The most memorable part of my “J. Edgar” viewing experience came from the special features after I had finished watching the film. There are a couple documentaries that come with the package, and one of them includes interviews with the film’s producers, director Clint Eastwood, writer Dustin Lance Black, stars Leonardo DiCaprio (J. Edgar Hoover), Armie Hammer (Hoover’s lover Clyde Tolson),  and Naomi Watts (Hoover’s loyal, lifelong secretary Helen Gandy).

When the issue of Hoover’s sexuality came up, it was nothing short of bizarre to listen to almost all of those involved in the production declare that they had no idea whether or not Hoover was gay. They then went on to reinforce the point by stating that for this reason the film didn’t take a position on Hoover’s sexuality. I don’t know what movie they watched, but “J. Edgar” is first and foremost a gay love story between Hoover and Tolson. It’s “Brokeback Mountain” (a film I admire) without explicit sex scenes.

Hoover and Tolson hold hands in secret, share a kiss after a lovers’ quarrel (and some erotic wrestling), and exchange more longing gazes than you’ll see in “Dr. Zhivago.” Also, and contrary to what I remember being told about the film, you do see Hoover wearing a dress.

None of this, however, has anything to do with why the film isn’t very good. Everything wrong with “J. Edgar” is structural. Told in flashback, the first 40-minutes are legitimately fascinating and engaging. Here the story focuses mainly on Hoover’s relationship with his  domineering mother (Judi Dench), his rise in the Justice Department, and the events that motivated Hoover into a lifelong pursuit against anyone he saw as a threat to America — especially left-wing radicals and communists. Eventually, he’s made director of a brand new agency, the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

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The most pleasant surprise of this exquisite, high-definition print is that “Lady and the Tramp” represents Disney’s first feature in CinemaScope — in glorious, luscious, 2.55 : 1 widescreen. Like a perfectly wrapped present, the gorgeous color palette spreads across the screen with Walt Disney’s familiar logo, and then opens to reveal the contents within: a thoroughly charming  and winning story that also begins with the opening of a present.

The gift given to “Darling” by “Jim Dear,” one wintry Christmas morning in 1909, is Lady, a Cocker Spaniel puppy who immediately becomes the center of the only world she knows, a small, cozy, and comfortable one that rarely extends beyond the front lawn. After some time passes and Lady is full grown, Darling and Jim Dear have a baby and this newborn nudges Lady into the margins of her masters’ affections, which both hurts and confuses her.

Eventually, Lady takes a shine to the infant, and just when it seems as though she’s found  a comfortable place in the new arrangement, Darling and Jim Dear decide to take a vacation. Aunt Sarah comes to dog and babysit, and brings with her two menacing Siamese cats. In an unforgettable sequence, Si and Am cause all kinds of mayhem for which Lady shoulders the blame. As a result, Aunt Sarah takes Lady out to get her muzzled. Confused and scared, Lady escapes into the big bad world and eventually meets up with Tramp, a devil-may-care stray who’s pretty sure he’s got it all figured out.

Romance soon blossoms and, from there, the plot effortlessly marches towards an extremely satisfying climax and conclusion.

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The second “Transformers,” 2009’s “Revenge of the Fallen,” was without a doubt the worst movie-going experience I have ever had. I’ve lost fist fights at the movies and that experience wasn’t comparable to sitting through director Michael Bay’s dreadful, punishing, confusing, migraine-inducing piece of junk. I don’t care that “Revenge of the Fallen” mocked Obama and made his administration the arch-villain; I don’t care that it was openly pro-military and pro-American. It was still utter torture to sit through, and I would rather watch “Crash” Clockwork Orange-style than put myself through that again.

But all is now forgiven.

“Transformers: Dark of the Moon” is not only a terrific piece of popcorn entertainment, it’s far and away the best of the trilogy. And the best news is that Bay’s delivered another pro-freedom, pro-American, pro-military blockbuster that made somewhere around a billion dollars. We don’t get too many of these, and we should embrace and support the good ones.

The film isn’t perfect. In most cases, I still can’t tell an Autobot (the good guys) from a Decepticon (the bad guys), which makes it difficult to understand who to root for during the many action sequences, but unlike its predecessor, “Dark of the Moon” has a story that sets up and explains the stakes well enough that you don’t feel like you’re watching someone else play a video game for two hours.

