In the interest of full disclosure, I should tell you that I’ve been a Rush fan for almost 30 years.

With that said, when I heard a full-length documentary film about Rush was in the works, I broke out my autographed copy of Exit…Stage Left, tapped my Rush bobbleheads a few times and prayed that the film would be shown on the big screen here in Austin.

Thank you, Alamo Drafthouse for answering my prayer.

Rush fans are, generally speaking, not cool. If you’re familiar with Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons, that’s pretty much the first ten rows at any Rush concert. And I’m somewhere in there. I’ve made my peace with that, so we can move on.

Beyond The Lighted Stage documents the entire 30-plus year run of the band. From awkward early beginnings in the Toronto suburbs, to a musical body of work that includes 24 gold and 14 platinum records (behind only The Beatles and The Rolling Stones). Along the way there are the predictable highs (Moving Pictures) and lows (Caress of Steel). Through interviews with singer and bassist Geddy Lee, guitarist Alex Lifeson and drummer Neil Peart, Beyond The Lighted Stage shines a spotlight on a band devoted to doing what they love, and the devotion of their legions of fans. Add to their voices interviews with the likes of Gene Simmons, Trent Reznor, Billy Corgan and Jack Black, and the scope of Rush’s long-term influence becomes clear. The music-magazine “in-crowd” may never give the band its due, but musicians get, and are inspired by, Rush.

Some will ask whether non-fans will be able to enjoy a film that’s clearly made for disciples. It’s hard for me to answer that with any objectivity , but here’s what I can tell you…

This is basically the story of three guys, friends, who’ve worked hard to build careers doing what they love. The music provides much of the momentum, to be sure. But there’s much more to it than just long, flowing robes, double-necked guitars and odd time signatures. The film is a testament to finding your way in the face of critical rejection. It’s an inspiring story of being true to your artistic ideals when everyone around is pushing you to sell out. And it’s a tale of pure, Canadian determination.

Perhaps the most moving segment of the film comes as the band recounts the chain of events that took drummer Neil Peart’s daughter and wife in the span of less than a year. The story of how Peart and the Rush “family” dealt with that tragedy underscores just what kind of human beings these guys are. They refuse to be defined by triumph or tragedy, by success or failure.

As the credits roll, Peart, Lee and Lifeson share a bottle of wine and crack jokes. It’s no surprise that after more than 30 years, the music still moves fans. With Beyond The Lighted Stage, however, what may be most impressive isn’t the longevity or the sales numbers, but the powerful bond the three still share.

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose, vraiment.

When, over the course of multiple movies, you develop a deep emotional connection to certain big-screen characters, something else grows with that connection.

Dread.

Why? Well, as George Lucas proved, it only takes two hours to destroy that connection. And when Pixar announced that their next movie would be Toy Story 3, I was torn. On the one hand, who wouldn’t want to spend another amazing ninety minutes with Woody, Buzz and the gang? On the other hand, it could be another Phantom Menace.

So, as I donned my 3-D glasses, I hoped for the former and steeled myself against the latter.

I needed never to have worried.

Like every other Pixar movie, Toy Story 3 invests its computer-generated actors, both human and toy, with more real emotion and genuine character than most anything else in the cineplex. The cast is familiar, if you’ve seen either of the first two films. And the new voices (including Ned Beatty, Michael Keaton, Whoopi Goldberg and Teddy Newton) all make a richly diverse group of talent even more impressive.

I won’t go into story details here, for fear of ruining anyone’s movie experience. But I will say two quick things. One, the opening sequence may be the most inventive and entertaining segment of any Toy Story film. It delivers the imagination, the creativity and the heart that makes every moment of the franchise such a joy. And two…well, let’s just leave it at one. The less I tell you about this movie, the better.

The only negative I can find in Toy Story 3 lies in the simple fact that it’s probably the last chance we’ll have to feel that connection with these amazing characters.

Someday, someone will have to explain to me why we need worthless labels like “mumblecore” to describe films. When the average person has to pull up Wikipedia to figure out what the fuck kind of movie it is they’re going to see, things may have gotten out of hand.

