Scarlett Johansson (Getty Images)

It’s Oscar season, and you know what that means: films about noted historical figures with titles that are just the protagonist’s first or last name. In the wake of Ray, Capote and Lincoln, but preceding, say, Barack or Lohan, comes Hitchcock, the story of the iconic director as played by Anthony Hopkins (whom we loved in Nixon). The historical depiction is said to be destined for the Oscar that eluded its subject—and it premieres in Manhattan tonight, with stars including Helen Mirren, Scarlett Johansson and “Karate Kid” Ralph Macchio in attendance. We’re catching a cab in Gramercy and instructing our driver to head North by Northwest (the subway is for The Birds).

Invitation only.

Dressed in a bright red dress by Micheal Kors, all eyes were on the Dame. Graciously posing for photographs, Ms. Mirren was self-deprecating when asked how she felt about 25-year-olds envying her body. “Well I don’t think that is true. And if they know the truth they would go ‘no I don’t want that body, am very happy with mine own, thank you very much.’ There is nothing like the beauty of youth,” she responded.

The Debt is adapted from a 2007 Israeli movie, ‘Ha-Hov’. Directed by John Madden and produced by Kris Thykier, the film follows three Mossad agents, Rachel, David and Stephan (played by Jessica Chastain, Sam Worthington and Marton Csoskas respectively) on assignment to capture a dangerous Nazi criminal, a surgeon of the concentration camp, Birkenau (played by Jesper Christensen). The mission ended with the doctor’s death. Thirty years later, Rachel and Stephan (whose older incarnations are played by Helen Mirren and Tom Wilkinson) hear shocking news about their former colleague David (now played by Ciaran Hinds). To discover the truth, the film switches back and forth timelines uncovering surprising revelations.

Apart from the cast of the movie, a host of celebrities and about-towners attended the event, including James Schamus, the CEO of Focus Features, Arianna Huffington with daughter Christina Huffington, Zac Posen, Alan Cumming, and Billie Jean King.

Director John Madden spoke to reporters, discussing the structure of the storyline in intimate detail. Asked why he decided to cast newcomer Jessica Chastain, Mr. Madden said he wanted a new actress without baggage, and someone who shared Helen’s tenacity and adaptability.

Jessica Chastain, who emerged on the Hollywood scene this year, wore a white bustier and a white sheer skirt by Dior. When a reporter told Ms. Chastain she was the next Meryl Streep, the starlet gasped. “That is the greatest compliment. I think it’s very soon to bestow that compliment on me. I take it as an encouragement. But I could never be Meryl Streep. She is one of a kind. I can only be the next Jessica Chastain.”

Most guests quickly walked passed, unwilling to humor the paparazzi. As the red carpet came to a close, the stars headed into the theater. ‘The Debt’ releases in theaters nationwide on August 31^st.

Dominic Cooper and Paz de la Huerta

“What you’re going to see today is equal parts audacious, shocking, um, decadent and wildly entertaining,” announced Lionsgate exec Joe Drake before last night’s screening of The Devil’s Double.

An eclectic audience—including Dame Helen Mirren, designer Cynthia Rowley, actress Zoe Lister Jones, Nicole Murphy accompanied by ex-Giant Michael Strahan, and dynamic duo Ice-T and Coco —packed themselves into the SVA Theater Monday evening. Guests shook out their umbrellas and took their seats, ready to see a film that has been dubbed “the Scarface of Arabia.”

We saw Patricia Field make her way into the building wearing neon-green eyeglasses and matching sneakers. “What inspired the green?” we asked the colorful designer. “The red,” she replied, referring of course to her signature red tresses.

The movie, based on a true story, is set in Iraq at the start of the first Gulf War as Saddam Hussein’s sadistic son Uday commissions a body-double to make public appearances in his stead. Mama Mia! alum Dominic Cooper showed his flair for the dramatic, playing both the fanatical Uday and his soft-spoken fiday (body double).