Length is another problem. This is a four-act story instead of the standard three-act, but the too-long climax really is jaw-droppingly well done and on Blu-ray the only thing that surpasses the fantastic picture quality is a sound design that made my archaic 5.1 system do things I never thought possible.

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Whatever your opinion might be of stoner, gross-out comedies, there’s much to admire in the third chapter of the adventures of Harold Lee (John Cho) and Kumar Patel (Kal Penn). For what was a mid-level budget, the look of the production is first-rate. Nothing screams low-budget and the Christmas “feel” does come through. There’s also an actual theme at work here, which is established quickly, manages to hold on through all the shenanigans, and does pay off.

A few years have passed since Harold and Kumar escaped from Guantanamo or killed time hanging out together smoking their beloved mary jane. And sometime over the course of the last few years, the boys went their separate ways and became estranged. They’re now two completely different people who haven’t seen each other in over a year and probably wouldn’t become friends were they to meet for the first time today.  In fact, they would probably hate each other.

Harold now works in high finance. His is now THE MAN and even has to deal with Occupy Wall Street-types who protest outside his offices. Harold also enjoys an upper middle-class life in the suburbs with a nice car and an even nicer fiancée. Kumar, however, is still Kumar — an unemployed burn-out who smokes weed all day and avoids responsibility like he does a shower. Closing in on 30, sadly, the reefer’s become an escape for Kumar, a way to avoid coming to terms with the emptiness of his life and the loss of his girlfriend. What had been recreational and rebellious in his youth, is now a pathetic crutch.

It’s Christmastime and Harold’s smoking-hot fiancee’s rather large family has come to stay for the holidays. The most important thing to Harold’s future father-in-law (Danny Trejo), a man who’s crazy about Christmas and someone with whom Harold is desperate to make a good impression, is the perfect tree. Harold promises everyone that when they return from church, the perfect tree will be decorated and waiting for them. They leave. Kumar shows up. Mayhem ensues.  

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Uber-producer David O’ Selznick would bring director Alfred Hitchcock to America from England, team him up with one of the most popular novels of the day, Daphne du Maurier’s 1938 phenom, “Rebecca,” and win that year’s Academy Award for Best Picture (Selznick’s second in a row after a little programmer called “Gone With the Wind.”) Not a bad start.  Of course, it helps if you make an amazing motion picture in the process, which is exactly what “Rebecca” is.

Our heroine is never named other than with the pronoun “I,” and is portrayed by the then somewhat-unknown Joan Fontaine (sister of Olivia De Havilland), who offers up one of history’s most impressive “arrivals” as a full-blown movie star. Our heroine is an innocent who’s terribly vulnerable and a newlywed very much in love with her husband, Maxim (Laurence Olivier), a deeply troubled man still working through the death of his first wife.

Swept off her feet, this orphan who made un undignified living as a paid companion and doormat to an insufferable woman, is suddenly thrust into a world she never knew existed. Maxim is incredibly wealthy and sole-owner of Manderley, a breathtakingly gothic estate populated with servants and also the intimidating and suffocating shadow of Rebecca, Maxim’s dead wife.

It’s within this shadow that the new mistress of the house, already a fragile flower, wilts even further. Rebecca’s hold on the living is supernatural and the primary keeper of that flame is housekeeper Miss Mrs. Danvers (an unforgettable Judith Anderson), who wields the memory of her former mistress like a psychological club to break down her “replacement.” Miss Danvers is destined to succeed until a shipwreck uncovers truths that will either result in the destruction of all involved or their salvation.

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To celebrate its centennial, over the course of 2012, Universal Studios will release 13 of their masterpieces on Blu-ray after a full restoration. Titles include, “The Birds” “Bride of Frankenstein,” “All Quiet On the Western Front,” “Buck Privates, “Jaws,” “The Sting,” and “Schindler’s List.”  Appropriately enough, this campaign starts off with that most American of films, director Robert Mulligan’s stunning 1962 adaptation of novelist Harper Lee’s Pulitzer Prize-winning “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

Set in the Depression-era South in 1936, our narrator (Kim Stanley) is Scout Finch (a remarkable Mary Badham), who tells the story as an adult looking back on three defining summers of her childhood as an impoverished tomboy who lives in a small town with her older brother Jem (Phillip Alford) and their father Atticus (Gregory Peck), a lawyer and widower in his middle age.

