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Smooth-talking press personalities from a bygone age, chasing each other's tails and trying to get in the last word amidst a riled-up crew of snappy, witty, improv-happy verbal maestros. The breakneck pace this film is able to maintain via dialogue alone is just staggering, head-spinning to the point that I nearly lost track of what was going on with the plot while my brain tried to catch up with the last three or four punchlines.

I wasn't prepared for that kind of an onslaught, and I wasn't alone: caught in the middle of all the chatter is Bruce, a mild-mannered everyman who just wants to be a nice guy, give his new fiancee time to say goodbye to her ex-husband and former coworkers, board a train and ride off into a bright, happy future of marital bliss. He's eaten alive, almost literally. The ex (Cary Grant at the height of his stardom) isn't quite ready to move on from that lost love, and though the fiancee (Rosalind Russell, in a show-stealing turn) is wise to his tricks, she and Bruce are mired by them nonetheless. In the midst of a scheduled execution, a midnight prison break, late edition deadlines and bombshell headlines, the brusque, self-assured lady at the heart of this two-room maelstrom must choose between her lust for a juicy lead and the promise of a fresh start.

A hilarious rush of con artistry and self-preservation that seems to have outlasted the very industry it lampoons. I don’t think they make people like this any more, much less movies.

When it debuted in the winter of 1989, this sequel's wide-eyed portrait of the future was so ambitious and dramatic that it was tough to look beyond the superficial. Today, a mere four years removed from the distant year 2015 depicted on the screen, those predictions seem more like a creative writing essay from the science fiction magazines of the 1950s. They remain endearing and entertaining, albeit in a different way - the jokes still work, but their more serious elements either don't play or, worse, come off as pure camp. And, with the shiny veneer of that potential future relegated to nothing more than a running series of sight gags, the holes and flaws of the plot itself find themselves stripped bare.

It comes as something of a shock to me, given my fond memories, but this really is not a good film. What screen time the cast doesn't spend breathlessly explaining the plot (which is, perhaps, fifty percent of the runtime) is devoted to revisiting several of the best scenes from the first movie, rather than creating fond memories of their own. It's an overly elaborate story, unashamedly building to the split-narrative climax, that has neither the steady pace nor the genuine charm of the original. Plot holes the size of a steam engine are the least of its concerns, given that the first film managed to be such a success in spite of similar problems.

Let's be honest, this is about as close to an unfilmable property as it gets. Between the vast array of budget-busting concepts, characters and settings, the niche-settled sense of humor (granted, it's a rather large niche, but a niche all the same) and Douglas Adams's inimitably flirty, hilarious knack for description, it's a wonder this was even filmed because it seems so perfectly suited to a non-visual medium. But it's a popular title and Hollywood's long since run out of fresh, moneymaking ideas, so after two-plus decades in development hell, somebody finally gave it a green light. And, god bless it, the thing actually performs admirably well in a number of unexpected ways.

For starters, the visual design is a raging success. A creative wet dream, it's positively teeming with expertly-realized concepts. The dozens of alien races look magnificent, the competing spacecraft are wildly varied and thoroughly interesting, the guide itself is a note-perfect modernization of an aging concept, and the infamous factory on Magrathea is jaw-droppingly realized. The casting is deeply inspired, too, with Alan Rickman, Sam Rockford, Martin Freeman and Zooey Deschanel seemingly born to play their roles as Marvin, Zaphod, Arthur and Trillian, respectively.

The only snag lies in the story, which is half-baked at best, cripplingly over-ambitious at worst and even occasionally, inexcusably, dull. Too often it stretches too thin, striving to please everyone and instead falling universally short. The bare threads of Adams's original storyline are still there, plain as day, and they still work excellently. But they're back-seated by far too many indulgent side treks and wink-nod-grins for anyone's good. It's a commendable effort that does an awful lot right - far more than I was prepared to accept - but can't quite get over the hump into unbridled success.

