RATING:

Are you a fan of watching couples gaze swooningly at the moonlight, uttering lines of dialogue like, "It actually doesn't matter where you are in the world, [the moon] is never bigger than your thumb"? (Followed by the inevitable scene of our lovers, now ocean's apart, holding up their opposable digits at the moon.)

Then have I got a movie for you!

Actually, I have a series of movies for you, all adaptations of Nicholas Sparks novels (see The Notebook, A Walk to Remember, Nights in Rodanthe, et al). Sparks novels all pretty much follow the same trajectory—couple meets, couple falls in love, couple is torn horribly asunder. The asundering agent is different every time—sometimes it's death, sometimes it's family intervention, sometimes it's religion—but everything else is roughly the same.

In the case of Dear John, the thing that conspires to keep hunky John (Channing Tatum) and sunny Savannah (Amanda Seyfried) apart is 9/11. Hey, if you're going to do melodrama, why go small?

John and Savannah meet on the beaches of Charleston, SC. He's an army special forces soldier on leave; she's an idealistic college student who builds houses for Habitat for Humanity and dreams of one day opening a camp for autistic and disabled children. They fall in love, mostly because they are both quite pretty—and also because Savannah seems to have a way with John's morbidly shy father (Richard Jenkins, wasted).

There are scenes of snuggling on the beach and frolicking on the beach, and a few scenes to show what a good influence Savannah is on John, who was once a bit of a bad boy. (A persistent Sparks sub-theme: damaged men saved by the love of a good woman.) Eventually, John has to go back to the army and then 9/11 strikes. Does he stay with his squad  and sign up for a second tour of duty, or go back to his one true love?

The film almost lulls you to sleep with its earnest, mopey rhythms—particularly in the scenes where Savannah and John exchange love letters (Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning they ain't). But it actually comes to life (relatively speaking) toward the very end, where a few twists save the film from being an utter snoozefest.

Still, this film is for Sparks lovers only. And they will undoubtedly give the film two thumbs (at the moonlight) up.

Bit off topic from my usual beat of movies and pop culture, but I wanted to share an amazing experience I had on Tuesday night.

I had my debut with the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra.

Well, at least that's the way I chose to word it to family and friends.

In fact, I had been asked to participate in a unique program the BSO had cooked up to celebrate their 5th season at Strathmore Music Center—Rusty Musicians.

The premise was simple: There are a lot of people who love music, studied music, maybe even went to conservatory, but who aren't professional musicians. Those people would relish the opportunity to get on stage at the Strathmore, be conducted by Maestra Marin Alsop herself, and perform with the world-class musicians of the BSO.

Yes, it was like Fantasy Baseball Camp, only better—in Fantasy Baseball Camp, if I have my facts straight, you play with fellow amateurs as well as some retired players and coaches. With Rusty Musicians, you're on stage with the Big Leaguers, essentially backing up Brian Roberts at second base.

As you might imagine, response to Rusty Musicians was pretty swift and overwhelming. The BSO sent out an e-mail blast to its entire database and in a few days, 600 people had signed on.

"We expected a good response, but we did  not expect 600 responses in a few days!" says BSO General Manager Kendra Whitlock Ingram. "Everyone was pretty blown away by that."

To accommodate the number of Rusties, the BSO added a second night of workshops and performances.

Here's how it works: Each session lasts approximately 45 minutes. The Rusties  go on stage with actual members of the BSO as stand partners. First, there's a quick rehearsal of the two pieces—the finale of Tchaikovsky's 4th Symphony and the "Nimrod" movement of  Elgar's Enigma Variations—then a run-through.

The BSO did four sessions on Tuesday and will do another four sessions tonight. A bit trying, I suppose, to play the same pieces 8 times over the course of two nights, but such is the life of a professional musician. And, according to Ingram, both the musicians and the Maestra "had a blast" on Tuesday. My guess is that every new group of Rusties brings with them a jolt of  enthusiasm and adrenaline that is downright infectious.

A bit of background into my own life as an amateur musician. I studied music pretty seriously all throughout high school and college. Like a lot of people who are really good at something, but not quite great, it took a bit of  soul searching for me to decide that I wasn't going to pursue music on the professional level. Ultimately, I decided I was a better writer and editor than I was a cellist—I'm pretty sure I made the right call.