The Scarface analogy is certainly apt. Uday, by all accounts a true psychopath, led a life of lurid excess. He complemented his fleets of Ferraris with an unending supply of cocaine, booze and women he had snatched off the street. With Uday’s penchant for erratic violence, some (literally) torturous scenes in the film were difficult on The Observer’s constitution.

Mem Ferda, who played the role of Saddam Hussein’s friend Kamel Hannah, had a more lighthearted take on the movie, however. “I think there are a lot of kind of tongue and cheek kinds of moments. The film isn’t meant to be taken seriously, even though it kind of is about a serious topic,” the actor explained. Fair enough, but Mr. Ferda’s character is brutally (and graphically) eviscerated by Uday at a dinner party.

After the film and some hearty applause, the audience filed out of the theater and into the unseasonably brisk night. Some hailed cabs while others dutifully hoofed it to the Boom Boom Room for the after party. As usual, a crowd gathered downstairs and waited to be ushered in via the at-capacity elevators.

Upstairs guests were soon intoxicated by the elegant set-up, not to mention the requisite open bar. The room’s oft-noted views of the Manhattan skyline were taken in with sips of Champagne as the elevators disgorged partygoers. Waiters waded through the crowd, holding trays of sandwiches and cheeseburgers above the throng of well-coiffed heads, while waitresses in white dresses with matching hair-bows did their best to deliver drinks, and Red Bulls.

We ran into to photographer and director Nev Schulman near the deejay booth where he snatched passing snacks. Asked if he liked the film, Mr. Schulman smiled. “It was a great story!” he said after a few telling moments of silence.

Paz de la Huerta, however, was quite smitten with the movie and its star, Mr. Cooper. “I feel like Dominic is a tour de force,” she said, using the term obliquely. “He’s an amazing actor. If anything comes from the film, you know which I feel is a very important film, you know … that’s something that has not been explicitly shown, the pain and the horror these people go through...,” she drifted off.  Snapping back from her dazed reverie, she squealed, “But this guy was a creep!”

More articulate than Ms. de la Huerta, Mr. Cooper looked downright dapper in his trim suit. Chatting with us, he described the ethos of the film and the difficulty of playing an Iraqi psychopath. “The honest truth is that I couldn’t relate to his actions or anything that he did. He was repulsive,” Mr. Cooper said.  “I needed, in very small doses, to think about why the man was the man he was, why he behaved the way he did.”

Playing the role of the body-double, Latif, Mr. Cooper said, provided a much needed psychological reprieve. Filming the two characters at once, however, was dizzying.  “There was no sitting around. I would literally jump from being in the most insane space in my head to being much more of an observer, and a caring and thoughtful man.”

Mr. Cooper, bombarded by congratulatory guests, was barely able to leave the entrance of the club all night. He good humouredly chatted with everyone who approached, taking photos with starry-eyed and slightly tipsy revelers.

A bevy of self-described “models”—who could have been members of a sorority headed by Coco—ringed a corner table. One of the ladies helped her friend mount the three stairs to the seating alcove, her dress being so tight as to prevent simultaneous lateral and vertical motion. Before long, the group, now sufficiently drunk, began dancing around the room. “This is, like, my fifth glass of champagne,” a visiting Spainard in a see-through dress confided. Another, who had been repeatedly mistaken for hip-hop muse Amber Rose, grabbed hold of our arm, spun us around and critiqued our look. “What are we going to do with you?” she asked rhetorically. “Darker eyebrows and fuck the highlights!” she answered excitedly, giving our locks a tussle. (As it happens, we do not have highlights.)

By midnight, the crowd had thinned out, revealing once more the familiar skyline. Shuffle. Cram. Elevator. Until next time, Boom Boom.

