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A 21st century riff on Commando, Taken casts Liam Neeson as Bryan - a former spy who is forced to put his old skills to use after his daughter (Maggie Grace's Kim) is kidnapped while on vacation in France. Director Pierre Morel - working from Luc Besson and Robert Mark Kamen's screenplay - has emerged with an unexpectedly thrilling actioner that effectively blends the tongue-in-cheek sensibilities of its '80s progenitors with the grittiness of the Bourne series, although there's little doubt that the film's success is due primarily to Neeson's absolutely spellbinding work as the seemingly unstoppable central character. Neeson's notoriously intense demeanor proves instrumental in Bryan's transformation from uptight father to unrelenting badass, with the actor's tough-as-nails, thoroughly riveting portrayal elevating what's already an incredibly entertaining and instantly indelible example of the action genre. And although Morel's penchant for punching up high-octane interludes with quick cuts and shaky camerawork is lamentable, there's simply no denying the strength of the progressively inventive fight sequences in which Bryan comes face to face with a series of brutal baddies. The effectiveness of the film's myriad of confrontations is undoubtedly heightened by one's rooting interest in Bryan's success, as the character's single-minded, take-no-prisoners modus operandi is refreshingly free of sentiment and compassion (ie his decision to rescue a female hostage is based not on sympathy but rather on her ability to provide him with information). The end result is a contemporary action masterpiece that surely ranks alongside the best that the genre has to offer, with the film certainly breathing life into a cinematic category that's been slowly-but-surely sliding into oblivion thanks to such woefully incompetent efforts as Wanted, Hitman, and Max Payne.

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Visually and thematically audacious, Across the Universe revolves around the romance that ensues between a pair of disparate characters (Jim Sturgess' British steelworker Jude and Evan Rachel Wood's privileged American student Luc) against the backdrop of some of the '60s most well-known events. Director Julie Taymor, armed with over two dozen Beatles songs, has fashioned a contemporary musical that's certainly unlike anything the genre has to offer, as the filmmaker's notoriously avant-garde sensibilities serve her well within the context of a sporadically authentic yet mostly surreal endeavor. And although it does seem entirely likely that the film will have a more pronounced impact on admirers of the Beatles' music, Across the Universe's engaging storyline and proliferation of intriguing characters all but assures the continuing interest of even those with a cursory knowledge of the band's discography. That being said, it's hard to deny that the film loses its way as it passes the one-hour mark - as Taymor, working from Dick Clement and Ian La Frenais' screenplay, jettisons marked instances of plot in favor of a random, distinctly free-wheeling sensibility that admittedly does grow increasingly tough to take (with Eddie Izzard's off-the-wall cameo as a demented circus ringleader certainly the most obvious example of this). The engaging performances and catchy songs prove instrumental in ensuring that the movie remains watchable even through its more overtly self-indulgent stretches, while there's little doubt that the whole thing effectively regains its footing as it approaches its emotionally charged, thoroughly satisfying finale.

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Anchored by Kristin Scott Thomas' searing, downright engrossing performance, I've Loved You So Long ultimately manages to overcome its admittedly flabby midsection to become a deliberately paced yet thoroughly rewarding drama. The film casts Scott Thomas as Juliette, a recently-paroled inmate who agrees to live with her sister (Elsa Zylberstein's Lea) until she's able to get on her feet - with the bulk of the proceedings revolving around Juliette's ill-tempered efforts at integrating herself back into society. Filmmaker Philippe Claudel has infused I've Loved You So Long with a low-key visual sensibility that certainly reflects the spare nature of his script, although there's little doubt that Claudel's most potent weapon inevitably proves to be Scott Thomas' uncompromising turn as the abrasive central character. The actress effectively steps into the shoes of a figure that is, initially, flat-out unlikable, as the substantial chip on Juliette's shoulder ensures that she approaches most situations with as hurtful and downright blunt a demeanor as one could envision (ie after sleeping with a stranger and being asked if the sex was satisfying, she responds, "no, not at all.") It's only as the movie progresses and the mystery behind Juliette's incarceration is slowly-but-surely revealed that one starts to sympathize with Scott Thomas' character, and it's also worth noting that Claudel generally does a nice job of avoiding overt instances of sentiment or melodrama (with the only pronounced exception to this a sequence in which Lea loses her temper in front of several students). And while the film's emotional impact is dulled by its undeniable overlength, I've Loved You So Long's place as an above-average debut for Claudel is cemented by Scott Thomas' Oscar-worthy work.

