Now that I see Variety's Todd McCarthy has offered up a review of WB's "I Am Legend," I'll go ahead and toss in my two cents -- it's a steaming pile of garbage.

I try not to be that forceful when I offer a negative opinion of a film, but the screenwriters raped and pillaged...creatively sodomized Richard Matheson's seminal work of science fiction. They clearly didn't understand the title, for starters, and director Francis Lawrence (who has good ideas as a director, I feel, even in the awful "Constantine") for some reason saw it fit to turn the "infected" into half-aborted Incredible Hulks running around like unrendereed visual effects prototypes. Simply awful.

The borderline laughable insistence on threading some Bob Marley logic into the thing, fit with "Three Little Birds" hitting the soundtrack ten times too many, kind of pales in comparison next to the fact that, of all the versions of this book the studio could have done, they ACTUALLY cooked up something worse than both "The Last Man on Earth" and "The Omega Man." Stunning.

I don't even have the energy to dissect this thing, but I will say that, while there was an opportunity to do something really special here, Will Smith still has a couple of good moments here and there. It's difficult to carry a film like this by yourself, and I think only a few actors in the business could have done it.

I realize that the nature of my blogging -- lifestyle, shall we say -- this year has made it difficult to offer the same amount of full length reviews I have in years past. As a result, a few titles have slipped through the cracks and I haven't allowed some sort of space to give my thoughts on a number of the year's offerings. So I thought I'd offer up a few brief opinions to those films before plowing ahead into December.

"Atonement" (***1/2)
Strange that I've gone the whole season and not mentioned an opinion on the perceived Oscar frontrunner, despite having screened it twice and liking it very much. "Atonement" is a much smaller film than it's being depicted as, but it is very tight and a huge step up for Joe Wright, who already had fans in the wake of 2005's "Pride & Prejudice." His work here deserves every awards mention it receives, but high marks have to go to performers James McAvoy and Romola Garai, not to mention textured, beautiful cinematography from Seamus Mcgarvey and a Dario Marianelli score that raises the bar for the trade.

Not that Fox Searchlight’s “Juno” needs another champion in the mix, but this film is such a giant leap forward in artistic discipline from director Jason Reitman that I have to say something. And at the risk of drifting into hyperbole, I’ll keep it short.

“Juno” is the best comedy to hit screens in at least five years. I have to go back to “Punch Drunk Love” to find a laugher that is working with an equally impressive arsenal. While trying filmmakers continuously attempt to make the quirky significant (Wes Anderson), and still others strive too hard for stylized realism in their humor (Judd Apatow), Jason Reitman is making it look so easy it’s scary. And he’s doing it under the radar, if you can believe it. Everyone is so caught up in Diablo Cody’s admittedly adorable screenplay that the real story is getting lost in the mix: a filmmaker’s lightning-quick rise to a level of pretension-free control in the span of 18 months.

Everything you’ve read about Ellen Page is real. A star is born; a new and vibrant comedic sketch of a character enters the pantheon, etc. But any dissent you come across regarding the film’s Best Picture hopes is beyond me. When I tossed the film into my predicted five during the Toronto love-fest, it was admittedly sideshow guessing. But sitting there with happy man-tears constantly welling up in my eyes, hearing the unabashed adoration coming from others in the packed screening, it was enough to convince me that “Juno” is Searchlight’s heavy-hitter. Not “The Savages,” not “Once,” it’s all “Juno” – a film with more going for it, I would wager, than “Little Miss Sunshine” a year ago.

I can’t say enough about Page’s beautifully rendered portrayal, Michael Cera’s painfully touching support, Jennifer Garner’s best work to date and Jason Bateman’s convincing plight. Performances from J.K. Simmons and Allison Janey are just gravy on the top. So a SAG ensemble bid is well on its way. The editors will be on board when the ACE dishes out comedy achievements. Golden Globes? Absolutely. And, if it makes money, the PGA will follow suit. It’s a road paved with gold if the studio wants it. That’s all I’m saying.

A huge bravo to all involved. “Juno” is without a doubt one of the very best films of the year.

It's been about a week since my screening of James Mangold's "3:10 to Yuma." I don't have the time or psychological energy to devote a review to it (or any other film) at this time (grad school orientation), but it's a winner inside and out. Kevin Costner's "Open Range," David Milch's "Deadwood" and now, James Mangold's "3:10" remake/re-adaptation are officially the holy trinity of the western's resurgence in my mind, a story I've been waiting on a major to pick up for some time. But no one seems willing to dig into the genre's obvious return. If Andrew Dominik's "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford" is as stellar as early word suggests...