When this Canadian clambake was started back in 1976 by three eager film buffs in a Toronto saloon, they couldn't convince one Hollywood studio to send them a full-length feature. Thirty-five years later, TIFF is arguably the friendliest, most popular and best organized movie convention in the world. This year it sold 300,000 tickets to 300 films in 11 days, generated a revenue of $170 million; published a program book 448 pages long; and boasted a staff of 100 full-time employees, 19 programmers and an army of 2,000 unpaid volunteers in orange T-shirts who do everything from ushering to pouring salt on your popcorn. TIFF has come of age, and this year it has even moved into a brand-new permanent home at the Bell Lightbox, a sci-fi superdome on the site of an old parking lot owned by the father of director Ivan Reitman (Ghostbusters), replete with art galleries, film libraries, five state-of-the-art screening rooms and two restaurants where the flacks and hacks gather to meet, greet and tweet. They're still $25 million short of their $196 million fund-raising campaign goal, but ready or not, they opened anyway, staging a Sunday afternoon block party with balloons, fireworks, live rock bands, celebrity arrivals and trucks of free cupcakes. One caveat: Along with smaller, glam-free flicks, the dynamic has changed geographically, too. Now that festival headquarters has shifted miles away, from the swanky neighborhood of Yorkville to the seedy downtown entertainment district near the waterfront, the annual Brangelina parties, shopping sprees at Tiffany's and posh luxury hotels are a thing of the past. With screening venues sprawled all over the city and the press agents and stars 10 miles away, it is nothing to spend $40 on a taxi ride between movies to share a cocktail with Catherine Deneuve. The red carpet premieres are on one side of town in traffic gridlock, but the boldface names have to travel to the gift lounges on the other side of town to collect their free swag bags of Hermés scarves, Gucci handbags and Canadian maple syrup.

Things were off to a rocky start. The TIFF opened in the middle of a bedbug invasion that left audiences at the early press previews complaining of bites on their thighs, backs and rear ends, and so armies equipped with pesticides invaded the combat zone in the days before the official red carpet rolled out, and sponsors and organizers have promised an "itch-free festival." So far, so good. But when all is said and done and the last projector starts rolling, the only that matters is the movies. Excelsior! This year, the richness and diversity has a higher quality than usual. From documentaries about disgraced New York governor Eliot Spitzer and the decline of American public education (starring Bill Gates), to a graphic gay porno film called L.A. Zombie that has been banned in Australia, there is something for everybody. After the opener, a campy musical about hockey with Olivia Newton-John that was generally dismissed as an embarrassment, things picked up with two of the best films I've seen in decades. Actor Ben Affleck has triumphed as both star and director of The Town, a cajones-in-your-face crime drama about the brutal crime scene in Boston's historic Charlestown neighborhood, labeled the bank robbery capital of America. Mr. Affleck is wonderful as the leader of a gang of violent, ruthless thieves who makes the mistake of falling for the pretty, blindfolded hostage who can turn them in to the Feds. Jeremy Renner (The Hurt Locker) is especially creepy as the most vicious thug in the group, and Jon Hamm, in one of his first major roles since Mad Men, emerges as a powerful screen force in the role of a witty, hard-boiled F.B.I. agent. Set in the Boston alleys and Irish bars familiar to Scorsese and Eastwood, and featuring a $3 million robbery during a pivotal Red Sox game in Fenway Park, it is a film with a grip as smart and unforgettable as it is fresh and surprising. The Town is the best heist movie--as well as the most intensely plotted, brilliantly written and carefully directed film about the complex members of a criminal gang--since The Asphalt Jungle. Equally memorable is Never Let Me Go, a lyrical, haunting and lushly photographed adaptation of the great book by metaphysical novelist Kazuo Ishiguro (Remains of the Day), about idyllic children growing up in a baronial English country school who love, laugh and learn about life as all children do, until we discover [ed note: Spoiler alert!] they are clones in a dystopian government project, secretly marketed for the purpose of donating their organs to society in order to save mankind. Carey Mulligan, the Oscar-nominated marvel from An Education, leads a splendid cast that includes Keira Knightley, Charlotte Rampling and Sally Hawkins, in a cautionary tale about the dangers of science vs. humanity. One of the few films I've seen lately that audiences and critics were still debating fiercely days after its premiere, Never Let Me Go is a heartbreaking, imaginative work of art that left me devastated. So did Hereafter, a touching triptych of stories related to the theme of life after death; it finds Clint Eastwood in a more muted tone than usual, with Matt Damon as a sensitive psychic.

