The geeky love, the wonderfully geeky love of bad B movies has now come full circle, from the unappreciated decades of the 1950s, 60s, 70s, and 80s, to their ascendancy to objects of derision and perverse fannish worship on the Satellite of Love, to today, with *The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra,* which affectionately apes the ‘genre’ in all its awful, hilarious glory.

In Taliban-controlled Afghanistan, where the lives of girls and women are rigidly controlled and confined, a desperate widow cuts her 12-year-old daughter’s hair, dresses her in boy’s clothes, and sends her out into the city so she can work to support her mother and grandmother. Filmmaker Siddiq Barmak, a resident of Kabul who spent the … more…

It’s almost identical, in terms of plot and character, to the delightful Danish film it’s a remake of, so why does it fall flat and leave a slightly greasy aftertaste? Maybe it’s because going Hollywood lends this silly tale of kids pulling off a heist a kind of stamp of approval for its felonious youngsters. … more…

It’s disappointing but hardly a shock to find that this sequel, probably only the first of many, feels rushed and frantic — it’s been a mere 17 months, after all, since the charming sleeper original hit the screens. Screenwriter Don D. Scott doesn’t come with an impressive resume — though he cowrote the first film, … more…

It’s *Seabiscuit* on ice as the 1980 U.S. Olympic hockey team gets immortalized on film with warm, fuzzy, ain’t-America-grand, flag-waving apple-piety. Times were tough and things were bad and the world looked like it was going to hell, and gosh darn but didn’t the country need this little pick-me-up in the form of twenty redblooded American kids beating and skating the crap out of the Russians and taking home the gold.

Hide the children! Bring in the dog! Lock the doors! No, it’s not Janet Jackson’s nipple, it’s penises. More than one of them. And breasts and pubic hair. And teenagers having sex. And masturbating. And smoking! And drinking. And engaging in acts of civil disobedience.

Loves me some Owen Wilson, so why wouldn’t I find *The Big Bounce* at least mildly diverting? And I do, but it’s as instantly forgettable as… as… as that other thing I can’t remember. I’m not sure I can even remember this movie — what was it called again? Something about Hawaii and a big scam and a great cast… but who were they? What were they doing? Who am I, and why am I here?

If there’s one thing that *The Perfect Score* is really good at, it’s at pointing out what a wonder Scarlett Johansson is, how she’s just *there* all the time, how she delivers even seemingly undeliverable lines like she really believes them. This is achieved through placing her next to actors for whom these things are mostly not true, actors who range from I’m Trying Really Really Hard, Can’t You Tell? to If I Can Just Say These Lines Without Tripping Over Myself, They’ll Give Me A Big Paycheck.

These movies, they just make it so damn easy. Do they realize that? A pseudohorrorific, semipsychologicamical flick about going back in time and erasing the bad things that’ve happened? About fixing the world and making it right if only you can prevent Awful Thing X from happening? About getting your memories rewritten so that you’ve always lived in a world where Awful Thing X never happened? Gosh, the reviews practically write themselves: My life was fine and dandy until I saw that Ashton Kutcher movie, oh if I could only rewind my life to the moment before the lights went down, I could save the world!