In any case, Mangold's film, working from a rather brilliant script by Halsted Welles, Michael Brandt and Derek Haas, is cut from the same cloth as Delmer Daves's 1957 original. But Elmore Leonard's 11 page short story only takes an audience so far, providing a third act for what is obviously a much broader story, one that could be taken in a number of different directions. What I liked most about Mangold's treatment of the material was how married he clearly was to tone. This is a real western dug out of the same earth as the roughest of John Ford cinema or even Don Siegel. It drips with righteousness and deeper meanings, emotions and considerations. I did cartwheels.

The narrative has an issue here or there, but I think it has become the one film I seem to allow myself each year that I love, stitches and all. Christian Bale is fantastic as a world-weary soul and a man seeking redemption in the eyes of his family, and Russell Crowe is equal parts charm and savagery, a combination we haven't seen out of the actor in quite a long time. Ben Foster is also electric, though given a few too many lines for the characters' own good. But, through and through, it's a sturdy ensemble and a thoroughly enjoyable one.

I love this genre.

(Dealing with some Photoshop issues at the moment. Images will be forthcoming.)

I really wanted to put together a review of Leonardo DiCaprio's latest pet project, "The 11th Hour," to coincide with today's look at "Arctic Tale." Alas, I can't bring myself to review something that just isn't a film.

I agree with everything brought to bear over the course of "The 11th Hour"'s seemingly endless 90 minutes. I even experienced a few raised-eyebrow moments at what this scientist or that brought to the discussion, but I'm left wondering why anyone would bother making a film that will just preach to the choir. Last year's "An Inconvenient Truth" at least had the celebrity of Al Gore attached, but even that two hour power point presentation on celluloid resembled a film more than this latest effort at "green" cinema.

Basically, I can't assign a star rating to "The 11th Hour." I can't recommend it to filmgoers, nor can I refrain from suggesting those in the dark should give it a once over. It's just one of those experiences that falls through the cracks of criticism.

And so it goes.

I thought I’d take the time to clear the plate of three brief reviews this weekend that I need to get out there before the final push. Looking back at them now, it’s clear this trio of endeavors all had a strange supply of potential in store, but failed to capitalize on that potential in varying degrees. Only one of them is tolerable, mind you, and it isn’t fair to even consider it on such a perceivably low level as “tolerable,” but it deserved inclusion for muddled tendencies along with the others.

Next week, screenings of “The Good Shepherd” and “Letters from Iwo Jima” will finally begin in earnest, and the week after, the National Board of Review sends us spinning out of control into the 2006-2007 Oscar season. Hold tight!

“Apocalypto” (***)

Mel Gibson is a twisted individual. There’s no question about it. There are dark places deep down inside this cat that bubble to the surface via his directorial efforts, and I for one am a fan of witnessing such emotional turbulence play itself out in an artistic endeavor.

“Apocalypto” might be the lesser effort of Gibson’s directorial quartet thus far, but it isn’t a poor film by any stretch. Taken merely as a cat-and-mouse action flick, the film is aces. For better or worse (usually better), I found myself comparing the final 40 minute chase sequence (it felt like 40 minutes) to the final act of John McTiernan’s “Predator.” Edge-of-your-seat anxiety drips off this thing from the first shot, and there’s something to be said for instilling that kind of intrigue in the viewer.

Okay, so the story is kind of floating around and is worth commenting upon. There is a giant British contingent in the awards race this year. At the end of the day, the Oscar telecast might even largely resemble the BAFTA awards ceremony.

Just look at the names in play: Jeremy Brock, Michael Caine, Sacha Baron Cohen, Brian Cox, Judi Dench, Stephen Frears, Richard Griffiths, Toby Jones, Jude Law, Kevin Macdonald, Patrick Marber, Helen Mirren, Peter Morgan, Peter O'Toole, Michael Sheen, Julie Walters, Kate Winslet...it really seems to keep going and going.

I recently took in two films in two nights that are certainly in the thick of this "British Invasion" and a part of the Oscar bruhaha: "The History Boys" and "Venus." Neither struck me enough to flesh out full reviews (especially the former), but they're worth discussing briefly, given their stake in the awards push. So let's get on with it.

As the Toronto Film Festival charges forward, a few ends have been left untied here at In Contention. Basically, there are a number of films I’ve been meaning to comment on but have kind of stock-piled for a large exodus from my critical mind. This afternoon I thought I’d go ahead and clear the plate.

“All the King’s Men” (**½)

Robert Penn Warren’s classic tale of political corruption has long been considered a staple of American literature. And when you talk to political consultant-turned executive producer James Carville, you can feel his passion for a story he's always wanted to faithfully transfer to the screen. Robert Rossen’s somewhat free-wheeling stab at adapting the Pulitzer Prize-winning novel in 1949 was a triumphant experience for the times, but registers flatly in hindsight.