After nine months of Hollywood drivel, TIFF is always the launching pad for works of more serious ambition. Common underlying themes in the films coming this fall include people seeking dignity in the face of overwhelming adversity and the sad desperation of terminally lonely people trying to connect in a troubled world--to someone, some place, some sense of justice and meaning, anything! As the director of Trust, actor David Schwimmer does a disturbing job of tackling the terrifying world of Internet predators. In this powerful drama, an emotionally vulnerable 14-year-old in Chicago falls for a boy she believes to be a cute California volleyball player in a popular chat room, but when he arrives in person, while her parents are out of town, he turns out to be a 35-year-old rapist who is nothing like his photos or promises. The story centers on the disastrous effects of the rape on the girl as well as her parents (Clive Owen and Catherine Keener), as they all cope with a nightmare that changes their lives forever. Tony Goldwyn's Conviction is the inspirational true-life story of Betty Anne Waters (Hilary Swank), a Massachusetts wife and mother who devotes her life to proving the innocence of her brother Kenny (Sam Rockwell) after he is sentenced to life in prison for a murder he didn't commit. Neglecting her husband and two sons while scrimping and saving to put herself through law school, she pulls every lever in the corrupt legal system with the aid of famed attorney Barry Scheck (Peter Gallagher) to reopen the case, only to discover after 16 years of work that the DNA evidence has been destroyed. The film chronicles her undying faith as she overcomes one obstacle after another;  Ms. Swank is aided by a first-rate cast (Juliette Lewis, Melissa Leo, Minnie Driver and others) and a script that plays like a detective yarn. The ending will leave you cheering. Beautiful Boy is a wrenching story about two parents in a rocky marriage (Maria Bello and Michael Sheen) who are shocked to heartrending depths of despair when their perfect 18-year-old son commits a mass shooting on his college campus before taking his own life. In the hot new "hunky alpha males in jeopardy" genre, nothing could be more harrowing than 127 Hours and Buried. The first one is writer-director Danny Boyle's first film since the Oscar-winning Slumdog Millionaire, the true story of adventurer Aron Ralston, who fell through a crevice on a hiking trip through Utah in 2003 and lay pinned under a boulder for 127 hours until he was forced to cut off his own arm to save his life. A graphic story of courage and survival guaranteed to make you pinch yourself to keep from fainting, with James Franco giving a heroic performance, it forced several members of the audience to be carried out on stretchers during an early preview in Sundance. Not for sissies. In Buried, Ryan Reynolds is a civilian truck driver delivering kitchen supplies in Iraq who wakes up in a wooden coffin underground with no oxygen and a cigarette lighter running out of fluid. With my heart pounding and nerves jangled, I was only able to stand it until the snake showed up. But I wasn't bored.

If proof was ever required that the movie business has changed, consider Robert Redford. The once glamorous and hugely powerful commodity is here like everybody else, shlepping a new film he directed with independent money called The Conspirator, hoping to interest a distributor. It will need all the shlepping it can get. The Conspirator takes place two years after the Civil War during those dark days of April 1865, when Abraham Lincoln was assassinated. John Wilkes Booth, who was gunned down before the curtain fell, is just a peripheral player in the aftermath of the shooting at Ford's Theatre. Seven men and one lone woman--all civilians--are accused of being co-conspirators in a corrupt trial that should have been tried by a jury, not a military tribunal. The war department, run by Lincoln-appointed Edwin Stanton (Kevin Kline), is so hell-bent on pacifying a country desperate to avenge the president's murder that it sacrifices the Constitutional rights of an innocent woman without a shred of evidence. The result is a shameful trial that is both immoral and illegal. Mary Surratt (Robin Wright) is guilty of nothing more than the misfortune of owning the boardinghouse where Booth sometimes visited and his followers lived, but even after the court finds her not guilty, Secretary of State Stanton changes the verdict and makes Mrs. Surratt the first woman ever sent to the gallows in the U.S. With excellent performances by Ms. Wright (she's dropped the Penn), James McAvoy, Tom Wilkinson, Evan Rachel Wood and Danny Huston, a carefully researched screenplay and the kind of period authenticity most indie-prods on a reduced budget only dream about, Mr. Redford has provided a worthy footnote to a part of American history they do not teach in classrooms. The Conspirator has "worthy" stamped all over it with a capital "W," but to me, it lacks momentum, its commercial prospects seem dim and with a running time of more than two hours, it is somber to the point of tedium.

