesting enough to earn our sympathies, these dipshits are neither funny enough nor engaging enough to command our attention as they wander through a series of set-pieces that reek of comic desperation rather then genuine inspiration. *1/2