Writer/director Steven Zaillian’s version (premiering tomorrow night in Toronto) is much closer to the text than Rossen’s incarnation, yet it still leaves a number of elements to be desired. Performances stand out immediately as aspects half-realized, most especially Jude Law’s turn in the pivotal role of Jack Burden. Sean Penn’s wild mannerisms supposedly mirror former Louisiana governor Huey Long (on whom Willie Stark was based), but they seem to do him a disservice on the screen.

On the whole, in fact, the film seems to reflect Penn’s histrionics, conveying it’s themes with a sledgehammer, from striking (if beautiful) shots full of subtext to James Horner’s unforgiving (yet sure to be Oscar nominated) original score. However, fleeting moments of true visual artistry, combined with an insatiable respect for the written word present in Zaillian’s meticulous work on the page, offer the opportunity to forgive the film it’s otherwise self-stalling flaws.

I'm no fan of Will Ferrell's comedic sensibilities in the slightest, but "Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby" is probably the best film of his typical mold to hit screens yet. I know "Anchorman" has its devoted, and "Old School" was apparently good enough in the eyes of Bravo to make it to an obscenely high position on their recent (awful) list of the best comedies of all time. But "Talladega Nights" has the right mixture of peripheral comedic brilliance that Ferrell has needed for some time, to off-set that "me, me, me" schtick that hasn't worked since Jim Carrey started talking out of his ass.

Nothing in the way of a full review here, but a few thoughts can't hurt. Not only does John C. Reilly prove himself something of a hilarious comedic sideman once again (playing a similar character to his "Days of Thunder" role, only this guy ate paint chips as a kid), but he at times beats Ferrell at his own game. Gary Cole, meanwhile, is becoming the master of the extended cameo yuk-yuk. Sacha Baron Cohen (along with on-screen hubby Andy Richter) gives enough reasons to slap your knee - and expect him to blow up even more once "Borat" hits cinemas, giving the actor a nice one-two punch this year). It's always great to see Pat Hingle on screen, no matter how inconsequential the part, and Amy Adams...Amy Adams has just...never been sexier. It's like a new breed. Subjective, of course...

Ferrell is what you would expect, though he really nails that southern fried cluelessness that has become it's own standard. Once "Stranger Than Fiction" releases in November, showcasing acting chops that ought to turn a head or two, the Golden Globe nominee will have potentially started the crossover that can be a painful process for comedians, bridging the gap to dramatic tendencies. We'll see how that flies with the critics and public at large.

In the meantime, go out and enjoy a laugh or two when "Talladega Nights" hits theaters next weekend. I'm fairly certain the appeal will be there for Ferrell fans, but this viewer, not one to jump in line for the comedic stylings of the Saturday Night Live alumn, was pleasantly surprised by some nice goofball entertainment. Take it for what it's worth.

I finally got around to seeing the first 9/11 theatrical release earlier this week, Universal's "United 93," and the feelings it digs up, the questions it actually asks without hitting us over the head, and the overall commitment to ultra-reality that director Paul Greengrass is proving himself to be the master of, will all make it a unique entry in the coming wave of films rooted in that horrific day.

The film's best moments reside in the mass confusion of Cleveland, Boston, and New York air traffic control centers, making it clear that orders and procedures failed miserably in the wake of an event that had not occured in 20 years - the hijacking of a domestic flight. It actually makes the blood boil to watch the clock tick as people second and third guess. In fact, one of the things "United 93" does so well is expand the timeline of all four crashes in our minds. To most, 9/11 was a quick moment. We discovered a plane had hit one of the towers - 15 minutes later, another plane, and within the next hour, we learned of the next two planes. It was all fleeting. But a lot was going on in that space of 60 minutes, and some of it can be downright infuriating - and it all makes those extra seven minutes he spent looking around a classroom like a lost kid seem all the more painstaking.

I love that Greengrass fills his frame largely with the actual individuals in these scenes, rather than casting them with known or even unknown actors. The effect is kind of staggering, and when you get right down to it, the best possible decision. The decision to choose his moments on the actual flight 93 wisely, keeping most of the action in the control rooms, was also wise, steering clear of presuming too much about events we'll never fully know.

I don't want to get into a full review here, and I want to see the film again before really forming an opinion. The sense I take from "United 93," however, is less about the film's subject matter than it is about the director's talents. If Michael Mann is a director that glamorizes ultra-reality, Greengrass is a director who utilizes it like a tool in his arsenal. It's a commanding sort of helming that seems to almost recall the notion of autuerism.