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Super Opens

★★★★ Writer/director James Gunn (Slither) is on to something far more interesting than a grimy B-movie riff on the superhero genre; he’s put together a borderline brilliant satire of the vigilante mind-set. Rainn Wilson plays Frank, a loser of a diner chef whose one source of happiness — his recovering addict wife (Liv Tyler) — abandons him for a sleazy crime boss (Kevin Bacon). So he decides he’s going to do something about all the injustice in the world by donning a costume and becoming The Crimson Bolt — with his lone super-power being the willingness to smack anyone he perceives as a transgressor over the head with a pipe wrench. Ellen Page comes along for the ride as a hyperactive comic-book store clerk who becomes his sidekick, conveying the adrenaline surge of implementing one’s own petty sense of justice. But all the wonderful dark humor — including a kicky animated opening credits sequence — is part of Gunn’s punishing look at “evil” as a one-punishment-fits-all absolute. Under its exploitation cowl, it’s about the thin line between righteousness and self-righteousness. (NR) (Nickelodeon Theatre) A federal agent (Dwayne Johnson) is dispatched to Rio de Janeiro, where former cop Brian O’Conner (Paul Walker) and ex-con Dom Toretto (Vin Diesel) are assembling a final race as a desperate chance to gain their freedom. (PG-13) (AMC Dutch Square; Carmike Wynnsong; Monetta Drive-In; Regal Columbiana Grande; Regal Pastime; Regal Sandhill) [zero stars] After six years and a couple of missed release dates for a planned sequel, one could hold out hope that the Weinstein Company had forgotten about the original, plenty wretched Hoodwinked. Alas, the saga continues as fairy-tale world secret agents Red (Hayden Panettiere), Big Bad Wolf (Patrick Warburton) and Granny (Glenn Close) try to take down a dastardly plan apparently involving animation that would look cheap-ass during an afternoon of PBS Kids, and a non-stop parade of references to Goodfellas, 48 Hrs., Kill Bill, The Silence of the Lambs, Scarface, The Terminator, The Dukes of Hazzard, etc., ad nauseam. There’s literally nothing else going on here besides self-congratulatory re-purposing of familiar quotes, seasoned with a voice cameo by Wayne Newton (because there’s nothing the kids love more than a good “Danke Schöen” gag) and the occasional fart joke. But the real stink here is the stink of desperation, as though if the attitude-soaked pop-culture nods come hurtling at you fast enough, the complete lack of imagination involved will be obscured by wannabe hipness. It’s like the “Itchy & Scratchy & Poochie” episode of The Simpsons played without irony, and without laughs. (PG) (Carmike 14; Regal Sandhill) ★★★ Thirty years after Dudley Moore staggered drunkenly through the original Arthur, Russell Brand gives it a shot — and as funny as he frequently is, the film feels as perpetually off-balance as its protagonist. Brand plays the inebriated heir to a multimillion-dollar fortune faced with a choice: marry an icy businesswoman (Jennifer Garner) to give the family business stability, or pursue his dream girl (Greta Gerwig) and face getting cut off from his money. Brand knows how to play pampered, addled playboys, and he gets plenty of terrific lines. Yet there’s a sense of danger about him, making him a less sympathetic party animal than cuddly Dudley. Helen Mirren, meanwhile, plays surrogate parent-servant Hobson with less prickliness, making her acts of kindness less surprising. Gerwig brings an effortless radiance that raises the romantic stakes, while also emphasizing that introspective sensitivity isn’t Brand’s strong suit. Like most movie comedies, it’s a chemistry experiment in which just a few drops more or less of any given ingredient can make success hard to duplicate. This one winds up at times in an awkward middle-ground between funny frivolousness and down-to-earth humanity, sort of like it was caught between the moon and ... naaaaaah. (PG-13) (AMC Dutch Square; Carmike 14; Regal 7; Regal Sandhill) ★★ Having read Ayn Rand’s 1957 manifesto, I can attest to the faithfulness of director Paul Johansson’s adaptation: Like the source material, it exists entirely for the robotic recitation of a thesis. Opening on Sept. 2, 2016 — Labor Day weekend, get it? — during a major energy crisis, it follows determined railroad entrepreneur Dagny Taggart (Taylor Schilling) as she fights to keep her business alive in the face of creeping government socialism and union manipulations. But who is John Galt, and why are titans of industry vanishing? While the question is sort of answered at the conclusion, it’s hard to imagine anyone wanting to see it who doesn’t already know (and agree with) its premise. And if their devotion to the text is any indication, Rand’s audience base clearly won’t be scared away by paperboard characters and dramatic inertia. (PG-13) (Regal Sandhill) ★★ Stories with jerks as protagonists should at least offer a certain consistency to the jerkiness. Paul Giamatti plays Barney Panofsky, a successful Montreal television producer who tramples through two difficult marriages before he meets and falls for Miriam (Rosamund Pike), who could be the one to give him stability. Giamatti invests Barney with his typical affection for angry sadsacks, attempting to pull this mass of contradictions into a character whose fate will matter to an audience without the luxury of reading Mordecai Richler’s novel to delve into his personality. But the fate that ultimately befalls Barney doesn’t feel naturally tied to the life journey we see, and director Richard J. Lewis attempts to clean up rough edges that can’t possibly be cleaned up enough. Barney’s Version presents a presumably redeemable asshole, only it’s never clear exactly what should redeem him. (R) (NIckelodeon Theatre) ★ Director Robert Redford discovers a way to make the conventional courtroom drama even more tedious: Add excruciatingly earnest allegory. His subject is the intriguing historical footnote that Abraham Lincoln’s assassination in 1865 was part of a larger conspiracy, and that a Southern-born boarding house proprietor named Mary Surratt (Robin Wright) was one of those tried before a military tribunal for the crime. So screenwriter James Solomon hammers home how deeply wrong it is that national mourning and fear should drive a nation to unconstitutional acts, and that being at war should not excuse injustice, and what are we fighting for if not for our constitutional freedoms, etc. The Conspirator’s borderline laughable non-stop nudging at War on Terror parallels might have been slightly more tolerable had anything else in the film been vaguely interesting. But the story arc of Surratt’s attorney, Frederick Aiken (James McAvoy) — from righteous anger to fierce advocate for his client’s innocence — goes nowhere you wouldn’t predict from the outset, and every unfairness done to Surratt is too obvious even to inspire outrage. It’s a bizarro-world twist on JFK, only with fever-dream paranoia turned into ponderous tub-thumping.

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