(We're re-posting our CineVegas review of The Rocker to coincide with the film's theatrical release today)

I like the premise of The Rocker so much -- middle-aged wannabe rock star insinuates himself into his teenage nephew's band -- that I'm inclined to go easy on it solely out of good will. It's likable enough, a lightweight rock 'n' roll comedy punctuated by several belly laughs -- but those laughs are all in response to the one-liners, and mostly from one minor character (more on that later). The story, the central personalities, and the uninspired slapstick are bland.

The title wannabe is Robert "Fish" Fishman, played by Rainn Wilson (of TV's The Office) in his first major film role. Fish was the drummer for Vesuvius, a mid-'80s heavy-metal band, but was kicked out on the eve of the group's success. Now, two decades later, Vesuvius is huge and Fish is a bitter has-been (or, rather, never-was).

In a marketplace of increasingly generic titles and often disingenuous marketing, the horror genre tends to bring a certain honesty to the table. Think about it: the words 'The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2' can simply never paint as vivid a mental picture as, say, 'Zombie Strippers'. These offerings may be comparatively lower in brow and budget, and no, not for all tastes, but with a film like that -- a title like that -- or Evil Aliens, or Jack Brooks: Monster Slayer, for that matter, what-you-see-is-what-you-get chutzpah is on their side, and while that quality might not alone do the trick when it comes to their ultimate entertainment value, it certainly doesn't do any harm.

That said, like those films (well, okay, maybe not that Pants one), Jack Brooks may not quite be the cult classic in the making that it so clearly sets out to be, but at least its influences and intent are always worn plainly upon its blood-stained sleeve.

It's too bad that more movies don't have the courage to explore faith and spirituality in a direct way; studios are usually too worried about appealing to all religions -- and all pocketbooks -- to be very specific about the subject. The other reason is that it's difficult for Hollywood movies to wrap up their neat, bow-tie happy endings with everything resolved, since the idea of faith is based on lack of proof, lack of finality. One of my favorite movies is Dreyer's The Passion of Joan of Arc, which uses an unconventional, off-kilter visual scheme to document some exciting, endlessly fascinating arguments: which side is God on and what does He really want with us? The new Henry Poole Is Here bucks the trend with the appearance of a "miracle" in the life of its ordinary, everyday character. Does it raise any interesting, life-changing questions? Sadly, no. The film is too bored and lackadaisical with its subject to change much of anything. It's too uninspired to be inspirational.

Henry Poole (Luke Wilson) is a man with "movie disease." This means that he's going to die, and he'll have absolutely no symptoms until he does. Sometimes "movie disease" comes with a cough, but not this time. Sometimes "movie disease" has a name, like "brain cloud," but not this time. In preparation for the dark day, Henry buys a house in his old neighborhood, loads up on booze, doughnuts and pizza and waits. Meanwhile, his nosy neighbor Esperanza (Oscar nominee Adriana Barraza, from Babel) brings him tamales and pokes around his backyard. (Her late boyfriend used to live in the same house.) She notices that a badly done stucco job has produced a water stain, and that the water stain looks a bit like a familiar guy with a beard. The picture even produces a drop of blood.

With Toy Story (1995), a studio called Pixar blew the lid off of animated movies as we knew them. Thirteen years later, the other studios have yet to even approach that early level of excellence, let alone match the advancements Pixar has made since. Oddly similar to the most recent clunker Space Chimps, the new Fly Me to the Moon looked infinitely more promising in that it was based on an actual idea: the 1969 Apollo 11 mission as seen through the eyes of three stowaway flies -- in 3D! But sadly it proves itself as technically dull and as creatively stifled as Space Chimps as well as nearly every other non-Pixar movie.

After a totally useless, noisy black-and-white prologue, we get a very cool establishing shot. The camera flows smoothly through the back lots behind Cape Canaveral in Florida. It swoops into a patch of dirt and a tangle of weeds, through some bits of discarded junk, to the world where our little flies live (like humans, in little dollhouses). During this and other traveling sequences, the 3D works beautifully, engulfing us comfortably in this tiny world. But as soon as we meet the characters, the movie starts to sputter. In real life, houseflies can zip across the kitchen pretty darn fast relative to their size, but these flies drift lethargically from place to place, and the movie bogs down in their lackadaisical pace.