The story’s themes are as rich as they come. We see everything through the eyes of the children and though they don’t realize it at the time, this is when they lose their innocence — thanks to events that involve the very worst kind of bigotry, the kind that leads to death and murder. But they will also learn to overcome their own childish prejudices when, as children will, a man they turned into a boogeyman turns out to be just the opposite.

For his portrayal of the quietly heroic Finch, Peck would win one of the biggest no-brainer Oscars in Hollywood history. In the special features, Peck’s co-stars and others involved in the film’s production (he would remain friends with many of them, and Harper Lee, until his death in 2003) compliment the actor by saying he won an Oscar playing himself. That might well be the case, but possessing certain qualities and having the talent required to portray them on screen are two entirely different things. 

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HOLLYWOOD’S REPUBLICAN-BASHING COST THEM SOPA SUPPORT

EXCELLENT op-ed courtesy of THR, one of the few entertainment outlets that doesn’t carry Hollywood’s water:

The two parties reacted very differently. Despite widespread opposition to SOPA from bloggers on the left, Democrats in Congress (and the administration) were reluctant to oppose the bill outright. The MPAA was not shy about reminding them that Hollywood has been a reliable source of funding for Democratic candidates, and that it would not tolerate defections.

But that very public message also reached another audience: Tea Party conservatives. Most of them had never given a second thought to intellectual property enforcement, but many had drawn support from conservative bloggers. They began to ask why they should risk the ire of their Internet supporters to rescue an industry that was happily advertising how much it hated them. Pretty soon, far more Republicans than Democrats had bailed on SOPA, and the Republican presidential candidates had all come out for what they called “Internet freedom.”

We’re just hating you back, Hollywood. And never forget that you assholes started it.

On principle, most of us opposed SOPA, but sticking it to Hollywood sure was a bonus.

This industry has blown all of its goodwill with 65% of the American people. Why in the word would we lift a finger to help them reap more of the profits they use to insult, ridicule, marginalize, and campaign against us? That would be no different than running to the side of the ACLU, DNC, Politico, Media Matters, or MSNBC.

They sided with the terrorists during the darkest days of the War on Terror, and now they can rot in hell.

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Quick note: For the sake of this review it’s important to explain the world in which “In Time” takes place. The film itself provides details but “The Minutes,” a special feature included with the Blu-ray/DVD set, is all about the origins of this society, so some things you read here come from that.

Director Andrew Niccol’s “In Time” opens with  a lot of promise and no small amount of tension, thanks to a terrific premise. Unfortunately, the narrative sputters and misfires in the second-half, but as a political allegory, by design or accident, we are treated to a damning look at what our culture and country might look like should Obama and his fellow leftists continue to prevail.

The year is 2161 and some years ago, due to fear of over-population, scientists not only discovered a genetic cure for aging, they implanted a clock in the forearm of every newborn that counts down the years, hours, minutes, and seconds you have left before you die. No one ages a day after they turn twenty-five, but once that birthday hits, you’re given a year to live. That is, unless you’re able to earn more time. Where Will Salas (Justin Timberlake) lives, a working class ghetto called Dayton,  your choices are limited to manual labor, begging, and crime.

Will’s not alone, either. In Dayton, the average person won’t survive the day unless they can earn more time. Here, a cup of coffee costs you four minutes, a bus ride two hours, and the rent a couple of weeks. Time is this nation’s currency, and with the cost of living always going up, it’s a hand-to-mouth existence for the half-million or so residents who live with their mortality constantly hanging over them and in the knowledge that something as mundane as missing a bus can mean you count down to zero and die on the spot.

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You wouldn’t know it to read me, but when it comes to my language regarding movies, I am careful. It’s not that I’m overly enthusiastic, it’s just that I really do believe that many films qualify as a classic, a masterpiece, or an epic. I’m more than willing to concede that my threshold might be lower than some others, and in that respect I may be a little too enthusiastic, but that doesn’t mean I throw those words around carelessly.

