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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Since the dawn of computer-animated feature films more than a decade ago, the Walt Disney Corporation has been a big, juicy target for upstart animation studios looking to eschew the tradition of fairytale cartoons. No irony is lost on the fact that it was Disney’s partnership with the fledgling Pixar group that launched such films into the stratosphere. It seems oddly appropriate, then, that Disney’s latest foray into film amination, the charming Enchanted, perfects the send-up to their own tried and true stories.

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One of the most dangerous games a movie studio can play with its consumers is the game of expectations. Too often, studios overhype films that are undeserving of a cent of marketing. Other times, there’s so little buzz surrounding a film that it catches viewers by surprise. Entering into the latter camp is director Jason Reitman’s second offering, the sweetly sardonic Juno. Delivering everything its hype promised and still keeping a few tricks up its sleeve, this candid but sly comedy is one of the year’s most satisfying experiences.

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It took six days before the local media owned up to their completely unnecessary sensationalizing of the ‘07 Bonnie and Clyde story, but when the Inquirer did so, courtesy of an editorial from columnist Monica Yant Kinney, they hit the nail on the head:

“This story would be nothing without the photos,” a local TV reporter mentions as we wait, pathetically, in the lobby of the Criminal Justice Center for a glimpse of the parents who created celebrity train-wreck Jocelyn Kirsch.

Indeed, for a week now, Kirsch’s surgically-enhanced mug has enjoyed an almost uninterrupted stay on philly.com’s home page, thanks in no small part to a library of alternately salacious and stupid pictures of her that the media has uncovered. And the deluge of self-congratulatory schadenfreude from the local papers is exhausting.

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For as head-scratchingly complex as No Country for Old Men is – it’s a classic Coen brothers film, for sure – it’s also remarkably simple, much like the western Texas landscape that in which it resides. Utilizing a straightforward narrative triangle based on its three focal characters and basing the action on the primal drive of a chase movie, the film forms a foundation so strong that it affords the Coens the opportunity to add their trademark flourishes. Add in a trio of top-level performances and you have a landmark in a pair of writing and directing résumés with few blemishes in the first place.

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Okay, so I failed at the stated objective of NaBloPoMo. But just because I couldn’t post thirty times in thirty days doesn’t mean the project wasn’t a success. I matched my monthly all-time high in posts with 24 and found some good reasons to keep blogging. Many thanks to those who continue to read.