I felt, after seeing Woody Allen's latest, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, the way I do after I've been to an excellent tapas restaurant; I'd been presented with a series of small moments of flavor and texture and presentation, some more pleasant than others, and while the overall experience didn't add up to a full meal, it was still a sincere pleasure. Allen's been globetrotting lately -- although you can suggest that's been motivated less by some muse of artistic inspiration than by the equally beguiling, if less dignified, seductress of international financing. After several films set in London, Allen's now in Barcelona, Spain, as recently-graduated friends Vicky (Rebecca Hall) and Cristina (Scarlett Johansson) are taking some time to see the world before going back to America and futures as bright and unfixed as a sunlit fogbank.

Staying with family friends Mark and Judy Nash (Kevin Dunn and Patricia Clarkson), Vicky and Cristina take in the sights and experiences of Barcelona. Cristina's able to lose herself in the moment; for Vicky, each summer day's tempered by the certainty that summer will soon end. But one night after an art gallery showing, at an appropriately bohemian venue, Vicky and Cristina are approached by the painter whose work they've just seen, Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem), who proposes they join him as he flies to a small town so they might spend the weekend making love. Vicky's appalled; Cristina's intrigued; Juan Antonio is a laid-back seducer with a ready counter-argument to every objection: "Life is long; life is dull; life is full of pain." Why not have a little fun? It's not enough to talk the girls into agreeing to go to bed with him, but it is enough to get them on-board the plane. ...

When a film called Mirrors opens with a man fleeing desperately from said objects, it doesn't bode all that well. When that individual soon falls victim to a grisly demise at the sight of them, well, there's something to be said for the fact that there is ultimately nothing to see in Mirrors that is worth grabbing something sharp over. Unfortunately, there is also nothing that you probably haven't seen before in The Ring, The Grudge, or any number of exhaustingly similar American remakes of Asian spook stories.

And what a shame that we find ourselves having to associate the likes of Alexandre Aja with lackluster horror. Well, to be more accurate, luster is just about all he has to offer here, a slick sheen on a stale story. It's nice to have a legitimately menacing score in between shameless jolts!, and if we're to be treated to the same 'gotcha!' shots with depressing frequency, at least the lighting and lensing bring an equal amount of polish to the proceedings. Who knows: With enough technical prowess at play, maybe Aja can get someone to mistake this film for Shinola after all.

If Star Wars: The Clone Wars were a simple board game stacked up in a toy store aisle, the side of the box would read: "Ages 7 through Check Your Star Wars Ego at the Door." While the recent onslaught of superhero movies have brought us darker, more complex (and adult) storylines, one of our most beloved franchises has decided to travel in the opposite direction. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing; it's actually somewhat comforting to find a film with the word 'Wars' mentioned twice in the title alone and know that it's suitable for all ages. When I first watched a Star Wars film on the big screen, my feet could barely touch the sticky theater floor -- and so if a fun-filled, action-packed animated adventure story helps usher in a whole new legion of fans -- subsequently turning younger kids on to three live-action movies that came out, like, a billion years ago -- then right friggin' on!

Almost immediately we're clued into the fact that this big-screen Star Wars flick was gift-wrapped by another department store. That classic, drum-hoppin' 20th Century Fox intro is replaced with a much more subdued Warner Bros. logo, and the film's title swings into frame accompanied by different music. In replace of the classic story scroll, we get a newsreel-esque voiceover bringing us up to date on the main characters and their current mission. No one's trying to trick us here -- this is Star Wars for the need-it-now generation, and whereas previous films seemed to spend too much time rolling around in political-speak, Clone Wars is all about the action, the battles and the cheesy one-liners.

Tropic Thunder, starring Ben Stiller as one of a group of runaway actors whose work on a big-budget Vietnam epic goes horribly awry, is a funny, far-fetched mockery of modern Hollywood; the laughs don't maintain anything like a coherent intensity, but when they come, they're big enough to get you through the spaces between them. Some will mistakenly call Tropic Thunder a satire, but Tropic Thunder is in fact an example of satire's boisterous, bumbling sibling, the spoof. A satire's held with a light but precise grip, so the point can slice and the blade can cut; a spoof's more of a club, landing with blunt force and broad impact.

