Check out our latest indieWIRE roundup on Andrew Bujalski's second feature Mutual Appreciation. This is one of our longest in recent memory--it's nice to see how a film (and filmmaker) so ultimately modest in means and intents can still spark a dialogue about the definition and role of independent film in the theatrical marketplace. It's also a pretty good movie. I'd call it "not-too-shabby," except, well, it's tremendously shabby. In a good way.

This caps five weeks in a row that we've devoted our column to new works of American "Independent" Film. To recap: Quinceanera, Half Nelson, Factotum and The Quiet. Unless I'm mistaken, this is the first time this has happened in the nearly two years we've been running it. Some of these films are actually performing quite well at the box office, and I'd be tempted to label this a kind of mini-resurgence, except that our panelists' feelings on all of these films are largely mixed, when not downright hostile. This begs the question: Should we celebrate the success of homegrown narrative features, even if we don't particularly like the movies in hopes that this might be a short-term loss/long-term gain situation? Does the success of these films work to remind folks that there's more to independent cinema than Little Miss Sunshine or the next Hott Topics documentary? Or do they merely restate tropes we decry in Hollywood features, but on a smaller scale, one marked by the "authenticity" of the indie scene? Discuss.

And don't go see The Illusionist. Blech. But why would you when the terrific Miami Vice is still on screen...

"Daddy says I'm the best at it...."

You know those kinds of movies where you sit there in a stupor, for, oh, say, an hour, rolling your eyes, checking your watch, aghast at the stupidity that is unspooling before you in a way such as you’ve seen a million times but never quite so idiotically—and then something happens? You crinkle your nose a little, furrow your brow. A light doesn’t go off so much as a dim bulb diffuses your recognition patterns a little. A line of dialogue or an overbaked shot goes a little too far, and you think to yourself: “Wait a second…is this supposed to be a joke?”

Case in point: Jamie Babbit’s The Quiet, ostensible child-abuse thriller and secrets-in-the-suburbs teen melodrama, chockablock with hilarious one-liners delivered in Hal Hartley straight-face (yes, Hartley regular Martin Donovan, king of the droopy-eyed creepazoids, co-stars) and overwrought cinematography (how many shafts of light can enter a home nestled in a forested area?). Opening this Friday, thanks to a slumming Sony Pictures Classics, after a long time on the shelf, The Quiet is the kind of film that opens with a voice-over line like “All I ever wanted was to be invisible.” And it’s the kind of film that shows a zoned-out, pill-popping suburban mom (is there any other kind in film these days?) staring silently, Liv Ullmann–like, at a TV news program of a blazing neighborhood fire as she stands in an empty, blue-tinged room (the film is so stiltedly “sleek” it seems like Rob Lowe, circa 1991, could show up at any moment).

But there’s more. So so so much more. Whether The Quiet will one day be recouped as a Showgirls style sign o’ the times satire remains to be seen. For now, check out Reverse Shot’s indieWIRE round-up on Jamie Babbit’s maybe-comedy to find out more about what not to spend your money on at the movies this weekend.

So, why are there three movies about magicians seeing release in 2006? And why hasn’t Caryn James turned her piercing insight to this burning question? The world needs a trend-piece damnit!

We at Reverse Shot try to avoid silly cultural-moment analyses; though I could argue that the perfect storm of war malaise, terrorism fears, and waning belief in the credibility of our government necessitates the introduction of the magician character into popular fictions (always a ready mirror of our collective unconscious, of course) that would be, well, stupid. Especially given the obvious disparities between our three magickally-inclined pictures.

Scoop’s gotten something of a bad rap from Reverse Shot, though I’m tempted to call it the best comedy of the summer. It’s certainly half-assed and thin, but when Woody sets up an early sequence in which his “Great Splendini” performs a series of similarly half-assed and thin magick tricks and intercuts them with shots of rapturously applauding Brits (Kuleshov anyone?), it’s pretty obvious that he knows the score. So what if the shooting is of the plant-the-camera-and-let-it-roll variety, or that Johansson’s Brooklyn accent is often about as credible as Giamatti’s stutter in Lady in the Water? Allen is undeniably hilarious, and the running gag of his familiar nebbish’s encounters with the upper crust of British society never wears thin. Imagine that Allen looked at the failed diptych structure of Melinda and Melinda and decided the whole thing might have worked better as a two site-specific pictures: One Dostoyevsky and one Vaudeville. Hence Match Point and Scoop were born. The real magick of Scoop is how Allen and the audience easily acknowledge the overall flimsiness of the project, yet still find entertainment in the proceedings.