Something you almost never hear from me, though,  is “my top 5″  or “my top 10″ or “my top 25.” That description is used for all-time favorites, and represents a pool of about 50 steady titles that, over the years, have fallen in and out of one of those categories. So when I tell you that Alfred Hitchcock’s 1946 romantic-thriller “Notorious”  has been a perennial top 5 of mine for over two decades now, you understand what this film means to me.

There is no other movie that makes me feel as much as this one does. Thanks to the extraordinary performances of two of the most beautiful people ever to stand before a camera, Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergmann, “Notorious” throws me on an emotional roller coaster of suspense, exhilaration and, most of all, heartache, for the full 101 minutes. And the reasons are many.

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The trailer for 2011’s”Dream House” seemed to give away more than most movie snippets. That could be why “Dream House,” out Jan. 31 on Blu-ray and DVD, ended up making less than half its estimated budget.

The film doesn’t deserve a rebirth on home video. The story is difficult to swallow, and thrillers need far more shocks than the few doled out here. But star Daniel Craig invests so much in the main character that you’ll keep watching just to see how the tortured story resolves.

Craig plays Will Atenton, a writer who leaves his posh publishing gig to write the next great American novel — or British novel, perhaps, given his plummy accent.

Will retreats to his family’s snow-kissed home and a wife (Rachel Weisz) and two daughters who look like they sneaked out of a ’50s family sitcom.

It’s all too bloody perfect, and soon we’ll see why.

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If love really meant never having to say you’re sorry, I’d have enough time on my hands to get a PHD.

Yes, the tagline for director Arthur Hiller’s “Love Story” is unforgivably stupid, no question. Almost as bad is Ali McGraw’s performance as the gorgeous but doomed Jennifer. My wife hates this film and MacGraw’s performance so much that she only agreed to screen the Blu-ray with me so that she could delight in Jennifer’s cancerous demise. My wife’s tagline for the film is, “Marrying the studio head means never having to take an acting class.”

So what was it about this fairly mediocre 1970 tear-jerker that made it, not only the highest-grossing film of the year, but also the 6th highest grossing film of all time — the “Titanic” of its day?

Believe it or not, I saw this “chick flick” classic for the first time ever when the Blu-ray screener arrived last week, and thankfully I’m secure enough in my masculinity to admit that the story got to me. You can’t disagree with the film’s critics and their many criticisms, but in the end I’m not completely ashamed to admit that Jennifer’s death choked me up and that I found the third act a little gut-wrenching as that reality became increasingly inevitable.

For everything the story does wrong, it does two key things so right that those moments help to overcome the rest. When, in the middle of a perfect day, Jennifer tells her husband, Oliver (Ryan O’Neal), that she has to go to the hospital, it’s a real kick to the gut. Laugh all you want, but just thinking about it gets to me. And then there’s how we learn that she’s died. (No spoiler warning necessary. We’re told Jennifer will die in the opening scene.)

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In Billy Wilder’s Academy Award-magnet, “The Apartment,” winner of Best Picture, Director, Editor, Screenplay and Art Direction, there’s an unforgettable moment about halfway through that perfectly pays off everything that came before and beautifully sets up the unexpected to come.

The Mighty Jack Lemmon is C.C. Baxter, a worker-drone in the Kafkaesque office located on the 17th floor of a Manhattan skyscraper that’s home base for the insurance company Baxter works for and is desperate to get ahead in. With thousands of employees competing for a very few executive positions, Baxter decides to stand out by joining the good-ole-boys club. The awful men who can help to promote Baxter are a gaggle of adulterers in need of a place for their trysts. Believing the inconvenience is worth the eventual payoff, Baxter lends out the key to his bachelor pad a few nights a week.

As smitten as he is with the idea of becoming an executive, Baxter also has his head turned by one of the building’s many elevator operators, Fran Kubelik (a delightful Shirley MacLaine), who on the outside stands out as a confident, composed, and charming young woman who has it all together. The opposite, unfortunately, is true, but by the time Baxter figures this out he’s already in love with her.