Star and director Stiller attacked the celebrity-industrial complex before, in 2001's Zoolander, and Tropic Thunder has more in common with that film than you might think; Stiller manages to mock action and thrills while also delivering them, and he's got a fine grasp of coarse celebrity behavior. Stiller seems drawn to characters whose self-centered arrogance is mixed in equal measure with self-loathing insecurity. We see an interview clip where Stiller's character, box office star Tugg Speedman, is informed by an interviewer how "Someone close to you said 'One more flop and it's over for him.'" Speedman pauses, and then asks his follow-up: "Somebody said they were close to me?"

I'm not partial to overtly subjective reviews, yet I can't seem to find any better way of relating my response to Isabel Coixet's latest film, Elegy, an adaptation of Philip Roth's novel "The Dying Animal," which follows the romance between a college professor and his much younger former student. First, though, a note of appropriateness: early in the film, this professor, the Roth regular David Kepesh, who previously appeared in the novels "The Breast" and "The Professor of Desire," is lecturing about how literature, specifically Tolstoy's "War and Peace," will be appreciated differently by a reader at different points in his or her life. In ten years, for example, it may seem like a new book entirely.

Perhaps in ten years, then, or more likely in thirty, I will be able to watch Elegy again and have a new perspective. Maybe I will be able to relate to Kepesh, here portrayed by Ben Kingsley, when I am in my sixties and have similarly lived and experienced as much. Yet the fact that Coixet's film is so depressing makes me almost hope that I never actually live so long to find out. I should have known, what with the filmmaker's past films, such as My Life Without Me, with their gray atmospheres and dreary dealings with illness and death. While appearing on the outside to be a sexy drama about how one lecherous old man discovers love, Elegy is on the inside really just a slow, uninteresting depiction of a selfish fool who possibly too-late realizes that he's grown old before he's actually grown up.

I figure I'm about 20 years older, at least, than the target demographic for The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2. I understand that there are some movies where I'll always feel a little old or out of touch, because they're just not made with me in mind, no matter how good or bad those movies are. Fortunately, I had no trouble empathizing with the four young women who are bound to friendship through their magical bifurcated nether garment -- more so than I did with the Sex and the City gang, who are much closer to my age.

Like Sex and the City, Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2 works better if you know the characters already through their previous appearances, because you're already emotionally invested in them. I hadn't read the young-adult novels by Ann Brashares, but my sister, who is a big fan, filled me in and we determined that this movie is based mostly on the fourth book in the series, with a few changes, so even if you've read the books you get some surprises.

Hell Ride is a deliberate, calculated throwback, referencing and recycling the cheapie bike-sploitation flicks of the '60s and early '70s as a band of burly brothers roar, rage and ride their way through the American Southwest on a rampage of revenge. Written by, directed by and starring Larry Bishop, Hell Ride thrums and roars with attitude; problem is, the drive shaft components of plot and character and logic just aren't there, meaning that even when Bishop hits the throttle, the roar and rattle can't hide the fact nothing's really happening.

Hell Ride revolves around a cycle gang known as The Victors, led by Pistolero (Bishop), with the tuxedo-shirt clad The Gent (Michael Madsen) riding on his right and recent inductee Comanche (Eric Balfour) an up-and-coming lieutenant in the organization, on his left. The Victors are trying to take care of business -- although what business it is they're in is never quite explained -- and the only thing interfering with that is Pistolero's obsession with righting the wrong done decades ago to Cherokee Kisum (Julia Jones), slain on the 4th of July in 1976. The Gent and Comanche are rubbed the wrong way by Pistolero's campaign of retribution, especially with the Six-Six-Six'ers and their kill-crazy leader Billy Wings (Vinnie Jones) edging in on Victors turf. ...

(No, I'm not stoned. It's just that Pineapple Express opens today (8/6), but my review was published over a week ago. This reprint is brought to you by Cinematical's Recycling Division. We care about wasted bandwidth.)

I won't get into the precise reasons, but my friends always seem to think I'm going to LOVE the next big "pot comedy." They chuckle and assume such silly things despite the fact that the only real pothead comedies that I truly enjoy are Up in Smoke, Next Movie, and a large portion of the Harold & Kumar misadventures. Frankly I'm of the opinion that most pot comedies feel like they were written by someone very stoned, and let's just say that writers don't always do their best work when they're extra-baked. (They might THINK their stuff is hilarious, but usually it's not. That's just the weed talking.) Oh, you'll definitely find a few cannabis-caked giggles in Half-Baked, Grandma's Boy, and Smiley Face -- just not enough to sustain a whole movie, if it's me you're asking.