I only saw The Illusionist because I happened to surf into Jonathan Rosenbaum’s rave at the Chicago Reader. After watching it, I’m not quite sure what he’s on about as the film seems to short-circuit broader inquiry into credulousness at every turn. It should be obvious to most viewers by about mid-way through the film that some fix that will eventually lead to a “patented Shyamalan twist-ending” (it’s awfully nice to not hear talk of this fallacy this summer) is on; if its not, I’d suggest frequenting the cinemas more regularly. Sure, Giamatti’s final revelation (though I find his performance here ridiculous, not “highly expressive”) is perhaps only one possible interpretation of the events among many, the film doesn’t work to suggest some sort of expanding complexity, whether or not Eisenheim can actually “do” magick is already beyond the point.

I’d hoped that the The Illusionist was going to be a further-west counterpart to Werckmeister Harmonies (magick act rolls into town and truly roils the masses into unrest), but director Burger pulls back from open revolt. However, my major quibbles with The Illusionist are less conceptual and more technical. Its production value certainly ranks amongst the best in recent memory—the lighting is supple and appropriately suggestive and the art direction is velvety rich. Overall, it’s the kind of setting Visconti might have really luxuriated in, and here lies the rub: Where the Italian would have made full visual use of the spaces afforded him, the American can barely manage to conjure a handful of memorable images leaving the whole film feeling terribly small and often dingy. A few pieces of elliptical flashback are teasingly evocative, but the rest, for a movie about an illusionist feels awfully straightforward. Though, I will give Burger credit for conjuring what may be Jessica Biel’s first truly successful big-screen performance (sorry Stealth fans).

And last, but most certainly not least, the awfully titled (I don’t care if this is a magickal term implicated in the plot, it’s still awful) The Prestige. Looking like some mix of The Omen (does Christian Bale get to play Satan-esque again?) and The Illusionist, I can’t say I’m terribly excited by the prospect of this one, but then I’ve also seen Hoot, Ultra Violet, Stick It and a host of other tripe this year, so I can’t truly stick my nose up at Christopher Nolan film, no matter how silly it looks. And casting Michael Caine as a character named “Cutter” might suggest a bit of sleight-of-hand inventiveness. Still, how many times in the trailer do folks utter variances on “Maybe he can really do magick!” (probably only once, but it sure seemed like at least thirty)….

Slant Magazine this week unveiled their brand-spanking-new Brian De Palma symposium, Auteur Fatale, which will unspool one bit at a time, and at Reverse Shot, we couldn’t help but feel a mix of giddy excitement and seething, glowering resentment. Our plans for an autumn De Palma symposium thus dashed, we now expect to dive into Slant’s De Palma appreciation with enthusiasm. As the pieces thus far published (especially Eric Henderson’s astute look at the superb 1970 whatchamacalit Hi, Mom!, and Ed Gonzalez’s glowing vindication of 2002’s Femme Fatale, which with each passing year seems more and more like one of the decade’s great films, no?) can attest, this will be some wonderful writing (even if we find the mag’s notoriously choosy star ratings a bit unnecessary here). So, Slant, we begrudgingly, and in true solidarity, admit that if someone was going to beat us to the punch, at least it was you guys.

For those of you who may've slept on the heated controversy over the origins of You, Me, and Dupree between Steely Dan and the brothers Wilson, prompted via a letter on their website, and played out in a public war of words before literally dozens of interested witnesses, here comes round two, in the form of an open letter from the Dan to Wes Anderson.

Highlights of Becker and Fagin's modest proposal of smolderingly condescending advice/ proposed collaboration include:

"You began, spectacularly enough, with the excellent "Bottle Rocket", a film we consider to be your finest work to date. No doubt others would agree that the striking originality of your premise and vision was most effective in this seminal work. Subsequent films - "Rushmore", "The Royal Tenenbaums", "The Life Aquatic" - have been good fun but somewhat disappointing - perhaps increasingly so. These follow-ups have all concerned themselves with the theme we like to call "the enervated family of origin"©, from which spring diverse subplots also largely concerned with the failure to fulfill early promise. Again, each film increasingly relies on eccentric visual detail, period wardrobe, idiosyncratic and overwrought set design, and music supervision that leans heavily on somewhat obscure 60's "British Invasion" tracks a-jangle with twelve-string guitars, harpsichords and mandolins. The company of players, while excellent, retains pretty much the same tone and function from film to film. Indeed, you must be aware that your career as an auteur is mirrored in the lives of your beloved characters as they struggle in vain to duplicate early glories..."

"The other change that we would have to make would concern Mark Mothersbaugh. Everyone in Hollywood knows that he is a first class professional musical supervisor. Obviously you and he have a lot of great history together and we can imagine there is a certain rapport both professional and personal. But we certainly can't work with him, anymore than he would consent to work with us. Same thing for the mandolins and the twelve-string stuff and the harpsichord, they're out. You yourself may be partial to those particular instruments. We're not. Remember, we saw “Tom Jones” in its original theatrical release when we were still in high school, we had to listen to “Walk Away Renee” all through college and we fucking opened for Roger McGuinn in the seventies, so all that "jingle-jangle morning" shit is no big thrill for us, OK?"