The key to Baxter’s executive dreams is held by the company’s powerful personnel director, Jeff Sheldrake (a superb Fred MacMurray), and Baxter’s cynical plans all appear to come together when Sheldrake agrees to his promotion… in exchange for the key to Baxter’s apartment. It seems the very-married Sheldrake is just another good ole boy, but that’s no skin off Baxter’s nose, until the perfect moment I mentioned above arrives.

You see, it’s Fran Kubelik Mr. Sheldrake is trysting with, and it’s at the company’s wild Christmas party (a clothed Roman orgy) where Fran finally learns she’s being used — that she’s not the first subordinate Sheldrake’s conned into bed with the promise of a future together. This is also where Baxter learns the truth about Fran.

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With six feature credits already under his belt, some of them classics, co-writer/director Woody Allen finally became Woody Allen with the brilliant “Annie Hall,” and in doing so would be rightfully rewarded with four major Academy Awards: Best Picture, Original Screenplay (co-written by Marshall Brickman), Director and Actress (Diane Keaton). 35 years later, the simple story of Manhattan neurotic Alvy Singer (Allen) and his years-long romance with the delightfully ditzy Annie Hall (Keaton) still delights in ways that few romantic comedies ever come close to.

Told with a scattershot timeline (that somehow works) and through an endless number of short scenes that could stand on their own as insightful, amusing, and romantic skits, “Annie Hall” is a story told to us in the first-person by Alvy, a famous New York comedian. His story isn’t so much about his romance with Annie; it’s more about what he’s learned from the experience — not only about himself but human nature in general. And if you judge the film by its touching closing scene (as I do), you can count this among Allen’s rare optimistic offerings.

Keaton’s performance is a wonder to behold. When you compare the “la-dee-da” Annie Alvy first meets to the more worldly and composed Annie she eventually becomes (much of it due to Alvy pushing her in that direction), Keaton’s Oscar win is a no-brainer.  Right along with Alvy, we fall in love with Annie at first sight and, in the end, long for the innocence she loses. And this, of course, is also why the film is so bittersweet. With the best of intentions (mostly), Alvy helps Annie grow up, and she ends up outgrowing him.

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The producer is the legendary David O. Selznick, the director is Alfred Hitchcock, the writer is Ben Hecht, the score is by Miklos Rozsa, Salvador Dali designed the film’s key sequence, and the stars are Ingrid Bergman and Gregory Peck. To say this was the A-Team of 1945 is an understatement, so what went so terribly wrong?

At the time, screenwriter Hecht was engaged in heavy psycho-analysis and understandably fascinated with the subject, and Hitchcock wanted to adapt  the novel “The House of Dr. Edwardes.” Uber-producer Selznick had almost all of them all under contract, and the alchemy came together to create Hitchcock’s silliest film.

Though the film improves dramatically in the second half, nothing about “Spellbound,” the story of spinster psychiatrist (Bergman) and a possible murderer suffering amnesia (Peck) in love and on the run from the law, is in the least bit believable. And nothing is sillier than her trying to cure him using the latest Freudian techniques along the way.

Bergman plays Constance Petersen, a doctor at a Vermont mental hospital who fills her lonely life with work. When the story opens, the new director is due to arrive and does in the form of the impossibly young and handsome Dr. Anthony Edwardes (Peck). The attraction between Constance and Edward is immediate, and by the end of the day, they are hopelessly in love. There’s just one problem. Edwardes is an imposter who may have murdered the real Edwardes.

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Directed by the great William Wellman, “Wings” is the not only the first film to win the Academy Award for Best Picture (it was technically declared “Best Production“), it’s also the only silent movie to ever hold that honor (though “The Artist” could very well bookend that honor this year).

Back in 1927, “Wings” delivered spectacular aerial photography that must have blown the customers out of their seats. But in 2012, thanks to over a decade of Hollywood’s over-produced CGI, you’re still going to be blown out of your seat. To experience, in high-definition, no less, the spectacular in-camera flight and battle scenes, is a wonder to behold. The aerial shots are nothing short of spectacular, as are the expertly choreographed sequences involving armies and explosions. If “Wings” were produced today in the exact same fashion, people would marvel at the achievement.