Deep dives into the nature of consciousness with a side platter of police action, gunplay and high-speed pursuit. At first glance this may come off as stiff and impenetrable, but like the thematically-similar Blade Runner, Ghost in the Shell offers untold rewards to repeat viewers. The nature of our memories, how they define us, and the dangers of nefarious interference upon them; these are some pretty heavy topics, and it should come as no surprise that it takes some time to really let it all sink in.

Reflective and immersive, the film spends a lot of time ruminating on the meaning of life - both in conversation and in the long, lingering glances of city still-life it indulges upon between bursts of action. In these scenes, Kenji Kawai's magnificent score really gets a chance to shine; haunting and alien, it's a strange beauty and a perfect pairing for the uneasy-in-your-own-skin themes explored by the film. The art direction is a similar brow-raiser, effectively bringing the residents and landscape of New Port City to life in a style that remains loyal to Masamune Shirow's original work while also carving out a bold, fresh identity of its own.

It's rare for a twenty-year-old film about technology to still remain relevant in a modern light, but this one somehow seems even more appropriate today. The advent of smartphones and tablets alone has brought the essence of human interaction up for debate, and this lonesome vision of a near-future Japan now seems hauntingly prescient.

A conceptual powerhouse, it does have faults - far too many stationary talking heads, breathlessly spouting plot points - but inarguably deserves its status as one of eastern animation's cornerstones. I fear its subtlety and nuance will be lost upon Hollywood's forthcoming live-action adaptation.

It's been eighteen years since the birth of the last human child and civilization is barely hanging on by a thread. Clive Owen and Julianne Moore, members of a violent resistance movement, find themselves escorting the holy grail - a miraculously pregnant woman - through the dregs of a dystopian badland.

It's a great encapsulation of all the best elements of dark, future-gazing science fiction, hauntingly recognizable despite the distant timeframe. Owen is fantastic in a demanding leading role: part jaded worker-bee, part helpless victim, shattered widower, problem solver and action hero. The film moves incredibly quickly, delighting in its chances to shatter the illusion of tranquility with a jolting change of tone and fortune. One long, jaw-dropping shot in particular has stuck with me for years, even as details of the rest of the plot faded. If you've seen the film even once, you know exactly what I'm talking about.

And despite that breakneck tempo, it still somehow manages to work in a wealth of world-building details and delicate character moments. The action scenes are intense and vivid, the moral quandaries deeply disturbing, and its tenor is right on the mark. Epic, powerful sci-fi that teases a post-9/11 distrust of the government without overdoing it.

We join The Menu on a private pier, alongside a dozen snooty, well-dressed guests awaiting transport to an exclusive island retreat. There resides a world-renowned chef, plus an eerily devoted kitchen staff, who have prepared a culinary experience like no other. As we’re led through a tour of the grounds, curtly seated and served our first expensive wine pairing, a sense of unease settles over the room. There’s tension in the air, a mutual holding of the breath that disturbs the once-cordial atmosphere between dining partners and envelopes the celebrity chef like a cloak as he stands before the room to introduce the first course.

The film’s basic premise is that everyone has something to hide, no matter how they choose to disguise it, but it’s crafty about illustrating that point. Chef Slowik (Ralph Fiennes) has a personal bone to pick with all in attendance, save for one last-minute substitution (Anya Taylor-Joy), and uses the contents of the meal to voice those complaints. Dished in gratuitous detail and served with an itemized list of ingredients, it’s half high-end food porn and half salacious tell-off, with a spicy side tray of dark humor. Like its thematic contemporary, Glass Onion, The Menu works a fine balance between witty laughs and creepy suspense. Helplessly, we guess (often wrong but sometimes right) about the next surprise. We laugh at the absurdity of the menu, the vapidity of the social elite and the icy boldness of the staff. And, in the end, we’re left a little unnerved. Well done, all around.

