Ill-Informed Gadfly

“Edge of Darkness” gives Mel Gibson his first major acting role in more than seven years and keeps him firmly within his comfort zone. Once again, he plays a man who endures the brutal and senseless loss of a loved one. His lively eyes and quick smile give way to a cold, expressionless stare. The audience girds for a signature Mel Gibson revenge fantasy, marked by sickening violence and cloying sentimentality. But then something unexpected happens, as long as you’re unfamiliar with the BBC series “Edge of Darkness” is based on: It blossoms into a nifty film noir. Gibson plays Thomas Craven, a Boston detective who sees his daughter shotgunned to death. Craven’s quest for revenge reveals an intricate mystery, an abyss of secrets and lies. Like the best noirs, “Edge of Darkness” evokes a world consumed by paranoia and moral rot. It even has nuclear energy as a plot point, a charmingly retro touch that recalls the fine 1957 noir “Kiss Me Deadly.” Director Martin Campbell shrewdly casts the right actors for this sort of genre piece, men whose faces instantly signal their characters’ aims. The best of the bunch is Ray Winstone as a shadowy fixer who experiences an existential crisis while looking into Craven’s case. If only Campbell had contributed a modicum of visual flair, the movie could be a real knockout — at least for most of its running time. In the final reel, “Edge of Darkness” strains credulity, and Campbell undermines the appropriately bleak ending by tugging at the heartstrings in a way the old noirs never did. I’m sure Gibson approves, though.

“A Single Man” is about what I expected from a movie directed by a fashion designer. I don’t mean it’s all about the clothes, although the clothes are important, and Colin Firth looks fabulous in monochromatic “Mad Men” attire. What I mean is that director Tom Ford, the former Gucci designer, has no background in film, and it shows through his cavalier treatment of the medium. Whatever Ford feels like trying, he tries. He messes with the color timing; he uses super-slow motion almost fetishistically. If he feels like shooting a scene in black-and-white, he does — it doesn’t signify anything other than Ford finds it pretty. And it’s important to note that none of this monkeying around makes “A Single Man” any less of a chore to watch. Adapted from a novel by Christopher Isherwood, it takes place on a single day in 1962. Firth plays George Falconer, an English professor mourning the death of his longtime boyfriend and preparing halfheartedly to commit suicide. It’s a sort of uncloseted “Mrs. Dalloway,” a long interior monologue in which mundane events become fraught with meaning. Firth, sure to be nominated for an Oscar, is in top form. In public, George maintains a guarded exterior that jells with Firth’s buttoned-down persona, but the actor also gets a welcome chance to cut loose both physically and emotionally. He has superb chemistry with Matthew Goode, who plays George’s lover in limpid flashbacks that communicate the magnitude of his loss. But none of this is compelling stuff. Strong performances and a few affecting scenes can’t rescue “A Single Man” from its glamorous torpor.

For a filmmaker who routinely gets to work with massive budgets, Peter Jackson directs with an astonishing lyricism. He’s known for his mastery of digital effects, but he often does his best work in quieter moments, when he matches visceral intensity with emotional sensitivity. The opening reel of “The Lovely Bones” is as good as anything Jackson has ever done, good enough to recall the delirious energy of his 1994 masterpiece, “Heavenly Creatures.” Jackson crafts a mesmerizing snapshot of Pennsylvania teenager Susie Salmon’s life in the days leading up to her murder. She doesn’t stay alive for long, though, and that’s sad for more than just the obvious reasons. There’s a miscalculation at the center of “The Lovely Bones” that not even Jackson can overcome: A dead 14-year-old girl is not interesting. Nothing he draws up on his computer can bring dramatic urgency to Susie’s long stay in limbo. Having Susie tell the story of her murder and its aftermath was a shrewd gimmick for novelist Alice Sebold. But on film, Susie, played by Saoirse Ronan, becomes a distraction from the real story about her surviving relatives. The big names in the cast — Mark Wahlberg, Rachel Weisz, Susan Sarandon and Stanley Tucci — are mostly just adequate. But as Susie’s younger sister, Rose McIver offers a fierce portrait of determination in the face of loss. “The Lovely Bones” is weird and wildly uneven, a domestic tragedy on an operatic scale, a supernatural thriller wrapped around an intimate study of grief. The mass audience will likely dismiss it. But I’d rather watch Jackson fail than most directors at their best.

With his smooth cheeks, stringy build and fluttering countertenor, Michael Cera could continue playing teenagers until he’s 30, although it probably wouldn’t be a good career move. The 21-year-old Canadian actor goes to the well again in “Youth in Revolt,” the first movie built entirely around his meek and fey persona. Say this for Cera: He’s a hard worker, and his sly, mumbling wit enlivens a pedestrian setup. He plays Nick Twisp, a sensitive young man of refined tastes who falls in love with the like-minded Sheenie, played with appealing self-possession by newcomer Portia Doubleday. When their budding romance hits a snag, Nick creates a rebellious alter ego to ensure his and Sheenie’s future happiness. Veteran boutique director Miguel Arteta crafts some fine scenes in the early going, and he’s in tune with Cera’s delicate sensibility. Nonetheless, it’s hard to view this slight and forgettable movie as anything but a baldly commercial enterprise. “Youth in Revolt” is set in California, but Arteta shot it on the cheap in Michigan, home to the nation’s most generous production incentives. He’s clearly working at the pleasure of the money men, Bob and Harvey Weinstein, who hope to clear an easy profit on the backs of the moviegoers who put “Juno” and “Superbad” into the black. Rather than build a true ensemble around Cera, the Weinsteins rope in the likes of Ray Liotta, Steve Buscemi, Fred Willard and Justin Long for what amount to extended, unfunny cameos. There’s nothing inept about “Youth in Revolt,” and you likely won’t be bored, but it’s more commodity than movie.

If movies were made for adults more often, I think “Up in the Air” would be judged as merely above average. But since Hollywood caters mostly to adolescents or, at best, immature adults, you can’t fault discerning moviegoers for being seduced by a mainstream film with a glossy patina of good taste and respectability. “Up in the Air” also has timeliness on its side, a rare commodity from the slow-footed major studios. George Clooney plays the star employee of a firm that does the nasty job of firing people for companies that can’t stomach delivering the bad news in-house. Director Jason Reitman captures the anxiety we all feel at the prospect that our life’s work could be tossed aside. His best touch is to use actual laid-off workers to play most of the recipients of Clooney’s ax. Their regular-guy looks ground the movie, and the emotion in their voices comes easily as they re-enact the trauma of losing their jobs. Clooney skillfully suggests a similar undercurrent of panic as his character realizes he may have to give up his cherished frequent-flier lifestyle. Yet despite the elegant parallel between Clooney and his victims, “Up in the Air” never quite takes off. Reitman hits his story beats with an almost too surgical precision and has his actors race through artificially snappy dialogue. He’s a glib and manipulative filmmaker who manhandles the audience with clumsy third-act revelations — one of them predictable, the other so out of the blue that it’s disingenuous. As Oscar front-runners go, “Up in the Air” isn’t bad, but don’t mistake this proudly middlebrow movie for a work of art.