After graduating, I tried to keep up with my instrument, playing with a local community orchestra, and even taking lessons. There was a brief period when my professional life got too overwhelming and I put down the cello—it would sit in the corner of my living room, gathering dust, judging me—but about 5 years ago, my sister, a truly accomplished amateur pianist, encouraged me to start playing some chamber music with her, and I've been  playing and performing ever since.

The BSO may have been surprised by the response to Rusty Musicians, but I'm not. There is a whole, fertile and active world of amateur musicians out there—and I'm one of them. There are music camps and workshops and retreats—and since we have actual day jobs, we often have enough disposable income to pay a pretty penny for the privilege of these experiences. (For the record, the BSO charged a meager $10 for participation in Rusty Musicians. This was very much a celebration of the music.)

I think everyone should have at least one thing in their life they do exclusivly for the fun of it—for me, that's music.

It was, indeed, a thrill to be on stage with the BSO. I've played with great orchestras before (albeit not this great). And when an orchestra is really cooking,  the propulsive energy can be downright transcendent. I'm not sure if we achieved transcendence on Tuesday night, but we sounded pretty darn good. And it sure was a kick to be part of the music making (and to be conducted by the Maestra herself).

I played pretty well. I wish I'd had more time to practice the Tchaikovsky (it's a beast!) and my arm got tired from vigorously sawing away at my instrument. (An ongoing challenge.) Also, I had a brain fart and totally played an A flat instead of a B flat at one point during the Tchaikovsky, prompting my stand partner (associate principal Chang Woo Lee) to gently correct me. Embarrassing!

As my father observed from the audience, Maestra Alsop showed "no mercy" with her tempo on the Tchaikovsky. This was the BSO's actual tempo. In a word—fast! Hey, if you want to play with the big boys. . .

Ultimately, I'd do it again in a heart beat, and based on the giddy buzz back stage, I'm certain the other Rusties would, too. The BSO is not oblivious to this fact. Ingram told me they hope to schedule more Rusty Musician events in the future, hopefully next time at the Meyerhoff. Meanwhile, they are gearing up for this summer's BSO Academy, basically an intensive, week-long version of Rusty Musicians, that also includes master classes and chamber music. The fee for the Academy? $1,650. Trust me, to the participants, it will be well worth it.

To read more behind-the-scenes coverage of Rusty Musicians, check out the April issue of Baltimore.

Photograph: Me, on stage at the Strathmore, photographed by Tracey Brown, courtesy of the BSO.

Here's my early take on the Oscar nominations.

Best Picture

Avatar
The Blind Side
District 9
An Education
The Hurt Locker
Inglourious Basterds
Precious: Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire
A Serious Man
Up
Up in the Air

Who was robbed: I would've loved to have seen the haunting and emotionally lucid The Messenger among the nominees. Also, 500 Days of Summer or The Hangover would've been a kick.

Whose nomination was a stretch: I shudder at these five words: The Blind Side, Oscar nominee.

Who should win: Precious: Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire.

Who will win: The Hurt Locker, which would be just fine by me (it was my second favorite film of the year).

Actor in a Leading Role

Jeff Bridges in Crazy Heart
George Clooney in Up in the Air
Colin Firth in A Single Man
Morgan Freeman in Invictus
Jeremy Renner in The Hurt Locker

Who was robbed: Ben Foster, for his raw and resonant work in The Messenger; Matt Damon, hilariously frantic and delusional in The Informant!

Whose nomination was a stretch Morgan Freeman in Invictus. Freeman did a pretty uncanny Nelson Mandela impression, but the film didn't give him much to work with. He just stood around being virtuous.

Who should win: Jeff Bridges in Crazy Heart. He wore the character of boozy, washed up country singer like an old pair Wranglers.

Who will win: Bridges.

Actress in a Leading Role

Sandra Bullock in The Blind Side
Helen Mirren in The Last Station
Carey Mulligan in An Education
Gabourey Sidibe in Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push' by Sapphire
Meryl Streep in Julie & Julia

Who was robbed: A luminous Abbie Cornish in Jane Campion's overlooked Bright Star.

Whose nomination was a stretch Sandra Bullock. She may have the distinction of being the only actress to win a Razzie, for worst actress (for her role in All About Steve), and an Oscar in the same year.

Who should win: Meryl Streep in Julie & Julia. I think we sometimes take Streep's greatness for granted.

Who will win: Believe it or not, Bullock.