Not bad for a first week in Toronto. And still more new films by Jean Luc Godard, John Sayles, Ken Loach, Francois Ozon, Stephen Frears, Darren Aronofsky, John Carpenter and Werner Herzog to sift through, plus Kevin Spacey as crooked politician Jack Abramoff, and Mickey Rourke as a broken-down jazz musician stranded in the desert who falls in love with the Bird Woman in a traveling circus. So many movies, so little time. Sleep, balanced meals, exercise--they're all on hold. You live on pizza, candy bars and eye drops. Then you prop your eyes open and head for another double feature.

rreed@observer.com

Up in the Air

What's the story: Whether you think he's another example of Hollywood nepotism, a slick and heartless huckster, a budding talent on the level of Billy Wilder or, a combination of all three, one thing is certain: Jason Reitman is a force to be reckoned with. Just two years after Juno became a cultural phenomenon and scored him a Best Director nomination, Mr. Reitman returns with Up in the Air, which has already been tapped as an Oscar front-runner. The National Board of Review named it the best film of the year, something both Slumdog Millionaire and No Country for Old Men—the last two Best Picture winners—can lay claim to winning as well. Based on the novel by Walter Kirn, Up in the Air stars George Clooney as Ryan Bingham, a corporate grim reaper who spends his life traveling around the country firing those less fortunate, until a newbie (New Moon's Anna Kendrick) threatens to make his job obsolete. Timeliness alert! The notices on Mr. Clooney have been effusive (what else is new?), but don't sleep on Ms. Kendrick or Vera Farmiga (as the woman he falls for along the way), both of whom could find themselves as Supporting Actress nominees. This is probably one you shouldn't miss.

Who should see it: Ivan Reitman.

Brothers

What's the story: Speaking of timeliness, say hello to Brothers! Jim Sheridan's remake of Susanne Bier's 2004 Danish film focuses on the war in Afghanistan and its impact on our troops. When Captain Sam Cahill (Tobey Maguire) is presumed dead, his ne'er-do-well ex-con brother, Tommy (Maguire doppelgänger Jake Gyllenhaal), becomes the man of the house, watching over Sam's wife (Natalie Portman) and two children. But when Sam turns up alive, you better believe differences occur. The ad campaign for Brothers paints it like a straight-up thriller, but don't believe everything you see on television. According to the middling reviews, Brothers is a lot more introverted than Lionsgate would have you believe.

Who should see it: Barack Obama.

Everybody's Fine

What's the story: The "dysfunctional family holiday film" subgenre gets another member with the release of Everybody's Fine, a remake of Guiseppe Tornatore's Stanno tutti Bene. Robert De Niro stars as a recent widower who visits his estranged children (Sam Rockwell, Drew Barrymore, Kate Beckinsale), hoping to reconnect. The reviews have been tepid at best and eviscerating at worst, so we'd advise you to tread lightly. Kudos, though, to whoever thought to cast Mr. Rockwell as Mr. De Niro's son. Seriously, that's genius.

Who should see it: Al Pacino.

Also opening this weekend: Helen Mirren and Christopher Plummer add to their Oscar bona fides in The Last Station; Cheryl Hines directs Serious Moonlight, written by the late Adrienne Shelly; Matt Dillon and a host of B-listers plot an armored car heist in Armored; and something called Translymania comes out, too.

Best Actor: Jeff Bridges, Crazy Heart

Is Fox Searchlight contractually obligated to release one film per year with a veteran actor in a career-defining showcase performance? Last year it was Mickey Rourke who delighted audiences in The Wrestler; this year, it looks poised to be Mr. Bridges in Crazy Heart. For those unfamiliar with the film, consider it The Wrestler gone country. Mr. Bridges plays an aging performer on his last legs hoping for one last... yadda yadda yadda. The film might seem trite, but the buzz on Mr. Bridges—who, as the trailer happily points out, is a four-time nominee—is already borderline deafening. Though Crazy Heart doesn't come out for another two weeks, he already feels penciled in as a nominee and perhaps could be a favorite to take home Oscar gold.