Mythic, romantic kung-fu that functions under its own peculiar set of rules. Like a storybook, Crouching Tiger is more invested in a sense of poetic philosophy than the concrete laws of physical reality. Hence, gravity is treated as little more than a passing concern and we're released to enjoy a string of smooth, balletic airborne action scenes. Needless to say, they're all fantastic. Each one a unique member of the family, having swapped weaponry, dance partners and scenery from a wide pool of spectacular options. Hard-hitting but precise, it's a stunning display of form, strategy and blink-of-the-eye counter strikes, with the occasional dance across a serene lake thrown in to cut the tension.

The underlying story is rich and meaningful, too, though it is guilty of suddenly filling in a whole lot of back-story in one long, jolting flashback scene that chews up most of the second act. It's about hidden passions, personal guilt, the conflict between what looks right and what feels right... plus a lost comb and a stolen sword. Even undisputed masters on the battlefield must deal with private regrets after they've thrown the final blow.

A resonant Eastern epic that's chock full of memorable scenes, well-crafted characters, gorgeous locations and risky personal conflicts.

If we really aren’t alone in this universe, or on this planet, I have no doubt that the government agency in charge of minding the space neighbors looks and acts just like the Men in Black. Stoic in their perfect business suits, the MiB seek to impose order on an inherently disorderly situation, taking all manner of impossible behaviors and ridiculous body types in stride without so much as a second glance. After losing his longtime partner to retirement, one such agent (Tommy Lee Jones) recruits a mouthy NYPD detective (Will Smith) as replacement and proceeds to show him the ropes amidst the latest in a series of looming existential threats from above.

It’s obvious that everyone involved had a lot of fun with this concept. The entire cast takes their best stab at stealing the show: Jones as the ‘50s G-Man stereotype, Smith as his cocksure apprentice, Rip Torn as their curmudgeonly handler, Vincent D’Onofrio as a spastic victim of body-snatching; we’re truly spoiled for choice. The creature effects are appropriately playful and outlandish, as is the art direction and musical score (another characteristically quirky effort from ‘90s composer du-jour Danny Elfman). Director Barry Sonnenfeld allows us plenty of time to enjoy the absurdity, and for the stars to make hay with the bright, witty script, while also keeping the narrative moving and working in a few memorable, big-budget action splashes.

The jokes are still funny (even though I've long-since memorized most of the punchlines), the adventure provides a perfect blend of introduction and elaboration, and the pop culture asides still work a quarter-century later. Even the CG effects haven't aged too terribly, which is a real blessing considering their essential omnipresence. Enthusiastically funny, rambunctiously fast-paced and occasionally genuine, I was surprised (and relieved) to see it’s still so good.

Top of the line for a majority of Star Wars geeks, and for good reason. It's the ideal melting pot of George Lucas's vast, quirky imagination, his influences' knack for dark, large-scale epics, and his key contributors' determined efforts to retain a central humanism amidst all the creatures, effects and operatic indulgences.

A wildly ambitious picture, it's genuinely amazing just how much territory is covered over the course of two hours. Lucas and company manage to leap from the Hoth battle to Yoda on Dagobah, the asteroid field to Lando and Cloud City, before finally climaxing with the classic Luke / Vader showdown and revelation. That's an awfully large number of set pieces, not to mention some seriously powerful plot points, but smooth talking and a few outstanding performances keep the film from feeling over-stuffed or under-explored.

The cast, too, grows on an individual basis almost universally, with Luke wrapping himself in the wisdom of the Jedi, Han and Leia developing genuine chemistry and Darth Vader, in a surprise twist that should never have been so effective, actually showing some signs of humanity. Although it can be hammy from time to time, those moments are balanced expertly by a wonderful series of mountains and valleys, to the point that they stop being seen as negatives and instead contribute to the picture's eccentricity. A legendary effort that's just as monumental, entrancing and electric thirty years later, it's damn near perfect.