Actor in a Supporting Role

Matt Damon in Invictus
Woody Harrelson in The Messenger
Christopher Plummer in The Last Station
Stanley Tucci in The Lovely Bones
Christoph Waltz in Inglourious Basterds

Who was robbed: I thoroughly enjoyed Brad Pitt's cracked platoon leader in Inglourious Basterds.

Whose nomination was a stretch Matt Damon in Invictus. The part was square and earnest and little else.

Who should win: Christoph Waltz, both chilling and funny as a puffed-up Nazi.

Who will win: Waltz.

Who might upset: Tucci in The Lovely Bones. He's great in this film, plus he's a likeable journeyman whose solid supporting work has often helped other actors win awards.

Actress in a Supporting Role

Penélope Cruz in Nine
Vera Farmiga in Up in the Air
Maggie Gyllenhaal in Crazy Heart
Anna Kendrick in Up in the Air
Mo'Nique in Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push' by Sapphire

Who was robbed: Julianne Moore, for her scene-stealing work in A Single Man.

Whose nomination was a stretch Penelope Cruz. Nobody from Nine should be nominated. Ever.

Who should win: Duh. Mo'Nique.

Who will win: Go'Nique! Go'Nique!

Who might upset: Frankly, I can't imagine a world where Mo'Nique doesn't win this much-deserved Oscar.

Animated Feature Film

Coraline Henry Selick
Fantastic Mr. Fox Wes Anderson
The Princess and the Frog John Musker and Ron Clements
The Secret of Kells Tomm Moore
Up Pete Docter

Who was robbed: While Ponyo was not exactly Miyazaki's best work, it was easily one of the five best animated films of the year!

Whose nomination was a stretch The Secret of Kells? Never heard of it. (And it's my job to have heard of it.)

Who should win: The droll and charming Fantastic Mr. Fox. Wes Anderson managed to make a children's film without losing any of his essential Wes-ness.

Who will win: Up. (In case you were wondering, I adore the poignant first half an hour of this film. The rest is solid Pixar fare in my mind, nothing spectacular.)

Who might upset: Up was the only animated film to also be nominated for Best Picture. There's no upset coming.

Directing

Avatar James Cameron
The Hurt Locker Kathryn Bigelow
Inglourious Basterds Quentin Tarantino
Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push' by Sapphire Lee Daniels
Up in the Air Jason Reitman

Who was robbed: Jane Campion. It would've been so nice to see two women nominated for Best Director.

Whose nomination was a stretch: None. They all deserve it.

Who should win: Lee Daniels. His unexpectedly light touch with the dark material of Precious was nothing short of miraculous.

Who will win: Kathryn Bigelow. (And how thrilling that would be—not only the first woman to win Best Director, but for an action film! You get yours, girl!)

Who might upset: Domestic drama alert! Bigelow's ex-husband James Cameron is the only one who could unseat her.

To read more of my take on Oscar, including upset picks for the Best Picture, Actor, and Actress, check out the March issue of Baltimore.

RATING:

Edge of Darkness is actually better than its lame title would suggest.

It's yet another vigilante film, this time focusing on Boston detective Thomas Craven (Mel Gibson), who has a still, mournful quality—and this is before his only daughter (Bojana Novakovic) is gunned down in front of him.

At first, Craven and the rest of the Boston PD, think he was the intended target, but as Craven investigates his daughter's murder, he finds himself neck-deep in a tangly conspiracy. Turns out, the nuclear power company his daughter was interning for was doing more than just developing alternate sources of energy for the government. And it turns out, trying to blow the whistle on them was not conducive to staying alive.

This is Mel's comeback film, after his controversial arrest three summers ago, and he's made a solid, if unambitious, choice. His Detective Craven is a stock figure—the loner with a righteous mission to defend his family—but Mel infuses him with a believable air of desperation and gravitas. The film gives him ample opportunity to kick butt (maybe too many opportunities) and several scenes with his daughter to show his softer side.

Edge of Darkness is based on a BBC mini-series, also directed by Martin Campbell (Casino Royale), and that helps to explain all the intriguing, but never fully explored, characters that populate the film's edges. There's Jack Bennet (Danny Huston), the slick and condescending head of the energy firm; wryly philosophical tough guy Jedburgh (Ray Winstone), a fixer type that the government has hired to make the problem (namely, Craven) go away; plus the smarmy and pompous Massachusetts Senator (Damian Young) whose team of advisors are an amusingly twitchy and unscrupulous bunch.