Best Supporting Actor: Woody Harrelson, The Messenger

Call him Jeff Bridges, Jr. The long-beloved Mr. Harrelson has only been nominated once (for The People vs. Larry Flynt), but there is a very good chance that he'll wind up in the running next year. Best Supporting Actor is one of the weaker categories on the docket (lest we forget—and God love him—but people were taking Zack Galifianakis somewhat seriously as a contender for The Hangover), and Mr. Harrelson's work in The Messengers, as a casualty notification agent for the army, has been universally acclaimed. Whether voters actually sit-down and watch the little-seen indie film is a different story, but, hey, that's what screeners are for!

Best Feature: The Last Station

If you've never heard of The Last Station, don't worry: you're probably not alone. But we have a feeling everyone is going to be sure of its existence come Oscar night. The film tied Precious—the ostensible belle of the ball—with five nominations (in addition to Best Feature, nods went to director Michael Hoffman and stars Helen Mirren and Christopher Plummer), and if the early reviews are any indication, the plaudits won't stop there. Our own Rex Reed outright gushed about The Last Station, saying it "should be accompanied by the sound of trumpets" and calling it "passionate, profound and unforgettable." With ten slots to fill for Best Picture, will it surprise anyone when The Last Station shows up on the not-short list?

Let the drums roll. The arrival of a movie with as much intelligence and artistry as The Last Station should also be accompanied by the sound of trumpets. For the legions of movie lovers who lament the passing of great filmmaking, don’t give up yet. This one is for you.

A period costume biopic about the last days of the magnificent Russian novelist Leo Tolstoy may not seem like box office gold in the age of aliens and teenage vampires, but the author of War and Peace and Anna Karenina is still considered one of the greatest writers who ever lived, and his story is filled with the turbulence and drama that makes for epic grandeur; attention must be paid. With lush landscapes, gorgeous clothes and estates and fabulous acting by a distinguished cast headed by Christopher Plummer and Helen Mirren, this film has so much to savor and applaud that I scarcely know where to begin. Yet The Last Station is never arch, stuffy, highbrow or remote. It never keeps the audience at a distance. There’s no question that a historical drama about the death of a Russian icon will be a hard sell. But, written and directed with skill, sensitivity and humor by Michael Hoffman, it is as entertaining as it is literate. I find it rapturous and perfect.

The year is 1910, Russia is feverish with visionary Communists, the smell of revolution is in the air and everyone keeps a diary. (The movie is based on the 1990 novel by Jay Parini, which, in turn, was based on the diaries of all the characters involved.) Tolstoy (Mr. Plummer), who heads a pacifist movement that preaches passive resistance, truth, freedom and sexual abstinence, and eschews Russian royalty, free thinking, organized religion, the accumulation of wealth, the owning of private property and eating anything but vegetables, is caught in a tug of war between a scheming disciple, Vladimir Chertkov (Paul Giamatti), a rabid Trotskyite who persuades him to leave all of his royalties to the Russian people, and his wife of nearly 50 years, the Countess Sofya (Helen Mirren), a jealous, overripe and hysterical drama queen who demands that he will his estate to his family for posterity. She loves her husband, but does not worship him as a spiritual prophet of God. In fact, she knows his character flaws so well that she cannot bear any more talk of hero worship, or giving away their land to the peasants. She wants to protect the works of Tolstoy for her children’s inheritance and considers Chertkov a phony sycophant and an evil influence with political ambitions of his own. “If I had a wife like you, I would have blown my brains out—or gone to America!” yells Mr. Giamatti in a clownish outburst of the kind of eye-rolling overacting that has become his trademark.