For those of you out there not wearing a t-shirt with a hiply-ironic print on it, in the case of Cyrus, mumblecore just happens to mean “a charmingly off-putting comedy driven by fascinating characters with enough neuroses to make them challenging and authentic.”

Cyrus is Jonah Hill. He and his mother Molly (Marisa Tomei) have a strangely unique relationship. Let’s just say they have a very close bond. That bond is tested when Molly falls for John (C. Reilly) at a party, and things move pretty quickly, which was of course not the case when I met Ms. Tomei at a party years ago. But I digress…

To say the least, Cyrus isn’t a big fan of John and Molly taking things to the next level (or any level, for that matter). And he makes it his mission not only to come between the two of them, but to win the war against his new nemesis.

There’s not much I can say about the work of the cast here. Reilly is typically hilarious in his understated, everyman kind of way. Tomei gives Molly enough appeal to be worthy of John’s affections, but she’s also detached enough from the reality of what her family is for us to wonder if that appeal is enough to keep John around. But the best work here has to be turned in by Jonah Hill. After seeing him in Get Him To The Greek, and re-watching Superbad last night, his Cyrus is much more restrained and quiet, a welcome departure from Hill’s usual manic and socially-challenged outcast. His scenes with Reilly are hilariously unsettling, which always keeps the audience guessing as to where they might go next.

I’d just like to commend the filmmaking Duplass brothers briefly. Cyrus is truly funny, while being grounded in reality. The characters never become over-the-top comic caricatures so readily available in most modern comedies. And while the ending may be a bit too telegraphed for some, I found it satisfying and natural.

And now, my one cinematic cock-punch. This doesn’t just apply to the Duplass Brothers, but to all filmmakers who equate camera movement with “a style.” Get a fucking tripod, and use it. Please. When I’m trying to focus on the characters, their interactions and the emotional subtext you’ve worked hard to establish, and you zoom in and out in the middle of a shot, I notice it. And it pisses me off. Suddenly I’m not thinking “I wonder if Cyrus will really do something nasty with that knife,” I’m thinking “why did the camera suddenly zoom in and out? Is the camera operator Michael J. Fox?” Quit waving the camera around. A smart story and clever cast are all you need, and you’ve got that.

That rant aside, Cyrus is wonderfully-written, perfectly-acted and disturbingly funny. And it’s certainly worth seeing.

You know you’re at a certain kind of film when objects find their way into rectums on multiple occasions. That “kind” of film usually involves Judd Apatow at some level.

Get Him To The Greek, with Apatow as executive producer, presents many such moments of violation. And they’re all pretty damn funny, as is the rest of the movie.

I have to say, when Forgetting Sarah Marshall first came out, I had zero interest. It took a number of good reviews and some friendly word-of-mouth to get me into the theater. And while it had its share of movie “issues,” it was fresh and entertaining.

Fast-forward a couple of years, and the news that two of the characters (well, two of the actors and one character) were going to return in a kind of “sequel,” and I was intrigued. The resulting film, Get Him To The Greek, is a classic Apatow raunch-romp that only loses its momentum towards the overly-sentimental end.

British comedian Russell Brand plays (again) Aldous Snow, a rock star so self-absorbed and narcissistic that he could actually see himself as the “white African Jesus” portrayed in his hilarious music video for the ridiculously-plausible song “African Child.” Sadly, but not unexpectedly, that musical abomination sends Snow’s career and personal life into the shitter. His bottoming-out coincides perfectly with the declining fortunes of the record company Aaron (Jonah Hill) works for. Aaron happens to be the biggest Snow fan on the planet, and his big idea to turn around the fortunes of the record label is to get Snow to reprise his record-setting concert at L.A.’s Greek Theater. All he has to do is get him there, which is where the repeated anal penetrations come in, no pun intended.