Problem is, everything is done hastily—as if the filmmakers were in a rush to include all the best bits from the mini series and make Edge of Darkness a satisfying action thriller tailored to American tastes. As such, the film is perfectly watchable, but stuck between genres—it's not sure if it's a vigilante action film (a la Liam Neeson's Taken) or a dense conspiracy thriller (a la Three Days of the Condor).

Allow me to take umbrage on behalf of the American viewing audience. We do not need excessive chases and beat downs to be entertained! (Okay, well at least not all of the time. . .).

RATING:

At the very least, I expected to cry. I mean, a movie based on a true story about a father struggling to get a drug on the market to save his two dying children? Two hankies, minimum.

But Extraordinary Measures, while certainly well-intentioned, is so ill-conceived, it doesn't even work on the most basic of levels. It's a tear jerker that is incapable of jerking tears.

One of the film's central problems is that it can't quite decide what to be: A treacly melodrama about the effects of catastrophic illness on a family or a behind-the-scenes look at the world of drug trials and pharmaceutical companies. That second premise would actually be kind of interesting, in the hands of a talented director of procedurals like Steven Soderbergh or Michael Clayton's Tony Gilroy. But Scottish director Tom Vaughan is clearly out of his league.

It doesn't help that his film stars Harrison Ford, comically miscast as Dr. Robert Stonehill, the renegade researcher who has created the drug (we know he's a renegade because he blares classic rock, drives a pickup truck, and shouts a lot). As Stonehill, Ford gives us the full Pacino. The veins on his neck bulge, spittle comes flying from his lips, he hurtles the already notorious catch phrase, "I already work around the clock!".

A puffy looking Brendan Fraser doesn't fare much better as the desperate dad-mostly because he (and the film) gets mired in negotiations and low-impact business meetings. Also, his character is practically a saint—a supportive husband, a devoted father, a tireless crusader for the rare genetic disorder that's killing his kids. He barely even breaks a sweat.

Then [SPOILER ALERT!], in the weirdest twist of all, the family doesn't even end up using Stonehill's drug to save their kids. They use a different drug from the trial. (The perils, I suppose, of making a film based on a true story.) Did they think we wouldn't notice?

RATING:

Heaven is hard. No, I'm not making a religious point about the difficulty of living a life worthy of a heavenly ascent. I'll leave that to the theologians. I'm talking about the depiction of heaven in film. Some have gone with a simple clouds-and-halos approach. Others, like the misbegotten What Dreams May Come, have gone for a vast technicolor dreamscape. Either way, it's a risk. And maybe that's why so many people said that The Lovely Bones was unfilmable.

Alice Sebold's novel is narrated from above by 14-year-old Susie Salmon (played in the film by Saoirse Ronan), who matter-of-factly tells us the story of her own murder and its effect on her family, especially her father, who obsessively pursues the killer.

Director Peter Jackson captures the wistful quality of the novel-the innocence of early '70s (a time before "milk carton photos and public service announcements"); the heady rush of first love (Susie is besotted by the poetry-spouting new boy in school); the happy clutter of a well-adjusted family—and it makes the intrusion of death and perversity all the more jarring.

Stanley Tucci, almost unrecognizable in thinning sandy hair and a mustache, plays the child molester and murderer. And he does so brilliantly, showing the character's studied casualness; his strained attempts to seem harmless and chummy. Yes, the scenes where he lures Susie to his underground lair, "a cool place for kids to hang out" are unsettling-all the more so, because we know what's coming-but Jackson never takes it too far. (Indeed, some critics have said he didn't take it far enough.)

As Susie's grandmother, a chain smoking, hard-drinking ball of gumption who tries to rouse the family from their gloom, Susan Sarandon seems to arrive from another movie altogether (it's like her long-lost audition reel for Running With Scissors). But both Rachel Weisz, as the benumbed mother, and Mark Wahlberg, as the manic dad, do solid work.

Still, the film really belongs to young Saoirse Ronan, who proves that the Oscar nomination she earned for Atonement was no fluke. The scene where Susie gets lured into the killer's den—we see Susie's childlike curiosity, followed by a nagging sense that something isn't quite right, then nervous relief as she tries to brush away her fears, and, finally, genuine terror-is a deft piece of silent acting.

But you can't make The Lovely Bones without doing the heaven stuff, can you? Because, when Susie isn’t telling us about her murder and her family, she’s telling us about “her heaven”—a place she goes before she can ascend to the real deal. Jackson depicts it as a teenage fantasy come to life—butterflies and giant blooming flowers and long flowing gowns—which I'm sure is the point, but that doesn't make it any less cheesy. It's jarring-and also seems show-offy, like the director couldn't quite shed all the neato CGI tricks he picked up during the Lord of the Rings.

