Is Eastwood trying to point out the limitations of faith? Is he trying to remind us that people are perfectly capable of living a life of faith without the help of organized religion? Is he rather arguing that one can be just as decent and moral a model without faith altogether? Is he commenting on the jumbled, complicated dilemmas that face us all, regardless of faith or skepticism? Is faith, perhaps, merely incidental to a filmmaker who sees everything as trivial yet nonetheless integral to life? In this case, Gran Torino actually opens in a church and concludes with a Christlike act—so the argument for incidentalism kind of goes out the window. Humph. So much for easy answers.

The best stuff is, of course, when the professionals do what the professionals do best—make funny—in contexts that are truly surprising. And that’s on full display here. The format allows so many games to be played that ten episodes should consistently surprise both the performers and the audience. But the “customization” programmed by Carey to pander to his players’ strengths works against the spontaneity—and that’s on full display in this set, too. Sure, Brady’s a whiz at musical improv; but improv is supposed to be funny, not polished. I can also only stand so much of Mochrie in front of a green screen, or Carey’s attempt to wrangle a man-to-man smooch out of mock-homophobes Stiles and Brady.

“These groups have gotten too authoritarian,” concert promoter Bill Graham complains in this documentary. Instead of a music scene devoted to “the joy of living,” Graham observed a “bitterness set in” as American youth became more and more disenfranchised. “We want more” became the mantra of the generation, and Graham wasn’t willing to capitulate to the demands of stars or fans. The militancy of the era is on full display in incendiary lyrics by Jefferson Airplane. But the musical performances captured for the film are electric, and you can see what Graham felt was being lost—in the stirring vocals of Lamb and Cold Blood, or in the quirky style of The Grateful Dead, one band which managed to stay small while going mega.

So… there’s Jack’s visions about the End of the World and a bloodied, dressed-up Samantha Darko who talks kind of like Bad Galadriel—and numerous fleeting glimpses of some glum kid in red pajamas. Not to mention a leather-bound volume about time travel. And ectoplasmic manifestations that stream periodically from characters’ chests like some leftover special effect from a James Cameron film. Still, its rabbit-trailing, time-tripping, future-shifting vision does make me think about Butterfly Effect-ish philosophy a little more deeply than I have in a while. I’m glad I watched the film for its final notion: very worthwhile, very poignant. But what a slog along the way.

Who’d have thought that David Fincher would end up making movies like Robert Zemeckis? And in what kind of twisted, crowded-race awards season does Brad Pitt cop nominations while Cate Blanchett gets bypassed for a much more difficult role? The film’s ultimate point—that Fate or Providence sometimes deals us raw hands, but we still have choices about how we respond to factors over which we have no control—is certainly worth noting… but it could have been made just as well with about an hour less running time. By the time the film wound its gimmick to its inconsistent conclusion, I was no longer curious at all, merely impatient. I was kind of hoping that the movie itself would be more surprising than the awards.

It’s nice that the film’s producers bankrolled a couple of recognizable names for supporting performances; but fans of Jeff Fahey or Dee Wallace won’t be doing any cartwheels about their performances here. Fortunately, young Katherine McNamara is decently cast as Mary. I get a real strong sense that this is a very personal project for Whitus, a heartfelt tribute to the power of love and reconciliation; has he perhaps known a young girl like Mary, and been touched by her spirit? But I just can’t muster up much enthusiasm for encouraging you to have a look.

Would-be film mogul Richard Gazowsky is to be commended for his “God will provide” attitude; but there’s also something to be said for studying the craft before running off to make a multi-million dollar motion picture. If Gazowsky ever manages to pull together Gravity: The Shadow of Joseph, it’ll be a miracle for sure—and God will get all the credit. Documentarian Michael Jacobs is to be commended for treating a dicey subject with tact and delicacy; in other hands, the film could have come off as either mean-spirited or fawning instead of fair and balanced. If you’re interested in a maddening look at what’s either best—or worst—about Christianity, pick up a copy on DVD.

To a certain extent, Moscow Chill has much of the feel of a Guy Ritchie film while aspiring to the grandness of something like Children of Men. It wants to be hip and irreverent, but meaningful, too. Toward that end, director Chris Solimine shrewdly casts low-rent cult hero Norman Reedus as kidnapped computer hacker Ray; Reedus’ lazy energy is always compelling, and he is as good here as he has been anywhere else. Sadly, the cast surrounding Reedus is not up to snuff, and most of the time Reedus looks as trapped as Ray.

The most fun way to think of the film is as a political metaphor. Forget Christ-figures and film directors; Randy represents a country that is ashamed of its origins, masquerades as heroic, hides behind gimmicks and violent subterfuge, and wants to go straight and make nice now that it’s gone to seed—but ultimately can’t, because making nice means being a victim, and because playing it straight means giving up power and the limelight. Finally, though, the metaphor just doesn’t matter because the movie simply isn’t good enough to warrant pursuing such comparisons to their extrapolatable ends.

Ted Baehr has compared the film to Ray Bradbury’s work, and for once I agree with Movieguide. First-time feature director Mark Freiburger has cribbed from his own short film of the same name, infused it with the period spookiness of Something Wicked This Way Comes, and upped the ante with macabre touches hinting of Tennessee Williams… and the lighter moments of Rob Reiner’s Stand By Me. When young Jackson Patch leads into a ghost story with “It’s one of the scariest things ever,” his pal Phillip replies, “Tell me.” And that’s our response to Freiburger’s tale precisely.