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Anchored by Paul Newman's thoroughly magnetic performance, Cool Hand Luke ultimately comes off as an amiable yet awfully slow paced prison drama that boasts a number of justifiably indelible sequences and images. The film - which follows Newman's Luke Jackson as he's sentenced to a two-year stint at a Southern prison, where his refusal to conform makes him a legend among his fellow inmates - unfolds in as leisurely a manner as one could possibly envision, which certainly proves instrumental in establishing both the multitude of characters and the very specific atmosphere of the prison itself. The episodic nature of Donn Pearce and Frank Pierson's screenplay ultimately does prevent one from consistently connecting with the material, however, as there's little doubt that certain interludes are more effective (and interesting) than others. The inclusion of several '60s-era flourishes by director Stuart Rosenberg undoubtedly heightens the uneven vibe, yet it's worth noting that the movie does boast a number of engaging, downright electrifying moments - with Luke's attempt at consuming 50 eggs surely remaining the highlight of the proceedings. The underlying camaraderie between Luke and his confined colleagues ensures that the film is often far more touching than one might've anticipated, with the respect that George Kennedy's Dragline eventually comes to feel for Newman's character cementing Cool Hand Luke's place as a pivotal entry within the guy-movie canon (despite the increasingly baffling nature of Luke's rebellious antics).

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A typically quirky Canadian comedy, Growing Op stars Steven Yaffee as Quinn Dawson - a high-strung teenager whose mother (Rosanna Arquette's Diana) and father (Wallace Langham's Bryce) run a marijuana grow-op out of their suburban home. As such, Quinn and his sister (Katie Boland's Hope) have been receiving their schooling at home as a result of their parents' desire to protect them from the materialistic outside world - yet Quinn, spurred by the recent arrival of a beautiful next-door neighbor (Rachel Blanchard's Crystal), impulsively decides to break away from his oddball clan by enrolling as a new student at his local high school. There's little doubt that Growing Op is ultimately felled by filmmaker Michael Melski's emphasis on egregiously oddball elements, as the movie - though well acted and colorfully shot - suffers from a lack of authenticity that only grows more pronounced as it progresses. It's consequently not surprising to note that the film, following its eye-rollingly loopy opening half hour, eventually adopts the feel of a garden-variety high-school drama, with Melski's reliance on some of the hoariest cliches that the genre has to offer (ie Quinn must battle obnoxious bullies and win over the school's prettiest girl) inevitably transforming Growing Op into an unusually tedious experience. The melodramatic third act (which, perhaps not unexpectedly, includes a fake break-up) effectively cements the film's place as an utterly forgettable misfire, although - in fairness - even the most astute viewer will likely find themselves surprised by the admittedly silly twist ending.

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Saddled with the feel of a generic direct-to-video actioner, Righteous Kill undoubtedly comes off as nothing less than a colossal disappointment - as the film marks the first onscreen pairing of Al Pacino and Robert De Niro since 1995's masterful Heat. And while there's little doubt that the movie fares slightly better than director Jon Avnet's previous effort - the nigh unwatchable 88 Minutes - the filmmaker's rampant ineptitude, coupled with Russell Gewirtz's increasingly tedious screenplay, ultimately ensures that Pacino and De Niro are left with little to do but strike a series of tough-guy poses while spouting eye-rollingly silly chunks of dialogue. The two Oscar winners star as veteran New York City detectives who find themselves caught up in an explosive case involving a vigilante serial killer, with problems ensuing as it becomes progressively apparent that a fellow police officer is the most likely suspect. It's a decent premise that's employed to hopelessly hackneyed effect by Gewirtz, as the screenwriter's inability to evoke even a hint of authenticity proves impossible to overlook. The various performers' subsequent efforts at injecting the proceedings with energy fall completely flat, which effectively cancels out the sporadically strong work from a supporting cast that includes Brian Dennehy, Carla Gugino, and Donnie Wahlberg (meanwhile, the phrase phoning-it-in was practically invented for Pacino and De Niro's work here). Admittedly, Righteous Kill never quite morphs into the flat-out bore that it often threatens to become - the laughable third act certainly pushes it, though - yet it's difficult not to feel as though Avnet has squandered what should've been an electrifying piece of work.

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Though it boasts some seriously impressive visuals and a string of impressive performances, A Christmas Tale ultimately suffers from a middling midsection that's been suffused with pointless digressions and melodramatic crises - which effectively cancels out the enthralling and thoroughly promising opening half hour. The film - which follows the members of the Vuillard clan (including Mathieu Amalric's Henri and Anne Consigny's Elizabeth) as they reunite over the holidays amidst the news that matriarch Junon (Catherine Deneuve) has recently been diagnosed with leukemia - certainly benefits from Arnaud Desplechin's dense, almost novelistic approach to the material, as the director infuses the movie with an audacious sensibility that proves effective in initially capturing one's interest (ie characters narrate their own backstory directly into the camera). It's only as the various Vuillards begin to congregate that A Christmas Tale slowly-but-surely begins to lose its momentum, with Arnaud's penchant for soap opera-esque plot developments exacerbated by his reliance on needless instances of quirkiness (ie Junon wonders what her own son is like in bed). The inclusion of a silly yet oddly compelling love triangle - which, it's revealed, has its origins in the trio's teen years - proves to be a minor highlight within the disastrously overlong production, while the talented cast does manage to periodically elevate the movie out of its egregiously theatrical doldrums. In the end, A Christmas Tale essentially comes off as a standard, almost generic take on the dysfunctional-family-reunion genre - with the film generally unable to separate itself from such underwhelming similarly-themed fare as The Family Stone and Home for the Holidays.

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