Caught in the middle is Tolstoy’s new secretary, Valentin (James McAvoy, from Atonement and The Last King of Scotland), a dedicated follower of Tolstoy’s doctrine who falls from grace in the arms of a beautiful servant (Kerry Condon), who initiates him in the pleasures of sex, to the thrill of Countess Sofya. After his wife tries to drown herself in a lake, the great writer leaves home, but falls ill in a lonely country railway station in the middle of the Russian winter, with Sofya at his side. This scene demonstrates pure poetic license; the Countess was never permitted to visit her husband’s death bed, although the Russian senate did award her all of Tolstoy’s copyrights four years after he died.

The Last Station brims with revelations about the human lives and the culture the Russians sacrificed in the name of Communist idealism. It is full of ideas, clearly detailed and vividly acted by an exemplary cast. Mr. McAvoy grows sympathetically from a tender, star-struck Valentin, deployed to spy on the countess but winning her confidence and friendship, to a man of the world, losing his faith in Tolstoy as a saint and losing his virginity in the bargain. Ms. Mirren, who is half-Russian herself, plays the flamboyant Sofya with fire and ice, igniting the screen with warmth, poise, ecstasy and intoxicating intensity. Amid the waxed mustaches and astrakhan hats, Mr. Plummer is magnetic as Tolstoy—stooped, bearded and snowy as the landscape. His memorable death scene, on the level of King Lear, is the apogee of what great acting aspires to be.

The Last Station opens this week for a seven-day trial run to qualify for Oscars, then returns on a regular basis in January. Do not wait. Experience the adrenalin rush early. This movie is passionate, profound and unforgettable.

rreed@observer.com

State of Play is the latest incoherently written, mass-entertainment gibberish by the overrated Tony Gilroy. Two other writers share the credit, but the movie implodes bearing the burden of the same smart-aleck Gilroy trademarks as Michael Clayton, Duplicity and all those incomprehensible Bourne identities, supremacies and ultimatums: glam stars spouting corny dialogue, current events shrouded in enough violence and sex to keep the audience awake and labored plot twists hammered to death by a storm of clichés. None of it makes any sense, but people go away from this kind of formulaic gumbo smiling. “Of course it collapses under close scrutiny,” said one critic leaving the screening I attended, “but it’s fun.” So is the kind of mustard-splattered chili dog that leads to acid reflux.

Melding journalism, politics and big business, the plot is a din of babble that begins with the death of a sexy head researcher working for ambitious Congressman Stephen Collins (Ben Affleck), who is investigating Defense Department outsourcing in Iraq and Afghanistan and war profiteering by a private security company called Pointcorps (think Halliburton) that is bidding billions of dollars for a contract to control Homeland Security. Stay with me. It gets worse. Across town from the Congressional hearings, at a major Washington, D.C., newspaper, sits Russell Crowe, a fat, hairy, unshaven and unhealthy-looking slob who looks like something that just crawled out of a cave. He is Cal McAffrey, a renegade reporter who puts two and two together and discovers that the dead girl was the congressman’s drug-loving mistress and a double agent working for Pointcorps. Linking her death to two other murders on the same day, he gradually unravels a swampy jumble of a scandal that makes the congressman a media target. This gets edgy, see, because the congressman and the creepy reporter used to be college roommates and best friends. With three dozen hungry reporters hounding him, Representative Collins camps out at the reporter’s apartment. (Yeah, fat chance, and with three you get eggroll.) Thickening the preposterous brew, McAffrey is saddled with a perky, pretty cub reporter (Rachel McAdams) who tracks down facts he’s trying to keep out of the paper, and Collins’ humiliated wife (a wasted Robin Wright Penn) is recruited to clean up his reputation with the public. The reporter is torn between loyalty to an old friend and the need to stop corporate and government perversion, and a mannish editor named Cameron Lynne (Helen Mirren) cusses like a drunken sailor and holds up the front page for four hours so her reporters can find the killer and solve the murders on their own. The congressman commits political suicide for the common good, but this movie is not over yet. There’s still the obligatory chase in the dark underground parking garage to endure—not to mention fund-raisers, cocktail parties, people thrown to their deaths from subway platforms, assorted flawed politicians, hidden agendas, split personalities and a ballet at the Kennedy Center. When it finally grinds to a halt after 127 minutes of Cuisinart confusion, you go away muttering, “Huh?”

