Lucky Number Slevin

Lucky Number Slevin -- no, that's not a typo -- will easily be dismissed as Tarantino-esque. Starring Josh Hartnett as the unlucky title character, the film has more twists and turns than a high-tech roller-coaster, but it's just as much fun (and almost as immediately forgettable).

Directed with breakneck technique by Paul McGuigan from a clever though highly implausible script by Jason Slimovic, the film is cast, with one minor exception, impeccably. It marks the first role that justifies Josh Hartnett's hype, and bestows Lucy Liu the most normal -- and incandescent -- part of her career. It's a bonus that they have palpable on-screen chemistry, as well as great foils in the guise of Bruce Willis and Morgan Freeman (though Ben Kingsley's high-strung performance as the Rabbi is a miscalculation). The film itself is stylized -- written in high gumshoe/

screwball mode, with a guided tour of ugly wallpapers throughout history as part of its hard-boiled milieu -- though the actors' convictions root the topsy-turvy narrative in recognizable human terrain.

At its best, Lucky Number Slevin has the feel of a minor John Huston caper directed, with prankish glee, by Brian DePalma. It's a blood-revenge thriller with no depth, though there are reservoirs of feeling in Hartnett's and Liu's performances, as well as wit. Liu seems to the screwball manor born. And Hartnett prances around for nearly 30 minutes of screen time in nothing more than a long purple towel and a quizzical expression. He's such a game actor that his performance is both a put-on and homage to the long line of Macguffins in film noir. With, of course, a twist. -- Dan Loughry

The Notorious Bettie Page

Director Mary Harron has a thing for edgy, troubled, and driven protagonists. Her previous features, I Shot Andy Warhol, a biopic about loony lesbian Valerie Solanas, and American Psycho, an adaptation of author Brett Easton Ellis' controversial novel about an uber-yuppie turned sociopath, were populated by memorable characters. However, The Notorious Bettie Page -- and its protagonist -- is an unfortunate departure from Harron's (ab)norm.

After a horrible first brush with sexuality -- she's hoodwinked and gang-raped -- Tennessee-raised Bettie Page (Gretchen Mol) chances into an opportunity to model for a photographer. Slowly, she comes to reveal an exhibitionist streak, sparking to grinning and frisky life when a lens is pointed her way. In fact, she can't seem to show off enough, much to the delight of an unassuming couple (Lili Taylor and Chris Bauer) that organizes naughty photo shoots and sells them to a growing audience of pervs. The photos get racier and more S&M-oriented, and Page's profile rises, but when the government starts imposing decency/morality standards, her career and greatest pleasure could be endangered.

Guinevere Turner, who cowrote the screenplay for American Psycho, re-teams with the director here. But the dark humor and strong characterizations from that film and Turner's other work (Go Fish) barely seem present. I Shot Andy Warhol vets Taylor and Jared Harris bring spark to some decent drawn supporting roles. As for Mol, who goes all-out naked, she can be a campy treat to behold, but the character has no real personality for us to connect with or marvel at. She's merely a vessel, with little cargo on board. When Page finally does get to an interesting place, as a born again Christian with a driving sense of purpose, the film ends. Harron clearly needs something stronger on the Page to work with next go around. -- Lawrence Ferber

Kinky Boots

From The Full Monty academy of crowd-pleasing UK entertainment emerges this latest, high-heeled entry. It's true to formula: Protagonist X is in a finance-related bind; concocts an outrageous scheme; enlists a clan of conflicting characters to help; the situation turns grim; and there's a grand, happy last minute save/triumph. There's also a flirtation with sexual naughtiness, yet in a safe, prudish way, so that you can bring your grandmother along.

Our Protagonist X is Charlie (Joel Edgerton), son of a Northampton, England, shoe factory owner. Charlie and his girlfriend Melanie (Linda Bassett) were just preparing to escape to London when dad croaks and Charlie is willed the financially strapped factory. The only way its many workers and dad's legacy will survive is if Charlie finds a way to find money -- and a niche market. Enter Lola (Chiwetel Ejiofor), aka Simon, a big black London drag queen. Lola and her ilk sure could use some girls' high heels that wouldn't collapse under a man's weight (and fierce cabaret performances). Inspired, Charlie decides to fabricate the sturdiest high heels ever seen. Alas, the first pair comes out terribly, completely lacking the sex and kinkiness Lola and friends demand. So Lola moves up to Northampton to supervise the factory and its not-quite-drag-friendly laborers as they design and make a line of hot, kinky boots. The film climaxes at Milan Fashion Week, where the boots are to be unveiled. But yes, there's some adversity tossed in the mix before that happens...

Alas, Kinky Boots suffers some of the same problems that Too Wong Foo did: most blaringly, libido-less drag queens. For all of Lola's rally cries that "The boots have to be sexy!" she seems to be gulping saltpeter off-hours. Every drag queen I know and have known is, to a degree, man-hungry. Heck -- cock-hungry. Cock-starving! Yet Lola doesn't betray the slightest appetite. No boyfriend. No tricks. She doesn't even make a trashy, suggestive quip when given an opportunity. To his credit, Ejiofor is pretty engaging and a capable drag performer, while the movie's other elements, including TV vet Julian Jarrold's direction, are Full Monty-academy licensed. So bring Grandma -- she'll love it! -- Lawrence Ferber

The Sisters

Often we can sense exactly the moment when a film goes terribly wrong. In Stanley Kubrick's Eyes Wide Shut -- though the movie is ludicrous from the offset -- it reaches its point of no return at the austere masked orgy. But what about those movies made by obviously talented craftsmen, filled with good intentions, that never really get off the ground?

The Sisters is that movie.

Directed by Arthur Allan Seidelman in a Hallmark Presents for Lifetime style, and based on Richard Alfeiri's adaptation of his play based on a modern interpretation of Chekov's The Three Sisters -- well, that should give you pause right there. I have only cursory knowledge of Alfeiri's source material, but I don't believe Chekov's three sisters were victims of pedophilia, drug abuse, or repressed lesbianism, though I could be wrong. And while the theater may bring out the best in Alfeiri's play, with its heightened dialogue and claustrophobic university setting, I can't imagine that it's psychoanalytical mumbo-jumbo didn't wring laughs both planned and unintentional on its way to camp. It certainly does in its filmed form.

Tony Goldwyn as Vincent Antonelli, the character closest to the Chekov original, escapes unscathed. His intense formality seems a relief amidst characters given to outbursts of pop-psychology. And though Eric McCormack may never escape the mannerisms of Will Truman, he's scathing as professor Gary Sokol, gleefully busting the balloon of pretension that surrounds the sisters. The three main actresses, however (Mary Stuart Masterson, Maria Bello, and Erika Christensen), suffer ingloriously under the weight of the insipid language they have to spout. Elizabeth Banks, a kinky treat in The 40-Year-Old Virgin, shows off some vulgar good sense as the much-hated sister-in-law. And that's it. When a film's as bad as The Sisters, you spend a lot of time grasping at straws. -- Dan Loughry