I admire Jackson for attempting to show us the whole book, in all its messy glory. As a dreamlike horror film of innocence interrupted, The Lovely Bones is a near masterpiece. But in this case, heaven definitely should've waited.

The irony of the Oscars deciding to go with 10 Best Picture nominations this year instead of the traditional 5 is that it's totally unnecessary.

The move is being done to boost ratings, which were famously anemic last year (this despite an energetic turn by song-and-dance hunk Hugh Jackman).

Most people blamed the poor ratings on the fact that neither The Dark Knight nor WALL•E were nominated for Best Picture.

(The general consensus is that people watch the show when they have a horse in the race—hence the high ratings the years Titanic and The Lord of the Rings were big winners.)

But here's why it's unnecessary: Avatar, fast becoming the biggest blockbuster of all time, was going to get nominated no matter what—indeed, at this early stage in the game, I'd say it's the frontrunner to win the whole shebang. If the Best Picture nominations were restricted to just 5, my guess is they would've been this:

Inglourious Basterds

Avatar

Up in the Air

Up

The Hurt Locker

Of those films, we already have a The Dark Knight substitute (Avatar) and the WALL•E substitute (Up.) (And Inglourious Basterds, while not quite a blockbuster, was certainly a big hit.) The show was already going to be a hit. We didn't need no stinkin additional nominees.

Now, I'm not quite sure what the other 5 nominees will be, but just for grins, let's say they look something like this:

An Education

Precious

The Messenger

District 9

Invictus

Notice anything about those remaining five? Yup, not a blockbuster in the bunch. Okay, District 9 did pretty well, but it's certainly no game changer (Slumdog Millionaire was a much bigger hit and it didn't move the ratings needle).

Now maybe, just maybe, the Academy will decide to nominate another big hit, like Star Trek or The Hangover. (Yes, it's actually possible.) But like I said, not necessary. Even if you argue that Up wouldn't have been among the original 5 (putting Precious or An Education in its slot), Avatar is blockbustery enough to rule the night all on its own.

Putting the ratings aside for a second, there's another reason why I don't like this 10 nominations business: It dilutes the product. Yes, critics do Top 10 lists and the AFI and National Board of Reviews do Top 10 lists, too, but they're not the freakin' Oscars.

The Oscars are special—they're an exclusive club, that's part of what gives them their cache. There's a reason why Porsche doesn't produce an economy car and why Roger Federer doesn't endorse Wal-Mart. There's value in exclusivity. There are tons of awards and award shows, but only one Oscar. (That being said, please watch the Critics Choice Awards next Friday, January 15 at 9 pm on VH1!!) (Yes, that's the voting group I belong to.)

Alas, there's one problem: The ratings for the Oscars are going to go through the roof this year. After all, not only do we have the Avatar and Up factor, we have the priceless pairing of Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin as co-hosts. And Hollywood is nothing if not a copycat town. They won't want to mess with a good thing. So we're stuck, I suspect, with 10 nominees for at least another year. Hey, I hear they're coming out with Transformers 3. . .

RATING:

Okay kids, ready to take the Leap Year quiz? Let's see if you, too, could have written the script for this painfully predictable romantic comedy.

1. Amy Adams plays our heroine Anna. She's . . .

a. A control freak and closet romantic who has lost sight of the important things in life.

b. A real estate stager by day and dominatrix by night.

c. Secretly a man.

2. Adam Scott plays her boyfriend Jeremy. He's. . .

a. A self-absorbed surgeon without a romantic bone in his body.

b. A surgeon by day, ninja assasin by night.

c. Secretly a woman.

3. When Jeremy goes to Ireland for a medical conference, Anna decides to fly to Dublin to propose to him. What happens?

a. A near-hurricane diverts her plane and she ends up stranded in a quaint Irish village.

b. She arrives safely and proposes to Jeremy.

c. Upon arriving in Dublin, she immediately becomes obsessed with the works of James Joyce and forgets that Jeremy even exists.

4. Who does Anna arrange to drive her to Dublin?

a. A charming, roguishly handsome, free-spirited tavern owner named Declan (Matthew Goode), who was once burned by love.

b. A grumpy old man with a limp.

c. Dale Earnhart Jr.