“It Girl” Clara Bow, a star so popular in the mid-to-late twenties there’s no actor working today who compares (think Marilyn Monroe in 1959), is listed as the film’s star, but she’s really a supporting player — a crucially important one, though. For she symbolizes all that is pure and decent and why our young, brave men fought and died in World War I.

All Jack Powell (Charles Rogers)  has ever wanted was to fly, and all Mary Preston (Bow) has ever wanted was Jack. In their small, very American town, Jack and Mary live next door to one another, but Jack only sees Mary as a friend, a pal. You see, Jack’s in love with the more sophisticated Sylvia (Jobyna Ralston), but unfortunately for him, she’s in love with David (Richard Arlen). It’s a complicated love rectangle, further complicated by class distinctions. Jack is working class, Davis is wealthy, and it will take the outbreak of a long and heartbreaking war to sort it all out.

Though rivals for the same girl, Jack and David both want to be combat pilots and end up in the same squad together. Soon they become friends, the very best of friends in the knowledge (brought to them by a shockingly young and undeniably charismatic Gary Cooper) that the very real prospect of death is a constant companion.

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Yes, the Woody Allen screen persona is well-known and established, but the actor does play different characters within that persona. Sometimes it’s just a few degrees off and hardly perceptible to the naked eye, but his Isaac Davis in “Manhattan” is noticeably unique. Isaac is something of an innocent, an unassuming man whose unwavering integrity comes naturally.

In a city like Manhattan, this, of course, might lead to his downfall, and the genius of Allen’s absolutely brilliant screenplay (Marshall Brickman co-wrote) is how this story is all about driving towards the film’s final line, a beauty of a closer that perfectly hits every cinematic sweet spot right before the fade:

“You have to have a little faith in people.”

Another of Isaac’s weak spots (and much of the film’s humor) comes from his inability to suffer pretentious, elite, liberal intellectuals. This is what likely cost him his first two wives, both of whom were pretentious, elite, liberal intellectuals. Overall, though, when we first meet him, Isaac is doing just fine. He’s making good money as a television comedy writer, is a loving father to his son, and his close friends — the married Yale and Mary (Michael Murphy and Anne Byrne Hoffman) — have taken him under their wing like a kid brother.

Isaac isn’t perfect; he is involved in a love affair with Tracy, a 17 year-old high school student. In his defense, she is more mature than he is and he refuses to lie to her. He’s very open about the fact that eventually she will have to move on with her life, that she has to experience life without him, and that what they have together isn’t permanent.

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This is the film that rightfully announced the arrival of director and future Oscar-winner Peter Jackson and another eventual Oscar-winner, Kate Winslet, as the major Hollywood players they would later become. “Heavenly Creatures” is based on the eerie, unsettling true story of Juliet Hulme and Pauline Parker, two disturbingly close friends and social outcasts who create an intense and obsessive fantasy life that eventually leads to murder.

Jackson’s ability to focus on the characters and their intense relationship goes a long way to explain why his “Lord of the Rings” magnum opus was so successful. This is a complicated psychological relationship-drama few directors could pull off so well, and there is no spectacle or CGI to hide behind.

Moreover, the undeniably brilliant, off-kilter tone of the story is handled with perfect precision by the director, and this, I think, is still the greatest feat of his career. “Heavenly Creatures” is a one-of-a-kind achievement that in lesser hands would’ve crashed and burned as absurd camp. (more…)

If you’re already a fan of director Julie Taymor’s look at the fascinating if sordid life of Mexican painter Frida Kahlo (and I am), Blu-ray is really the way to go. Taymor did a marvelous job translating her considerable theatrical experience to the screen, and the lush, Oscar-nominated art direction that adds so much to the look and feel of the story is simply gorgeous in high-definition.

This is one of the better biopics of the last ten years, a passion project of Salma Hayek’s, and she is superb in the title role that rightly won her an Oscar nomination. What ultimately makes the story of two openly communist artists worth watching (besides a solid screenplay and a number of flawless performances) is that it’s the story of a woman whose heart is at war with her bohemian politics. All that free love talk conflicts with her sincere love for her mentor Diego Rivera (an outstanding Alfred Molina), and ultimately they end up settling down into  what they might call a “bourgeois existence.”