The funniest thing in the movie is the way it depicts newspapers as sexy, exciting places to solve murder mysteries, meet girls and ignore things like dwindling circulation, fact checking and meeting deadlines. It’s hard to believe Tony Gilroy is the son of the great Pulitzer Prize winner Frank Gilroy, who wrote The Subject Was Roses and knew a few things about logic, psychology, trenchant narrative harmony and believable character development that he failed to pass on to his son. The director is Kevin Macdonald, whose debut feature The Last King of Scotland was a much better film. This one has pace and the actors hold your attention, although Russell Crowe looks like he’s been living the same offscreen life as Mickey Rourke.

rreed@observer.com

In this holiday season's films—Revolutionary Road, Australia, Milk—costume design is at the forefront. [LA Times] 

Neiman Marcus has reported a $12.9 million profit in the first fiscal quarter. But don't get too hopeful yet--the profits are actually an 83.6 percent decrease for the retailer, as its profits dropped from $78.8 million to $12.9 million. [WWD] 

P. Diddy said that he's toning down his personal style and trying not to dress too "flashy," given the current state of the economy. [Vogue UK]

Oscar winner Helen Mirren, who has publicly talked about the lack of fashionable choices for older women, is considering designing a collection for British label Marks & Spencer. She's already decided on a name: DWS, as in "Dresses with Sleeves." [Vogue UK]

Tuesday: The Savages
When making the rounds last year for The Savages, Tamara Jenkins' first film since 1998's Slums of Beverly Hills, the writer-director joked that she was on the "Terrence Malick schedule, without the masterpieces." Here's hoping we don't have to wait another nine years for her next film. Ms. Jenkins is right; The Savages isn't a masterpiece. But it is mannered and truthful. And while it isn't very hard to cull top-level performances from high-caliber actors like Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Laura Linney, Ms. Jenkins manages to humanize the two of them in a way most directors never do. This is particularly true of Mr. Hoffman, who is as likeable here as he was in Magnolia. [@ Max, 5:30 p.m.]

Wednesday: Primary Colors
Until this past week, we hadn't seen Primary Colors in ten years. However in the wake of Election Day, the film has been running on what seems like a continuous loop. And thank goodness! The Mike Nichols/Elaine May adaptation of Joe "Anonymous" Klein's roman à clef holds up surprisingly well. Perhaps that's because the politics strike an even greater chord in a post-Barack Obama world. As Kathy Bates, filled with foul-mouthed bravado and endearing sadness, says towards the end: "Our job is to make it clean; because if it's clean, we win. Because our ideas are better." Primary Colors resolved that there is no staying clean in politics. Now, maybe that's not the case. [Thriller Max, 11:45 a.m.]

Thursday: 30 Rock
Here's a little something about the third season of 30 Rock that you might not realize: it hasn't been very good. Before you come bang down our door with pitchforks and torches in hand, consider that both the season premiere and the second episode were two of the worst 30 Rock has ever produced. Granted, they were still better than almost everything else on television, but when the bar is set impossibly high, impossible standards are expected. Last week's episode, featuring Jennifer Aniston and the cast of Night Court, was a clear return to form. This week, Steve Martin hopes to keep things moving forward. If his scenes with Tina Fey in Baby Mama are any indication, we should all be in for a treat. [NBC, 9:30 p.m.]

Friday: National Treasure: Book of Secrets
While we didn't have the vitriol that so many others did towards Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, even we noticed that one key component was undeniably missing: joy. That isn't the case in the National Treasure series. Book of Secrets is unabashedly stupid, but there is so much joy coming off the screen, you can't help but get caught up in the ridiculousness of it all. We always love Nicolas Cage whenever he does his Jerry Bruckheimer thing, but the real treat here is Helen Mirren. Gloriously slumming and positively gorgeous, Ms. Mirren looks like she's having a blast. [Starz, 7:55 p.m.]