Even though you dread seeing Hello, My Name Is Doris from the moment you see the ads and the trailer, you might go, hoping that cooler heads will prevail. They did not. The occasional laugh vomiting forth, does not make up for the downgrading of women of any age.

The writers, director Michael Showalter and Laura Terruso, may have had a good embryo. They may have thought that a film about a woman stunted in life by caring for her mother and working a job no one cares whether she does. They may have thought that watching her come out of her cocoon, getting therapy, finding happiness in a younger man who pays a tad of attention to her, may have been an interesting story. And it may have been if they had not been so hellbent on making Doris so pathetic.

It starts with the outfits, as the star Sally Field has said in interviews. Once she fluffed Doris' hair with a fall and a scarf, she had her. But the outfits just make Doris look pathetic. Add to that the hoarding she does, not wanting to throw away sentimental belongings, shoves the character toward loopy. Placing her in the midst of a family that wants to change and control her gives Stephen Root and Wendy McLendon-Covey a chance to play-act superficially, but they don't help -- not the characters, not the actors. Ditto Beth Behrs and Max Greenfield. Greenfield never rises to the role of the young man intrigued by the older woman; he's not hurtful but he's not believable either. Tyne Daly, as Doris' friend, outshines everyone. Field throws herself into Doris' tantrums but spends more time being fussy-mousy. The script does not support the moments of growth the character aspires to sporadically.

You're left with a largely unfunny movie about a sad sack woman. And where's the good in that?

 

For all the good acting on Jake Gyllenhaal's part, for all the directorial efforts on Jean-Marc Vallee's part, and for all the script work on Bryan Sipe's side, Demolition just does not nail the dismount. Its intentions are good in wanting to follow the need to rebuild a demolished life.

Gyllenhaal plays Davis, an investment banker who works for his father-in-law Phil. And, yes, he gets the joke that the initials for "father-in-law," FIL, kind of sound like "Phil" too. Davis expresses this joke in a voice-over telling this story. It proceeds from a couple in a car. She's at the wheel, reminding him that he does have tools and should repair a leak.

She is killed in a car accident soon after. To mention this is not to spoil the movie since this death occurs very early on and since the rest of the plot depends on it. From that moment, Davis is trying to figure out how to be a widower.

He starts, oddly enough, by writing a letter of complaint to the company that supplied the vending machine in the ward where his wife died. The machine ate his money, and he wants it back. Karen, the clerk in the customer-service department falls for that letter and falls, too, for the letter writer. Karen helps him to put his life back, and so does her son but not her husband. Davis' married life has been spent in a steel grey, modern house; Karen's life is in a cozy cottage. The contrast is obvious -- just as obvious as Davis' need to demolish that cold house.

As Davis, Gyllenhaal is excellent, but as Karen the clerk, Watts never clicks, any more than Heather Lind does as the late wife. Gyllenhaal has more clicks with Chris Cooper, who plays his father-in-law, an angry, impatient man. Although Vallee scored big-time with Dallas Buyers' Club and Wild, he wanders afield in Demolition, and it just never quite solidifies, despite its understanding of wild anger at death.

 

The title is odd, but the film is odder. The film works so long as you're willing to allow that not all stories need a beginning, middle, and end, preferably in that order. The title works so long as you grant reason as well as fancy to the reading of Tarot cards.

The Knight of Cups card refers to an explorer, a nobleman looking for definition. The film opens with a voice telling a story over pictures of the universe, including some smashing shots of the Aurora Borealis from above the North Pole, the electromagnets set on stun. The story involves a prince whose father sent him to Egypt to find a pearl; there, the townspeople give him a drink that makes him forget the pearl and fall into a deep sleep.

He wanders, trying to find himself, but he looks in all the wrong places. We know that, as we watch him touch walls blindly seeking balance. Only in this case, the walls are six women, including his ex-wife. Each woman offers -- or he takes -- sex but there is nothing erotic about these encounters. They are as flat as Tarot cards, themselves.

The man named Rick, played by Christian Bale, so effective in The Big Short, is a wandering writer, who spars with his brother (Wes Bentley), and his overbearing father (Brian Dennehy). Among the willowy women are actors Cate Blanchett, Frieda Pinto, Natalie Portman, and Imogen Poots. Cherry Jones wafts through as well, along with Armin Mueller-Stahl and Antonio Banderas.

Knight of Cups was directed and written by Terrence Malick, who wasted little ink on the script or treatment. Much of the story deals with film-making itself, so the film can be seen as insider trading. Silence rings throughout, as definitive as the scenes of nature juxtaposed against portraits of stunning modern architecture. Knight of Cups is less pretentious than Malick's Tree of Life, but it requires viewers' elasticity.

 

War is hell. No news there. But modern warfare, involving drones instead of trenches, commands especial attention to the law and to ethics, as well as to military objectives. Eye in the Sky hops from place to place, decision to in-decision, from reason to emotion, to create heart-smacking tension.

It takes close to 20 minutes to line up the dramatis personae and the several international settings for the plot, from Kenya to Sussex, England, to Nevada and Pearl Harbor, USA, and British officers in the field and boardroom to Americans in the control rooms, to spies and neophyte pilots, to the enemy, and to a family that includes a girl who's a whiz with a hula hoop but who is not allowed to play or to study her maths while the anti-woman enemy is watching.

Inside a house near hers is a group of people, including a British woman, who was radicalized and might be readying for a suicide mission. Once a drone in the shape of a beetle determines that the heavily hooded woman in that house is the target, the colonel has to get permission from all forces to terminate the target with as little collateral damage as possible.

Eye in the Sky includes deciders and in-deciders, including as prime ministers, who do not want to be judged by YouTube viewers. The cast is outstanding, starting with Helen Mirren, as stalwart here as her character Jane Tennison ever was. Aaron Paul plays a pilot who's never shot a "hellfire" from a drone before. Alan Rickman, in his last role, plays a Lt. General in full exasperation. Barkhad Abdi, the Somali actor from Captain Phillips, plays a determined spy. Director Gavin Hood, who directed Tsotsi 10 years ago, takes a role in his film. Haris Zambarloukos' cinematography and Johnny Breedt's production design make Eye in the Sky more than a movie shot through with tension, framed by coordinates.

 

The title's code words represent initials for an exclamation of dismay. Those words accompany every step of this revealing and often riveting film about a journalist in Afghanistan in the first years of this century. The film stays strong as does the protagonist, flung into the field from a boring desk job.

Kim Baker was childless and unmarried in 2003 and, therefore, ripe for a field assignment. She arrives in Afghanistan with a screaming-orange backpack and enough moxie to stay the course. She just doesn't know what the course is going to be. As a newbie newswoman, sprung from the copy desk, she has to navigate a foreign country where women are burka-ed and belittled. At the same time, she has to negotiate the competition of the news industry, at home -- now Afghanistan -- and back home.

She meets other journalists and shooters, their tongues a polyglot of accents. She meets guards, guides, generals, the enemy. She meets her courage, soon revved up as that of the adrenalined character played by Jeremy Renner in The Hurt Locker.

This film has been sold as a bosom-buddy movie, with the stars Tina Fey and Margo Robbie as snipers. It is much more than that, much more than one-liners, spruced up by writer Robert Carlock from Baker's bio. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot presents Fey in the role of a woman coming to terms with herself, both as the character and as an actor amid a stellar cast. Alfred Molina plays politician; Cherry Jones, a network exec; Martin Freeman, a swain; Josh Charles, a cad; and Billy Bob Thornton, a Marine. But this film is Tina Fey's, and she doesn't waste time or space in telling Kim Baker's story of a stranger in a strange land of war.

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