And then came *Supercross: The Movie,* the long-anticipated filmic adaptation of Shakespeare’s lost play *The Fast and the Furious.* That other movie about heroic young men and their wheeled conveyances tried to appropriate some of that Bardic gravitas by snatching the title, but to no avail, as we all well know.

As a species, birds are pretty amusing, and penguins, with their hobbled, flightless birdiness, are the most hilarious birds of all. And adorable, of course, too, with the waddling and the little tuxedos and all. That’s why *March of the Penguins* is the biggest hit of the summer: because people like seeing cute, funny animals. Or that’s how it started, at least. Cuz what’s happening, I suspect, is that folks are popping in expecting just to see some cute, funny animals and discovering that there’s all sorts of nobility and honor and tenderness and love to these odd birds, these emperor penguins — that they have a story, as a species, that’s weirder and more wonderful than you could ever have imagined.

It doesn’t work if you don’t believe. It’s the mindset that fuels the power of superstition, of placebos, of magic, of religion. It also fuels the power of movies, and in particular of horror movies: Can you let go your skepticism to a degree wherein you can fool yourself into buying — for an hour and a half or so, at least — the most outrageous conceits? You’re only looking for some temporary diversion, after all, not a cure for cancer or the eternal salvation of your soul. And yet it can be surprisingly hard, in the face of movie characters behaving stupidly even when confronted with clear indications to get the hell out of demonic harm’s way.

But ya gotta love the dorks, etc., of *Sky High,* even if they do end up vindicated and popular and beloved in a way that a Generation Xer like me should resent, because they’re funny and so gosh-darned *nice* that you just want to hug them. Such good kids…

Fighter pilot Josh Lucas is ‘armed for penetration detonation,’ he informs us as *Stealth* opens, and so I just gave up right then and there and decided to go weak in the knees for the next two hours. Which, if you can manage it, is the best way to enjoy a hilariously absurd slice of American cheese like this one.

I don’t seriously believe that John Cusack actually exists. I think he is a cruel hoax — perpetrated by god knows who — to torture smart single women with the idea of him, that there might actually be clever, funny, cute, grownup guys out there who are philosophical and romantic and straight and available and who still look great in a long black trenchcoat and not like they’re trying to recapture their adolescence or anything sad like that even on the verge of 40. You know, just so we smart single gals don’t all slash our wrists after giving up on finding the perfect man.

Family Tides Got family? It’s not such a straightforward question anymore. How could it be, for me and for so many others of my thirtysomething generation? We marry late or not at all — or we’re gay and told our marriages don’t count — and are often separated from relatives by states or continents, but … more…