That Will Smith is a legend in his own time is not surprising; after all, he’s conquered music, television and film in his 40 years on Earth largely based on his winning smile. What’s surprising – and somewhat satisfying – is the success Smith has had in parlaying his celebrity into meatier roles. He finds balance between popcorn and pathos in I Am Legend, an apocalyptic thriller with plenty of soul.

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If success in Hollywood is dependent on the ability to manage hype, then the J.J. Abrams-produced Cloverfield, a Godzilla-level monster movie shot with Blair Witch sensibilities, is a legend in its own time. Beginning with the trailer, which debuted in front of last summer’s Transformers, moviegoers have been wondering what the project was and when they could see it. And while it’s not the genre-defining, life-changing film experience that some are claiming, Cloverfield is certainly deserving of at least some of its hype.

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There’s a limited numbers of people in Hollywood who can take a cautionary tale about the United States’ efforts to aid Afghanistan during the Russian occupation and turn it into a feel-good comedy. Two such people are Mike Nichols and Aaron Sorkin, whose Charlie Wilson’s War, a story of back-channel political dealings, pairs a playboy congressman and an out-of-favor CIA agent to battle for ideals. And only in Washington, D.C., can such a story be so absurd and still be partially true.

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There are countless challenges in adapting a stage musical for presentation on film: capturing huge choral numbers in a medium traditionally reliant on close-ups, balancing the fantasy of expression through song with a more closely guarded check of reality, and finding the right mix of singers and actors are just a few. But when you consider the work of Stephen Sondheim, one of the darkest and most complicated writers Broadway has ever seen, the challenges grow exponentially. In Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street, director Tim Burton has taken perhaps Sondheim’s best work and made of it a textbook for translating Broadway to Hollywood.

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As the Hollywood writers’ strike drags on into the New Year, it seems to be getting harder to choose a side and stick with it. I’ve been behind the writers all along, asserting that the immediate impact of a settlement is less important than setting the precedent for compensation when, a few years down the road, all television is delivered to your set from the Internet. But as my favorite scripted shows run out of banked episodes, ready to be replaced by reruns, untested new series and a handful of episodes of LOST, my resolve to support the union wanes, and I wish they’d figure out a short-term deal that would leave open the possibility of future negotiations. But as late-night talk shows return tonight, some without writers, I can’t help but support those who are bold enough to stay on the picket line.

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