Harry and friends return for a second term, where they're quickly caught up in a long-standing plot to rid the school of so-called "impure" students. Between the celebrated, absurdly deep cast, the charming, nuanced world at large and the constant manipulations of a shadow-clad foil, this picture had an awful lot going for it right out of the gates... so why does it feel like we're just treading water? A large swath of The Chamber of Secrets seems inessential and redundant, which isn't to say it's without merit, just that it could be using this time to fry much larger fish. Did we need to reinforce the idea that Harry's adoptive parents are cruel people? Didn't our hero avoid an attempt on his life on the Quidditch pitch last time around? For that matter, wasn't the entire endgame eerily similar in the preceding installment? Too much time smelling the roses when there's a fire down the block.

Of course, it's not all bad news. The CGI, though still not without the occasional hiccup, has vastly improved since the last picture. That doesn't excuse the force-fed inclusion of an all-digital supporting character, but at least these appearances are kept mercifully short and to-the-point. Although it's the longest installment in the Harry Potter franchise, this chapter skims along at a strict pace and feels much shorter than it actually is. Though seemingly inconsequential as a whole, the plot does drop frequent hints at a darker side of the Hogwarts mythos before, ultimately, allowing such things to continue lurking in obscurity. It shows promise in spades, and will certainly capture the hearts and minds of the younger audiences it's primarily there for, but more demanding viewers will likely find it too thin and sugary for serious digestion.

The most timeless film of the Hughes / Ringwald / Brat Pack era, and clearly the most serious, personal work of the director's career. The Breakfast Club is an up-close, introspective look at five essentially disparate souls who share one cramped Saturday together in detention and, along the way, discover there's much more to their peers than what they wear and who they hang with.

Reminiscent of theater, much like the closed-room classic 12 Angry Men, this isn't a flashy picture but it really doesn't need to be. This film rides entirely on the strength of its authentic, revealing dialog and the astonishingly mature, resounding performances of its cast, who contribute many of the sharpest, most memorable lines via ad-lib. It's about trust (or lack thereof), pushing others' buttons, being honest with oneself, testing new boundaries and revealing a shared, deep-seated uneasiness about the perilous approach of adulthood and its inherent responsibilities. Emotions run high at this age, and they respect no class distinctions.

The cast may be extremely small, but it delivers across the board; Judd Nelson's damaged loner, Ally Sheedy's bashful antisocial, Anthony Michael Hall's over-stressed bookworm, Emilio Estevez's high-strung jock, Molly Ringwald's pretentious priss. Each role a potential career-maker, and not a missed note in the bunch. It's an existential essential, a notice to uncertain adolescents that somebody understands, and a reminder to their grown-up counterparts that they, too, were once just as troubled.

Michael Douglas plays a working-class man, pushed over the edge by the stress of modern life, family problems, work difficulties and a whole slew of mental issues. He's basically on the warpath from the beginning, storming away from a traffic standstill to find (or instigate) a frothy, furious conflict with every step. Douglas's unnamed vigilante might play as somewhat sympathetic at first, or perhaps that was the intention, but as the climax approaches and more details are filled in, he's among the last to realize that he isn't this story's hero. Robert Duvall works a parallel route as the desk-bound former police detective, trying to get through his last day, who almost unconsciously cracks the case and throws himself into harm's way.

There's a lot of subtlety and context here, which seems lost in Joel Schumacher's hammy, literal direction. Duvall's coworkers tease him relentlessly about dying before retirement, an obvious crack at the well-worn cinematic trope, but it plays as dumb and blunt rather than witty and clever. The rampaging madman is treated with strange admiration, marching through a hail of bullets like a superhero where he should have seemed detached and unhinged. I don't think Schumacher completely understood the story he was telling.

With an excellent leading performance from Douglas and a sharp, surprisingly relevant script, it's a shame this didn't turn out better than it did.

Buster Keaton plays a mid-19th century train conductor who desperately wants to join the Confederate army to impress a girl. That determined drive, plus a set of unusual circumstances, sends him deep behind enemy lines amidst of a pair of wild railway chases, said girl on his arm, on an indirect route to finally earning that gray uniform.