5. What will happen to Anna and Declan?

a. They will bicker and spar, reluctantly share a bed at an inn, and, in what will come as a surprise to both of them, fall in love.

b. They will discover they have nothing in common.

c. They will be abducted by aliens.

Okay, you guessed it. The answer to all the questions is A. And no, those don't count as spoilers. Because spoilers imply that something has been, you know, spoiled.

Look, I like a formulaic rom-com as much as the next gal. But Leap Year follows the rules of romantic comedy so faithfully, it's as though the script was assembled by some sort of take-home kit.

It is redeemed, slightly at least, by the not inconsiderable charms of both the Irish countryside and the two fetching leads. (And unlike Sarah Jessica Parker and Hugh Grant in the unwatchable Did You Hear About the Morgans?, Goode and Adams seem to actually like each other).

Still, in true rom-com fashion, this film should be avoided in theaters and instead watched on late night cable with a pair of fuzzy pink slippers on your feet and a pint of Haagen Daz on your lap. Hey, they're the ones who wanted to stick with tradition.

RATING:

The idea of the glum Michael Cera—once described as a teen Bob Newhart—being in any way suave or swashbuckling is a fairly ripe source of comedy. Youth in Revolt takes that idea and runs with it. And just before the concept overstays its welcome, the film ends.

Cera plays Nick Twisp, basically the same character he always plays—a sensitive, miserable, too-smart-for-his-own-good nice boy pining away for a girl. In this case, the girl, Sheeni (Portia Doubleday), has a thing for French New Wave films and French singers, so he creates an alter ego named Francois to woo her. Francois has an oh-so-French mustache and wears tight pants and smokes cigarettes. He also seems to have no regard for public property or polite society. At one point, after the Francois half of his persona tells Sheeni all the different dirty ways he'd like to ravage her, Nick steps in and shyly says, "If that's okay with you."

That's one of the things that's novel about Youth in Revolt: It's pretty frank about sex. (It's kind of like American Pie for honor students.)

And, as is often the case with movies like this, the adults are played broadly. Jean Smart is Nick's over-sexed, needy mother, grubby Zach Galifianakis is the first of her two low-life boyfriends. (He even wears that notorious emblem of cheese: the "Three Wolf Moon" decal shirt). Ray Liotta, as a secretly sadistic cop, plays the other.

The film has some quirky animated interludes that suggest it's aiming for indie cult status—it wants to be the next Juno or Napoleon Dynamite. It doesn't quite make it. Funny as it is, the film still feels a little enervated. (The film's direction, by newcomer Miguel Arteta, is as deadpan as its young lead.) Michael Cera's sad sack routine needs someone lively to bounce off of. But in Youth in Revolt, he only bounces off himself.

RATING:

I am totally loving Robert Downey Jr. v.2.0.

Downey Jr. has always been an extravagantly talented actor—but he was undisciplined, partly due to his well-documented personal problems and partly due to the fact that he was, well, young. But this seasoned Downey Jr. is in full command of  his gifts—and what's more, he's sexier than ever. (Did I just write that out loud?). Casting Downey Jr. as Sherlock Holmes? Yes, please!

So for its brilliant casting alone, I have to praise Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes, even if I agree with those who feel that Ritchie strayed way too far from Arthur Conan Doyle's vision of the character (a Holmes who's kicking butt and taking names? gimme a break.) But the script—doctored by no less than five writers—at least gives Downey Jr. a chance to shine. He makes snappy one-liners, is sharply observant, and amusingly misanthropic—just like the real Holmes.

And like all great actors, Downey Jr. seems to raise the game of those around him. Jude Law, as an exasperated but loyal Watson, hasn't been this appealing in years. And Rachel McAdams, last seen moping around with Eric Bana in the turgid The Time Travelers Wife, has gotten back her mojo playing the con-artist object of Holmes' affection.

The story is pure hokum—it seems that Ritchie isn't just content to make Holmes a pugilist, he wants to borrow from the Dan Brown playbook, too. In this version, Holmes is following a secret sect of powerful men who practice black magic. Things explode and come crashing out of windows, many axes and swords are wielded, and there's lots of Da Vinci Code-style chanting and symbology. It's silly, but it will bring the brilliance of Sherlock Holmes to a whole new generation—sort of.

It's a shame. If any actor could make a character who relied solely on his intellect a hero to the young, it's Downey Jr. Too bad Ritchie didn't give him the chance.