Edward Norton has a small but memorable role as a surprisingly sympathetic Nelson Rockefeller, and Antonio Banderas shows up as David Alfaro Siqueiros, a fiery communist painter (who, in real life,  participated in an assassination attempt on Leon Trotsky). It’s a single scene cameo but one of the best  in the film. Trotsky is also a major player in the latter half of the story in the person of Geoffrey Rush, and you’ll also spot the superb Diego Luna, as well as Valeria Golino and Saffron Barrows.

The one weak spot is Ashley Judd as Italian photographer Tina Modotti. Her accent is so bad you just know that somewhere Kevin Costner is smiling.

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The Blu-ray cover art tells us “Real Steel” is “Rocky” with robots! but that’s a little too kind. This story of a down-on-his-luck promoter trying to eke out a living in the year 2020 where robot boxing’s taken the place of the real thing, is probably a little closer to another Sylvester Stallone film, “Over the Top.” To be fair,  though, “Real Steel” is a whole lot better than Stallone’s arm-wrestling cheese-a-thon, but both are glossy B-films and both involve losers who live on the fringes of an athletic subculture before a son they barely know is dropped unexpectedly into their lives.

Hugh Jackman is terrific as Charlie Kenton, the promoter in question and a degenerate gambler and former boxer who lives a step ahead of a beating at the hands of his many creditors. Director Shawn Levy is equally good at showing us around the world in which our characters inhabit, where robot boxing is the top sport in the country and exists at every conceivable level — from nationally televised events as big as the Super Bowl to underground matches where the wagering and bloodlust rival a good old-fashioned cock fight.

Like most fathers in these kinds of stories, Charlie’s never known his son, Max (Dakota Goyo). Charlie’s been too busy aimlessly moving from one hustle to the next. After circumstances I won’t spoil bring the two of them together, Charlie’s still not interested in any kind of father/son bonding until he sees an angle where he can make $100 thousand by spending a few months with the boy.

With  money in hand, Charlie buys a new robot, but Charlie being Charlie, this new beginning is hardly that before he ends up flat broke again with no prospects other than the inevitable day his creditors catch up to him. His only hope is to steal the pieces of a new fighting robot from a junkyard, and this is where Max comes across Atom, an old sparring robot built to take a ton of punishment but not trained to win. Need I tell you where this is going?

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Writer/co-director Gavin O’Connor’s “Warrior” opens with an emotionally bruising scene that not only sets the tone of this intensely moving story but beautifully uses silence and what remains unspoken to communicate a gulf so wide between an estranged father and son that it seems impossible to bridge. Dad is Paddy Conlon (Nick Nolte), a bear of a man who traded in the drink for the forgiveness of Jesus Christ. Today, alone in his beat up, working class house, his only companion is the terrible cost abusive alcoholics pay for their sobriety, the memories of the physical and mental abuse inflicted on a family eventually lost.

The son is Tommy Conlon (Tom Hardy), a former Marine just home from Iraq, who didn’t drop by after fourteen years to see how dear dad was doing,. He’s here to hurt the old man in every way possible without laying a hand on him. Tommy expected to find a drunk, and Paddy’s sobriety only angers him more. Dad doesn’t deserve forgiveness, Christ’s or anyone else’s. Tommy is a seething young man made dysfunctional by the baggage he carries around like the bulk of his muscle — an unreachable force of anger and bitter resentment that extends to his older brother Brendan, as well.

Brendan didn’t run away from his father like Tommy and his mother. He was older, had a girlfriend, and had already planted the seeds of a life. Eventually, he married that girl, went to college, became a teacher, had kids, and bought a house. Though they’re very different in so many ways, Tommy and Brendan do at least have one thing in common. No matter how many days sober, they will never forgive their father.

Paddy is a former martial-arts trainer, and this experience is the only thing these three still have in common. For reasons I won’t spoil, Tommy needs to make some quick cash, and that means getting back into the octagon and the competitive world of mixed-martial arts. The same goes for Brendan (a former UFC contender) who refuses to accept charity or file a bankruptcy to save his family from financial ruin. “I don’t do things that way,” he tells a banker, and though he’s a little long in the tooth, into the octagon he goes looking for whatever prize money he can scrape up.

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