So it is with much pleasure, enthusiasm, and recently-applied Visine that I offer you Pineapple Express, which just may be the Casablanca of Pot Comedies. Or perhaps it's more like When Ultra-High Harry Met Super-Stoned Sally, but either way Pineapple Express showcases some of the funniest "weed culture" insights since the arrival of Richard Linklater's fantastic Dazed & Confused -- which I wouldn't call a full-bore "pot comedy," but it sure isn't shy about passing those joints around. Best of all, while Pineapple Express will absolutely appeal to both the casual and committed pot-smokers, it's also just a very funny buddy comedy / action flick parody that comes bearing the very unique stamp of director David Gordon Green.

A non-fiction inquiry into the toxic ramifications of the U.S.'s obsession with female beauty, Darryl Roberts' America the Beautiful certainly doesn't lack for a worthy topic, nor for endless avenues of investigation. Choice subject matter, however, only gets a film so far, and the director's everything-and-the-kitchen-sink approach to tackling the myriad ways that women are beset by unreasonable and/or dangerous body-image ideals ultimately does as much harm as good.

Roberts is well-trained in the Michael Moore school of documentary filmmaking, using a personal story - his break-up with a potential wife over superficial qualms with her looks - as the impetus for a wide-ranging analysis of the modeling industry, the cosmetics trade, magazine advertising, the field of plastic surgery, and, for good measure, a tragic tale of bulimia to cap things off in suitably wrenching, cautionary-tale fashion. His strategy is to cram in as many facts and tidbits as 105 minutes will allow in order to present an overwhelmingly damning case against our cultural priorities. Frustratingly, though, his film is sometimes overwhelming less because of its convincing conclusions than simply because of its mountain of cursorily handled arguments.

It must be a horrible, wonderful thing to be a movie star in this modern age -- rewarded and yet tightly caged by the public's perception of you. Stay within the expectations of the ticket-buying public, and you're likely (or, more accurately, more likely) to not fall off the public's radar; at the same time, that gilded cage must, at some point, feel more and more like a prison. I mention this in talking about Swing Vote because Kevin Costner manages a somewhat nifty trick in his performance as Bud Johnston, a New Mexico ne'er-do-well who, thanks to a close-fought election and a voting machine error, gets to pick the next president. Oh, sure, we all do that on voting day -- but, due to a electoral college tie and a tie in New Mexico, it turns out Bud's vote will be the deciding one. For, well, everyone. Before this is established by Jason Richman and Joshua Michael Stern's screenplay, though, we get a sense of Bud -- and, at first, Bud seems like another in a long line of Kevin Costner likable rascals from Bull Durham's Crash Davis to Tin Cup's Roy MacAvoy. But Bud is something more interesting -- a man whose charm can't quite cover up the holes in his soul. Bud's a drunkard. Bud's lazy. And if it weren't for his daughter Molly (Madeline Carroll), Bud would be even more adrift and frayed. Early, Bud tells his civic-minded daughter that " ... voting doesn't count for a goddamn thing." Bud's the kind of guy who's wrong a lot -- and he knows it -- but, thanks to the gentle contortions of Swing Vote's plot, never more so than now.

I haven't seen the previous two movies in the Mummy series, although people have recommended them to me as rollicking old-fashioned action-adventure movies, from the same Saturday-afternoon-matinee roots as the Indiana Jones series -- not exactly brain teasers, but good silly fun. The good news is that if you too haven't seen the preceding movies, you can watch The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor without fear of getting confused or lost or not understanding the recurring characters. The bad news is that regardless of whether you've watched the other films, the third Mummy entry is a headache-inducing mess that piles on unimpressive special effects to stretch a slight and often incomprehensible storyline.

The movie begins with an extended backstory: the history of the Dragon Emperor from thousands of years ago, in which a ruthless tyrant (Jet Li) bargained with an infamous witch (Michelle Yeoh) in his ambitious drive to seek immortality. The backstory, narrated in a manner befitting the History Channel, goes on for far longer than necessary. (Hellboy II did this so much better and faster, and with cool puppetry too.) It's a full 10 minutes before the story begins and we encounter the leads from the previous Mummy films, Rick O'Connell (Brendan Fraser) and his wife Evelyn (Maria Bello this go-round), who have retired from the action business and are trying to lead humdrum lives in the English countryside.