The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2 is told well enough that a significant portion of the male population might not merely tolerate it, but possibly enjoy it—and it is, without a doubt, an acceptable and appropriate date movie. How do I know this? Well, anecdotally, my wife and I both rolled our eyes through the first Pants movie; in the second, only I did. If you want to impress your date, take her to see this. Pay attention, too, so you can talk about the movie later, Mr. Sensitivity; you may launch your relationship into new and stronger territory. And you might even enjoy the movie well enough to actually grunt some meaningful dialogue afterward.

To be sure, Boy A treads a lot of familiar ground while it explores the breadth of the “leopards can’t change their spots” vs. “clothes make the man” spectrum. We’ve seen loads and loads of bullying tales, of stories about abused children, of well-meaning examinations of the psyches of criminals, petty and otherwise. So why did this tragic saga of disaffected youth and its consequences work so well for me? Top of the list is Andrew Garfield’s performance as Jack, playing the type of open-mouthed lostness that Anthony Perkins perfected. The film’s flashback structure also works rather well, as tired a device as it has become. Mark O’Rowe’s screenplay and John Crowley’s direction seamlessly interleave the scenes from Jack’s past in a fashion that reminds me of Waterland, one of the best films of the flashback genre. But if you believe that convicted killers are best left locked away for good regardless of remorse or repentance, you will have little patience for Boy A and his plight—or for this story.

I wasn’t too impressed with the film until it neared its terrific final act. Without giving away too many of its secrets, I will say that the film culminates in an over-the-top action sequence that—much like the final act of last year’s Hot Fuzz—uses every cliché in the action movie book. It’s the kind of action scene in which the heroes find that there is never a shortage of firearms (“Oh look, guns!”) and everybody gets to fire off a cheesy send-off line when disposing of a bad guy. For the most part, director David Gordon Green takes a slightly-better-than-mediocre script and creates an entertaining stoner movie. Rough edges aside, there are comedic moments in this film that nearly brought tears to my eyes I laughed so hard. As you’d expect, there is nowhere you can turn in this film without finding excessive drug use, while the sexual content was a little less than I predicted for a Judd Apatow-produced film. That said, the R rating is still very appropriate.

I’m certain, though, that we do have Sideways to thank for bringing us the “true tale” of Bottle Shock… and I do think some thanks are indeed in order, though there’s still enough ninny-muggins in this particular vintage to call it a corked film. The charisma this time out is amply supplied by the always-enjoyable Alan Rickman, who plays Brit Steven Spurrier, an expat oenophile and entrepreneur; and the Napa vintner who is central to the plot is Jim Barrett, played in a gruffly welcome (if not gripping) fashion by Bill Pullman. But Bottle Shock is little more than a decently entertaining film that plays very well to its target demographic. Too often, interesting characters or storylines get shuffled off into the periphery in favor “being true to the story,” or bogging things down with extended subplots and exposition about oxidation and chardonnay. If the film is looking for “an enthusiastic advocate,” I’m not that guy. But hey—at least Bottle Shock is not the cinematic equivalent of Thunderbird. And as I understand it, Gallo is a decent enough everyday wine… if you’re not a snob.

I didn’t particularly enjoy Hell Ride while I was watching it (though I was never bored), and I still don’t think it’s that great of a film; but after mulling over it during the drive home, I’m beginning to appreciate the film for what it is and what it was trying to be. It’s a B-movie, and a fairly well-made B-movie at that. It’s also no surprise to find Quentin Tarantino’s name attached to this project as executive producer. The film works like a grindhouse cross between a biker movie and a spaghetti western—exactly the kind of film we know Tarantino loves most: campy, overblown, and very, very violent. This seems like one of those films that you’d never seek out to watch, but you might find to be a fun interruption to your late-night channel surfing. Of course, after being edited for content, there’d only be about an hour of this film left.

What the film has going for it is its deadpan goofiness—and interesting, if perhaps too-realistic, performances from Ross Partridge as Matt and Elise Muller as Catherine. Both pretty well embody the perfect blend of borderline charisma and slackerama that makes for a perennial indie D-lister. But the film quickly turns into a one-man show, and there’s no doubt whose show it is. And that doesn’t work too well for a horror film, in which you expect someone to die every ten minutes. The extended setup for the film—the part that makes you question whether this is a lame comedy or an unintentionally comic romance—doesn’t help, either. By the time the horror setup is really in play, the film is well past half-over. And people aren’t dying near quick enough. Unless you have an abiding interest in either mumblecore, out-of-work actors, off-the-beaten-path horror flicks, or Mark and Jay Duplass, Baghead will likely seem to you as little more than loosely-structured scenes from a hat… or from a paper bag with holes in it.

As Bud, Kevin Costner delivers his most enjoyably scruffy performance in years with the type of material that Costner is simply very good with. And he’s in top form here, fitting right into a “Texico, New Mexico” landscape replete with its seedy bars, slacker buddies, NASCAR obsessions, and “Posse Bingo Hall.” Just bear in mind that you’ll be watching a satire, or the often crass and vulgar tone of the film’s first half might throw you entirely. When the ten-year-old protagonist of a film has to tell her father, “Stop using ‘Jesus’ as a cuss word. He’s a billion people’s savior, you know,” you can be sure you’re in for an earful. If you’re at all apathetic about voting, or if you’re at all fed up with the state of politics in America—and you don’t mind a little hayseed stuck between your teeth or up your shorts—get out and see Swing Vote. I’m very glad I did.

American Teen is that it gives me a peek into another high school that’s authentic and not dreamed up by John Hughes. Still, I can’t help but think how much the subject’s actions were exaggerated due to the fact that they knew they were being filmed. What stunned me the most about this film was seeing just how petty and belittling high school students can be to each other. Even more assaulting is the insane amount of pressure put on these students by their parents. I’m sure the parents only feel like they are doing what they think is best for their children; but seeing it from the point of view of the kids, it’s incredibly stressful. Will seeing this film make teens less petty and abusive? Will the parents ease up a bit on the pressure? Whether they do or not, American Teen is worth a viewing.

Personally, the film helped me see that in order to die with Christ, we must first learn to walk with Him. We mistakenly assume that when we are “buried with Christ, and raised to walk with Him in newness of life”—as they say during many a Protestant baptism—that we’ve learned everything we need to know about dying to self at the point of baptism. And this is hardly the case. So there it is. I have learned something valuable and pithy from Queer Cinema. But will you? That all depends. If you know gay men, love them, and want to love others and Christ more deeply, you may find something rewarding in this film. If this is all too much for you—well, we all have things we just can’t bear to witness, and I don’t blame you a bit. So by all means, give this film a pass if that’s the case.

Veteran director Rob Cohen manages his action sequences well enough—if the Himalayan snows in this film are fakier yet than those of Narnia, if that’s possible—but I’m guessing he unwisely delegated some second-unit work to a virtual novice. One sequence in particular—as Rick and Evelyn converse in front of a vast rooftop neon sign—is filled with mismatched reverse-angles, multiple axis-crossing transitions, and horribly composed one-shots. This type of this happens so often in the film that I’d be convinced it was the work of a greenhorn… were the director’s name not “Rob Cohen.” All in all, this is by the far the slackest and least entertaining film of the Mummy series. According to my own Feng Shui Compass, you should limit your exposure to this film at the boxoffice, because it will weaken the energy of your humor and wallet. Still, it’s a far sight better than Norbit, if that’s any help.