Keaton's strength here is in both the delightful quandaries he digs for himself and the vivid reality of his work, often throwing caution to the wind and putting his body in the path of legitimate danger. His style is more grounded than Charlie Chaplin, a contemporary and rival, less flowery and expressive but equally inventive and influential. Where one can see the matte painting at the edge of Chaplin's roller skates in Modern Times, Keaton casually showboats mere inches from the wheels of a three-hundred ton steam engine in motion. He hurls a speeding train off a rickety wooden bridge, leaving much of the cast unaware to capture a more honest reaction. His stunts are more practical, if perhaps less showy.

The plot is sufficiently interesting, but uneven at points. Curious to see a film shot entirely from the southern perspective in this scenario, with the Yankees playing the dastardly saboteurs, though the rebels aren't quite seen as heroes themselves. It's possibly more meaningful as a piece of historical influence than as a standalone film.

It's been seventy years since her introduction to the world of men, and though she's grown more able and active in that time, Wonder Woman still carries a torch for the short-term romance that violently ended in a WWI fireball. It seems unhealthy that she hasn't accepted the loss in all that time, still dining alone and sad-eying all the happy couples at adjacent tables, but it's convenient for the story (and for viewers) that her heart hasn't moved on, so here we are. Of course, that lost love does eventually, improbably, return from the grave, thanks to the influence of a mystical wishing stone, but (as always) there's a steep price.

While it lasts, Diana and Steve's reunion is an enjoyable reversal of fortunes. Now it's the cocksure soldier who plays the naïve fish out of water, goggling and gaping at the fashions and conveniences of modern luxury in 1980s America, while the worldly Amazonian princess smirks and explains. The weird throwback/leap forward aspect is shallow, but it works. I felt that the first film suffered for its close tonal relationship to other films in the DC Universe, all grim and bleak, and the vibrant, colorful air of these early scenes serves as a sorely-needed dramatic departure. It's fun to watch, easy but functional, and the dominance of a "me" generation serves the broader theme of human greed as a divisive force.

As the plot drags out, though, those simpler pleasures lose their zing and the various threads wrapped around the wishing stone grow unwieldy. It all culminates in a completely nonsensical climax that momentarily throws the entire world into upheaval before the headliner shows up in a new outfit, swings a few punches, lobs some lofty philosophical mumbo-jumbo and literally rides off into the sunset. I didn't buy the evil plot, nor the heroic resolution, and was left unfulfilled.

The effects work hasn't improved from Diana's first outing, either. Most times, the direction is smart enough to mask such shortcomings behind abrupt camera shifts and motion blur, but any time we get a clear shot of the heroine running full-speed (and this happens more than once), it's a hilariously bad look. We're talking made-for-TV special effects here. Absolutely astonishing that a major studio could release something so shoddy and second-grade, especially after so many unexpected release delays.

Ultimately, WW84 is a story of one step forward and two steps back. It conquers the issues of individual identity that plagued the first film, gives us another chance to enjoy the chemistry between costars Gal Gadot and Chris Pine, but also struggles to tell a cohesive story, rambles on for ages (there's at least thirty minutes of fat on this steak) and whiffs on the ending. Plus, the effects. Oh, those effects. A good concept, established with loads of creative energy, that loses its way and peters out after the first hour.

Warfare and gender politics (plus musical numbers and pet dragons) around imperial China in this Disney-fied adaptation of an old eastern fable. It's flashy and well-produced, with a strong female lead and up-front morals, but the plot seems too convenient and there's very little life outside the spotlight's bright glare. Funny, that last point, as Disney's always been so thorough about granting attention to the little details in their better preceding efforts.

