Review: The Break-Up promotion If someone told me that the release of The Break-Up was some kind of sociological experiment, I wouldn’t be surprised. Certainly, anyone who is aware of this film, starring Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Aniston as a couple who break up and refuse to leave their nice pad, probably thinks of it as something along the lines of The 40-Year-Old Virgin or Wedding Crashers, a wacky high-concept guy comedy with a chick-friendly heart. And it is, for the first half — sort of. The earliest sign that this movie might not be the movie you think it is does come early on — the fight that leads to the actual break-up is surprisingly dramatic and heartfelt. But then it settles into a pretty keen comedy groove — Vince gets to act like the rakish boor we know and love, Jen tries to make him jealous by parading her immaculately toned, expertly tanned assets around the apartment, and they’re supported by a fine comic bench (Jon Favreau, Judy Davis, Jason Bateman and an unbelievably awesome Vincent D’Onofrio). Done deal, right? Breakout comedy hit of the summer, right?    Not quite. By the time the third act rolls around, and we’ve geared ourselves up for the contractually determined sentimental-but-lighthearted finish, something strange happens. It turns out that The Break-Up really is about a break-up, and a pretty painful, gut-wrenching, and (gasp) realistic one at that. The game supporting cast disappears, Vince’s carousing and joking begin to ring hollow, and Jen gets tired of the chase. We’re left with two sad souls who, maybe, weren’t meant to be. The tonal shift here is striking, and although director Peyton Reed pulls it off confidently, he’ll probably still leave some viewers behind. Indeed, The Break-Up shows some signs of tampering, as if it began life as a more independent-minded comic drama, became more high-profile when it acquired that heavy-hitter cast, then became an even bigger deal when that cast acquired their real-life baggage (Aniston separated from Jolie-struck husband Brad Pitt and wound up romancing Vaughn during production). To Reed & co.’s credit, they’ve retained enough of the film’s odd mix of comedy and tragedy to make it a fascinating bit of summer counter-programming. What audiences will actually think is another matter. — Bilge Ebiri Review: District B13 Some movies, regardless of their quality, beg to be seen simply because they got there first. Cinephiles of the early '50s may not have been salivating for a film called Bwana Devil, but many turned out anyway, just to see what this 3-D business was all about. Likewise Becky Sharp (three-strip Technicolor), The Robe (CinemaScope), C.H.U.D. (cannibalistic humanoid underground dwellers), etc. I have no idea whether there's an established "first martial-arts film," but District B13, a lively French import about a cop and a convict who team up to locate a stolen nuke, is almost certainly the first motion picture built around "parkour," an extreme sport that combines Olympic vaulting with an urban obstacle course. Entire set pieces are little more than eye-popping demonstrations of uncanny human agility, with the "actors" bouncing off of concrete as if it were vulcanized rubber; as with last year's Ong-bak, much of the thrill derives from our knowledge that these are real stunts, not computer-assisted gimmickry. You will believe a man can fling his body through a narrow trellis at a dead run.    Set in the near future, District B13 also benefits from a political worldview so bracingly cynical that it might have seemed ludicrous had recent events not largely confirmed it. (The film was made in 2004, well before Katrina and France's banlieue riots.) In order to secure and disarm the stolen nuke, rogue cop Damien (Cyril Raffaeli) and escaped con Leïto (parkour founder David Belle) must penetrate the titular "gated community," as the French government has solved its ghetto problem by simply building a wall around the undesirable elements and letting them fend for themselves. At times, the script, co-written by Luc Besson, gets a little self-righteous with this angle, and on the whole District B13 could have used more scenes of vaulting and/or ass-kicking and fewer impassioned monologues about human dignity. (Remember, these are athletes, not actors.) Still, see this now and you'll be able to affect a blasé, been-there attitude when parkour (reportedly) turns up in the pre-credits sequence of the next James Bond flick. — Mike D'Angelo Review: Coastlines A curiously engaging sequence in the middle of Coastlines, Victor Nunez's first film since Ulee's Gold, concerns the methodical restoration of a beat-up old Mustang. The finished product is a lot like the movie — an old framework that still purrs. Neither flashy nor dull, neither rushed nor lethargic, Coastlines is a truly old-fashioned drama, rendered with pleasurable calm. It's the kind of Saylesian character study we could always use more of, whatever the pleasures of experimentation. Tiptoeing backwards toward adulthood, ex-con Sonny (Timothy Olyphant) returns from prison and attempts to claim money owed him by his former accomplices. At the same time, he lusts for an old flame now married to his best friend. These soapy plotlines could both play as melodrama if they were mishandled; arguably, the ending seems overly upbeat even though it's handled well. But for the most part, Nunez and his cast (including a quietly excellent Josh Brolin) display a cool mastery — the same straightforward craft that Sonny employs in fixing up that Mustang — with results both poignant and deeply enjoyable. If only movies this ordinary were more ordinary. — Peter Smith Date DVD: Jezebel Unless you want to try a little I'll-be-the-Bandit-you-be-Smokey role-playing, you will find it easy to resist the charms of Smokey & the Bandit, new on DVD. If so, you should try The Bette Davis Collection Vol. 2, which includes Marked Woman, The Man Who Came to Dinner, Old Acquaintance and What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, plus a nice documentary about her diva life, and my favorite Bette Davis film, Jezebel. For this great big Southern epic, Bette Davis only took the role (which would later win her an Oscar) after passing on the role of Scarlett O'Hara — partly because the overacting ham Errol Flynn was set to play Rhett. Dumb mistake? Not at all: there's something even more reckless and raunchy about her turn here, in a very similar Southern romance from William Wyler that was one of cinema's greatest blockbusters — well, at least before it was obliterated by Gone With the Wind. But Davis gets to wear her wild dress to the ball anyway. It may not be made from her recycled curtains, but it's a flouncy fire-engine-red number that she defends, to the consternation of her banker suitor, like this: It is 1852, dumplin', 1852. Not the Dark Ages. Girls don't have to simp around in white just because they're not married. Oh no they don't, dumplin'. — Logan Hill

Previous Film Review