Central Heat

It's a cold, rainy Christmas Eve in Dallas; not the magical prelude to a white Christmas that we had last year, but a textbook winter scenario (80 degrees one day, 40 degrees the next) in Texas.

Always love this time of year, in part, because the weather elements and cinematic offerings dovetail so nicely, lending themselves to movie-watching—at home and in the theater.



This past week I caught three films—Easy A (thank you, Redbox), The Fighter (big kisses, Angelika), and Tron: Legacy (in IMAX 3D)—that couldn't be more different but shared an interesting flashpoint: a make-or-break central performance, which definitely could influence overall enjoyment of the films around them.

In case of Easy A, Emma Stone is the knowing, twinkling star of what is essentially a pretty contrived, tepid comedy. That's not to discount the few flourishes of genuine wit or firecracker supporting actors, but it's the lead actress's innate charm that is this movie's saving grace, elevating ordinary into, if not extraordinary, then at least an enjoyable diversion.



In stark contrast to Emma Stone's winsome screen presence, Tron: Legacy's bland Garrett Hedlund sucks what little life there is in an already automotan-like movie-going experience. '80s childhood nostalgia aside, Disney's reboot didn't deliver much to recommend it, starting and ending with a vacuous central character *and* performer—a film-sinking combo. Why are Hollywood suits willing to bequeath hundreds of millions for special effects, without even bothering to ensure a decent screenplay that fully forms the lead character? (Nevermind a casting process that doesn't even value an actor with the chops to add nuance and pathos beyond a thin interpretation.)

Seriously, there's only so much mileage an audience can get from Olivia Wilde's fetching, asymetrical space bob, Beau Garrett's impossibly camel-esque eyelashes, James Frain's inexplicably amusing plastic-visored posing, or Michael Sheen's scenary-chewing channeling of Bowie (circa '76, The Man Who Fell to Earth).



A lot of critics have referred to Mark Wahlberg as "inert" in The Fighter. While it's true his character can be strangely passive, I actually thought Wahlberg made a well-judged play that proved: sometimes a self-contained central character can be like a centrifugal force, which galvanizes more combustible, less stable surrounding elements. His Mickey Ward grounded a film world that easily could've devolved into a baroque, blue-collar cavalcade.