Mulan is just fine. The animation is fluid and smooth, a crisp blend of classic western style and traditional Chinese décor that brims with character while paying service to a stiffer, more respect-driven society. The plot, up-tempo but shallow, hits its important points and changes the scenery before younger minds have a chance to wander. Singing and dancing cartoons aren't really my thing, but the tunes in Mulan are aurally inoffensive, at least, and kept rather short and utilitarian. I didn't hate anything, but I also didn't love anything... it was all just there. Yep, that looks like a Disney movie. Yep, that's the bad guy. Yep, there's the cursory romance. I appreciate the envelope-pushing hinted by the premise, encouragement to challenge the status quo if you find it unjust, but the film's conviction to see that message through adversity seems shaky at best. Even Eddie Murphy's comic relief side character, the aforementioned cat-sized dragon, doesn't get much to do.

The ideas are good, the animation is top-notch, the music is tolerable, but the big picture stuff is half-baked and the window-dressings are shockingly bland.

As an outside observer with no previous connection to the series, I found it more than a little confusing to get started with Neon Genesis Evangelion. The original series ran for a single season in 95/96, then was condensed and re-worked into a feature film a year later, then circled around again to produce an alternate ending, and has now returned to the well once more for yet another revival of roughly the same material at a new animation house. There's also been sporadic talk of a live-action rendition, though that seems to have fallen by the wayside in recent years.

I figured I'd start with this, the newest model, and... well, to put it nicely, it feels like something that's been left in the oven for too long. If there's passion and energy and enthusiasm to any of the earlier iterations, they were lost somewhere between here and there. The whole production is empty and soulless, like a husk just going through the motions and winking desperately at the audience. Maybe that works for the die-hards, who've already memorized the crucial storytelling beats and can relish the new perspective, but it doesn't offer a lot of meat for the uninitiated. Everything is vague and understated, from the young protagonist (literally plucked from a street corner and deposited in a skyscraper-sized mech, sans-training, to save the city) to his peers and support staff (a group of hyper-stereotypical anime girls) to the monolithic hulks that use him as a punching bag (a trio of imaginative, but dull, forces of nature).

It's just so emotionally flat, so excruciatingly blasé about everything, that even the spectacular concept of a giant robot at war with a hovering, six-mile-wide jellyfish feels bland. That these big metal exoskeletons are almost singularly employed to shoot really big guns doesn't help the case. Those ridiculously large sniper rifles might as well be mounted to a rooftop turret or something. At least the animation looks nice, if perhaps a bit too reliant on abstract mechanics and twirling gears, and the character designs remain sharp and memorable. A lot of time and money went into this, not to mention the three ensuing sequels (as of this writing, one remains unreleased), and I can't honestly say that either investment was worthwhile.

Mel Gibson climbs back into the black leather pants for a third run-around as George Miller's dusty, dystopian desert-goer, in what would be his curtain call with the franchise. Something of a paradox, Beyond Thunderdome is both a different beast from the other Max movies and, at the same time, cut from the same cloth.

The budget has certainly ballooned, lending a mainstream sheen to the formerly scrappy, seat-of-pants production. That influx of cash goes a long way, enabling Miller's vision to blossom into a genuine dash of unrestrained wasteland genius (the wardrobe, vehicle and environment designs are way ahead of their time), but the non-action scenes feel far softer and less confident than before. Chalk that up to the extra director, I guess, who kept an eye on the shop while Miller concentrated on getting the adrenaline-driven shots just right. There's still no shortage of inspired, alien weirdness, but it feels less essential, less purposeful. Tina Turner's bejeweled junkyard princess is a good example, talking and acting tough but lacking the conviction and follow-through to really make the role mean anything. Max's mid-act sidetrack to meet an oasis-dwelling troupe of forgotten children is equally hollow, like someone dropped the pilot episode of a spin-off series in the midst of the original film.

At least it all comes together for an appropriately white-knuckled sendoff: another epic, high-octane pileup with a colorful fleet of spike-trimmed desert buggies and flame-belching hot rods. I was beginning to wonder what'd become of all the eight-cylinder death machines that were so pervasive in preceding chapters.