Steely Dan: damn near the only thing making American movies tolerably amusing in Summer 2006.

It's a good year for Dillon-heads, apparently, if there ever were such a thing. (And God, why would there be?). Nevertheless, following on the flatfooted heels of his Oscar-nominated work as the racist, molesting, but human-because-he-also-takes-care-of-his-sick-dad-and-isn't-life-ironic LA cop, Dillon takes up the Mickey Rourke mantle to embody Bukowski surrogate Henry Chinaski in an adaptation of the "fringe" author's Factotum.

For three different takes on the film, check out this RS sausage-fest roundup on indieWIRE , in which Factotum is described as everything from "likeable" to "diverting" to "bologna on rye."

Sony Pictures Classics kicks off its touring eight-film Pedro Almodovar retrospective in New York today at the Lincoln Plaza Cinemas. This is all to prep American audience for the forthcoming release of his latest film, Volver. In honor of Pedro, an always contentious figure in the RS ranks, we begin our second Retro column (following Nick Pinkerton's splendid essays on Frank Borzage) with James Crawford covering Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown. We'll be following the series weekly as it expands across the country.

We've also got a new review of Miami Vice, surely one of the summer's, if not the year's, best films.

And our Take One symposium isn't exactly old news yet either...

Happy weekend.

...another Sundance Alum takes flight. And Reverse Shot is there. Half Nelson fares far better at the hands of our panel than last week's Quinceanera.

Over at the Back Row Manifesto, Tom Hall chimes in with his own personal "Take" from Gimmer Shelter in response to our newest symposium. Definitely worth a read (especially since, as Tom notes, we didn't cover any documentaries--ouch) and we're more than flattered that we've inspired this addition.

Given that we do these symposiums as a means of bringing some kind of collective force to bear on an idea or issue, if there's anyone else out there with their own "Take One," please feel free to blog it and send us a link or drop it in the comments. We take all comers.

Judging by the general critical consensus and rapturous applause of a nearly full house at a BAM screening Saturday night, you would think that there would be something amusing, insightful, or remotely likable about Little Miss Sunshine, the latest bit of fecal matter to get dumped into theaters via the Sundance film festival. Having already wasted nearly two hours of my life on this one -- time I could easily have spent re-watching National Lampoon's Vacation, a film with way more laughs and a warmer and more sophisticated approach to family--I'm not inclined to perform thorough exegesis. Suffice it to say that this is the sort of film wherein a suicidal gay Proust scholar is actually the least hateful character and a grotesque child beauty pageant is played for cheap laughs. Preposterous, mean-spirited, glib, and vaguely offensive, Little Miss Sunshine is more extended sitcom episode than film --it's all quirks, gags, and set-pieces. And it ends up being less a look at the way that real American families interact than an exercise in self-satisfied condescension for the arthouse crowd.

L Magazine has just named Reverse Shot's Nick Pinkerton one of the Top 5 Film Critics in New York. We couldn't agree more with their vote, or their assessment of his writing. Though they failed to mention the dashing 'stache, impeccable taste in music and his superhuman ability to wear cream seersucker. Nick found our very first printed 'zine three years ago, contacted us, and quickly became an essential part of Reverse Shot and a great pal.

Congrats, Nick!

Entering summer’s dog days, we’re starting to feel somewhat lethargic. Maybe that’s why for this issue of Reverse Shot we could only muster the energy to fixate on one shot. Just one single shot—from any movie, whatever genre, whatever period—forms the basis for our newest symposium, Reverse Shot: Take One. Take One inaugurates an ongoing series of symposiums in which our writers will tackle the whole of a film through some fundamental piece of cinematic construction: an edit, musical cue, color, and so on. We hope this back to basics approach will work as much to help our readers rediscover the pleasures of film form, as it will to ensure that our writers maintain their relationship to the same.

So, Take One is then a means to an end: getting back to the intrinsic power of the image. It’s easy to take a film and view it through a lens proscribed by the Reverse Shot editorial team, perhaps less easy to view a work through a small portion of the terms it sets forward for itself. We asked our staff writers and contributors to choose a single shot, whether that be a long take or an insert, a momentary flash or a monumental camera movement, and devote their words to it, putting it into whatever emotional, theoretical, or historical context they desired. What’s revealed? The meaning of the shot, both to the writer and to the films from which they came. Something seemingly simple, but which proved thoroughly expansive.

Check it out.

So, have you heard about this hott new indie film that picked up a bunch of major awards at Sundance? It's called Quinceanera, opens Friday and this week's RS on indieWIRE panel doesn't exactly care for it. Hateful, hateful.