'Junebug': Its Charm Creeps Up on You

BLESSINGS

Some of the cinema's most venerated and dependable directors came out with movies this year -- Woody Allen, Steven Spielberg, Roman Polanski, Terrence Malick, Peter Jackson and Werner Herzog, to name just a few. But the biggest blessings for this critic were to be found in the surprising number of brand-new voices and visions that graced the big screen.

"Syriana," "Capote," "Me & You & Everyone We Know," "Crash," "The Dying Gaul," "Separate Lies" -- all were from directors making their film debuts (or, in the case of "Hustle & Flow's" Craig Brewer, directors most audiences had never heard of).

Within that promising crop of newbies, one stood out: Phil Morrison, who wrote and directed a little movie called "Junebug." The story of a big-city folk art dealer who travels to small-town North Carolina with her new husband, this funny, closely observed character study was a revelation, not because it broke any new ground but because it presented oft-visited ground with such a fresh eye and generous heart. The high point of the movie was the breakout performance of Amy Adams as the art dealer's new sister-in-law, who engulfed her new relative in a wave of warmth and loneliness reminiscent of Frankie in Carson McCullers' "Member of the Wedding."

Nattering on breathlessly, Adams's Ashley was the radiant, soulful heart of a story in which no one reverted to stereotype, whether they were Yankee or Southern, urban or rural, Red Staters or Blue. "Junebug" continued to surprise, up until its heartbreaking but hopeful end. This funny, deeply humanist gem was just one of an encouraging number of movies this year that burst with promise.

BOMB

There are always movies that send a critic straight out on a limb, whether it's being mezzo-mezzo about "Walk the Line," "eh" about "A History of Violence" or just outright "huh??!!" about "The Upside of Anger." All in a day's work, no harm, no foul, no big whoop, just, "Next."

But sometimes one of them comes along and breaks your heart.

I'm a huge Steve Carrell fan, to which my long-suffering husband can attest; ever since I first saw him on "The Daily Show" he's been one of my "phone book" comedians -- as in, he's so funny I'd happily watch him read one, and probably laugh so hard I'd plotz.

So no one -- no one -- was looking forward more than I was to "The 40-Year-Old Virgin," Carrell's big leading-man debut in which he played the hapless title character. And I'm not a prude, okay, I've laughed at Farrelly brothers comedies. I might have my standards but they're pretty shamelessly low. I went to the preview screening of "The 40-Year-Old Virgin" purely as a formality, fully expecting to love it, write a rave and help make Carrell the huge star he deserves to be.

Well, at least the last part came true. The rave read more like a rant; I found "The 40-Year-Old Virgin" to be formulaic, tired, lazy, warmed-over, by-the-numbers and hugely disappointing, despite the inescapable charm of Carrell (and his love interest, played by the wonderful Catherine Keener). Of course, most of my colleagues, friends and 10 million other filmgoers seem to have disagreed with me and over the summer made "The 40-Year-Old Virgin" a big hit. That's good news for one reason: It gives Carrell a chance to get it right next time.