This may be the most literal film adaptation of a print property we'll ever see, but that alone can't make it half as successful as it could have been. Having grown up with the trade paperback by my bedside, a holy grail of sorts for comic book fanatics, it's almost a religious experience to see these themes, characters and visuals represented so loyally on the big screen. As he did with 300, Zac Snyder has absolutely nailed the look and feel of the comics, breathtakingly, but underneath that dazzling surface is a terrible lack of soul, conviction and character.

With the exception of Jackie Earl Haley, who is absolutely magnificent as the mentally teetering vigilante Rorschach, this is a large collection of miscast characters which never really seem to buy into what they're saying or doing. The words are right, ripped line-for-line from the bubbles and narrative boxes of the comics, and of course everyone looks great, but bland inflections, bad interpretations and a hectic, compressed timeframe strip away the power of the plot's weightiest bits. In a way it's TOO loyal, as it's surprisingly the one major moment that steps away from the guiding hands of the source material - a significant tweak to the story's conclusion - that works the best.

Snyder was ambitious to tackle such a booby-trapped property, and to do so with so passionate a love for its roots is admirable, but there's a reason it was dubbed unfilmable for so many years. There's so much going on at any given moment that even the most familiar reader runs the risk of being bucked, and even at three hours, a large portion of the story is left on the cutting room floor. For Watchmen, those seemingly-dispensible character moments are every bit as important as the heaviest plot developments. A valiant effort, but ultimately a failed one.

I positively adored this one in the theater, and over the years I've somehow found several ways to appreciate it even more. It's the picture-perfect Batman film; dark and gritty and tragic but ultimately optimistic and meaningful, with an armful of colorful characters tossed in for seasoning.

Of course, it's impossible to discuss the film without first touching on Heath Ledger, whose magnificent turn as the Joker unconscionably steals the show from the very moment he appears on the screen. Magical moments, memories and faces routinely come and go on the silver screen, but a role this iconic only comes around once or twice a generation, and the power of his appearance has been amplified over the years. Ledger deserves every bit of the credit he reaped for the part, even if his untimely demise may have heightened the hype to superhuman levels. The things his character gets to do, say, and imply are downright remarkable, and really elevate this from a very good superhero movie into a brilliant social commentary that just so happens to revolve around a man with a cape, cowl and vast personal armory.

As in Batman Begins, the supporting cast is heavily peppered with brilliant performances from Hollywood's heavy-hitters, with particularly excellent showings from Michael Caine, Morgan Freeman and Aaron Eckhart. And, naturally, Christian Bale once again masterfully inhabits the dual roles of Bruce Wayne and Batman. It's a great action movie, detective story, political thriller, superhero flick and moral tragedy, never feels half as long as its 152 minute run time lets on, and sticks the landing in every single important scene. One for the ages.

Studio Ghibli gets serious in this romanticized take on avionic design at the dawn of the second world war. Engineering might seem a strange subject for animation, and at times it is, but in typical fashion the studio delights in writing their own rules and somehow coming out ahead.

In the same way that recent big-budget live action cinema has been trying to draw inspiration from animation's more fantastical elements, it seems that The Wind Rises borrows its mundane, grounding elements from reality. Detail has always been a calling card for Miyazaki's efforts, and here the old master has again outdone himself. The screen is flooded with life, with even the least remarkable background extra, almost-inanimate object, or stunning, towering cloudscape enjoying an unusual amount of motion and character - notes clearly taken from live action.

There's no shortage of the studio's usual breathtaking flights of fancy and wonder, either, but now they're tempered by that basis in reality. And, in a way, that makes them even more special. Dreams intertwine with lucidity so casually, it's tough to identify the moments of transition. The plot is less rigid than one might expect, too, strolling along at its own pace and lazily floating from one decade to the next. That makes it less gripping than the standard Ghibli effort, but we're invested in different ways.

Gorgeous, poetic, relaxing, inspiring, warm and funny and bittersweet; it's not at all what I expected, and no competition for Totoro or Mononoke or Spirited Away, but it's not trying to be.