Thor (2011)

© Paramount Pictures

I was more confused than excited when it was announced that Kenneth Branagh would be directing Thor. The fact that he didn't cast himself in it was a positive sign, but the trailer and tv spots made the movie look more dull than anything else. Though it's not a top shelf Marvel adaptation (not as sprightly as Iron Man or as deliciously weird and weighty as Spider-Man 2), the movie's pretty good. Don't bother with the 3D, though; at one point I asked my viewing companion if anything was even in 3D. Maybe Mjölnir came at us at some point?

What took me by surprise was how much I like Thor, the character. Here's the thing about the god of war: he's remarkably angst-free. Sure, some stuff gets him down, but he bounces back awfully quickly. He's not a orphan, nothing tragic happens to give him his abilities or drive, he wastes no time in adapting to Earth, and, when he likes a girl, he just goes ahead and lets her know. None of this "can't be with you in order to protect you" malarkey. He learns a few necessary lessons, and it's all derry-doing from there on out. He's practically Errol Flynn, if Errol Flynn were a giant war-mongering Labrador retriever. Depending on who you read, Chris Hemsworth is either serviceable or turning in a star-making performance. I was going to tell you to split the difference to find something closer to the truth, but, given how much I like the role, a good part of that must be down to Hemsworth (or as I initially typed, "The Hemsworth"). I should just admit that I love that big slab of beefcake. Seriously, though, he is huge.

Juxtaposing him with teeny Natalie Portman makes for an effective sight gag, but it's the lovely way that serious scientist Jane Foster comes undone by the courtly colossus that really makes the relationship (and the movie) tick. Stellan Skarsgård is equally up for some good old fashioned Norse fun, and I bet he had plenty of Viking advice to pass on the Hemsworth, given that he is the father of one. The vision of Asagard as a 1930s golden wonderland presided over by Anthony Hopkins is just icing. 

Though it could do with a little more substance, it's a decent first outing and an excellent addition to the rapidly expanding Marvel movie universe. B

True Grit (2010) and Winter's Bone (2010)

© Roadside Attractions

The problem with seeing a movie that critics you trust call the best movie of the year is that you expect it to be the BEST. EVER! Ah, expectations. They get ya every time.

Winter's Bone is an exceptional movie. It's small and quiet and down to the bone harrowing. Jennifer Lawrence's star-marking performance betrays not a hint of vulnerability because Ree just can't. She can't, so she doesn't. Watching her make stew is a lesson in keeping your back straight, never mind combing the meth ravaged Ozarks for any sign of her father, lest her family lose the home he put up to secure a bond.

Though with significantly less screen time to work with, it's hard not heap praise on John Hawkes as the improbably named Teardrop. Maybe I'm just predisposed to like Hawkes (Deadwood forever!), but I doubt it. Teardrop is no Sol Star. For a man to grab a gun rather than let Teardrop to approach him "naked" and for Hawkes to earn that just by standing there, it's scary how naturally that kind of weight comes to him. If the movie hasn't already, his last line will break you all the way down.

Perhaps what's most striking is the way co-writer and director Debra Granik handles this all so patiently and levelly. The movie's on Ree's side, to be sure, but Granik manages to give even ladies who are more like feral cats than humans a certain legitimacy. There's little judgment here. It's a pocket of the US that's held up for inspection, yes, but it's not for mockery. Some things just are. Ree's life just is. It's how she deals with that that makes her, and the movie, transcendent. A-

© Paramount Pictures

It was next to impossible to sit in the theatre and not think of the similarly-themed True Grit. Of course, Mattie (Haliee Steinfeld) wants to see her father's killer brought to justice while Ree could give two craps about any such thing, but it's still there: the unforgiving landscape, the quest, the less than perfect assistance. Mattie's burdens are considerably less yet her persistence remains the same.

I hereby elect the Coens to direct every new western from here on out (for what was No Country for Old Men if not a western?), and I further recommend Jeff Bridges to star in each subsequent output. His voice dropped, craggy and old, Bridges' Rooster Cogburn is a mess. He's drunk and lazy, and he always, always shoots first. Somehow -- and it's a testament to Bridges' bottomless talent -- he's still a man you want on your side.

I feel like it's almost unfair of me to give True Grit extra points for Roger Deakins' expansive, arid cinematography or Matt Damon's total hilarity as an effete Texas Ranger or Barry Pepper reminding me of Ben Foster in 3:10 to Yuma and making me forget about him, but I don't feel bad about loving Carter Burwell's mournful score. Burwell just might be my favourite composer working today.

But mostly, it gets extra points for managing to inject humour in the stark, desolate, adult world into which Mattie is thrust and must survive with her will intact. A