Brand and Hill are predictably solid in their roles, and their travels drive the film’s story forward. But major kudos have to go to P. Diddy for a riotous turn as the owner of the record label Aaron works for. He steals just about every scene he’s in, and more than holds his own with Brand and Hill on screen.

Now, some will be turned off by the drug references, the threesomes, the sodomy and…well…the sodomy. But when you strip away all the dildos, the vomiting, the drug use and the comedic violence, as with all Apatow movies what you have is a charming buddy film. Greek works because the two leads make it work, and their characters grow in ways that you don’t often find in comedies like this.

Get Him To The Greek never quite reaches the comedic heights of The Hangover, but it has enough great gags and wonderful performances to be strongly recommended.

“Sweep the leg, Johnny.”

With those four simple words, 1984’s The Karate Kid became the stuff of classic cinema. Naturally, as Hollywood does, they decided to reinvent this beloved film. (Okay, beloved by me, maybe.) And with executive producers Will Smith and his wife driving the bus, the new film is a vehicle for their soon-to-be-bankable-star Jaden.

O’ Ralph Macchio! Where art thou?

The updated Karate Kid changes locations, trades out a few characters and gives a bit more time to the mother-son relationship, but ultimately, this is the same story as the 1984 version. Mother (the always-wonderful Taraji P. Henson) and son Dre (yes, Jaden Smith) move to a strange place (China) in search of a promising new life. Things don’t go well for Dre (read: he gets his ass kicked eight ways to Sunday), and he discovers that the maintenance man (Jackie Chan) in the apartment building knows kung fu. And you can fill in the beats from there.

Smith (Jaden, not Will, though the apple clearly doesn’t fall far from the Fresh Prince) does a good, if not great, job of filling the shoes of Ralph Macchio. (I don’t think those words have ever been spoken.) He certainly has his father’s talent for timing, and his scenes with Chan give the film it’s most powerful moments. And Smith, even as young as he is, brings a real athleticism to the role. What’s missing is…well…acting chops. Young Smith just doesn’t have them yet. The script asks too much of him, and while he delivers in many ways, there are scenes were he’s clearly out of his depth.

The rest of the cast is certainly solid, but the script only gives them enough to tick off the plot boxes. Love interest? Check. Pure evil antagonist kid? Check. Dark overlord slash Cobra Kai dojo master? Check. All the pieces from the original are here, but they’re only that…pieces. They don’t give the film any real power or emotion, because we don’t really feel any kind of connection to them. Again, this isn’t a knock against them as much as it is against director Harald Zwart and the team of Smith’s behind the film. (Sure, there were writers, but I’d imagine they were nothing but puppets to the aforementioned masters.)

And a meaningless rhetorical question here, but what in the hell kind of job does Taraji P. Henson have that moves her from Detroit (Rock City) to Beijing (Forbidden City)? It’s one of those plot points that just sticks in my head but never gets answered. Anyway…

Let’s talk about violence, specifically kids kicking ass and getting their asses kicked. Many have decried the amount of violence in The Karate Kid, and there is a lot of bone-crushing hitting going on. What gets me isn’t the sheer amount of it, but the way some adults (instructors) encourage and enable it, and others (parents) sit by and cheer it. When Macchio got his leg “swept” in the first Karate Kid, it felt real enough. We didn’t need to hear the Joe Theismann-esque bone snapping to get the point. When 11-year-old Jaden Smith, who looks just old enough to finally get to ride the roller coaster at Adventureland, takes multiple kicks to the knee, gut and face, well, you have to wonder where the f*ck his mother is, and why she doesn’t do something.

When it’s not too busy being a vehicle for Jaden Smith to ape his dad’s style, The Karate Kid entertains. When director Harald Zwart focuses more on the relationship between Chan and Smith and less on shooting a China tourism commercial, the film moves and flows. But there just isn’t enough substance to fit the bloated running time (over two hours).

This new Karate Kid is solid family entertainment, sure. But even with the energy of Smith and the quiet confidence of Chan, it lacks the freshness and heart of the original. Add up all the polish and gloss Hollywood can muster in this remake, and it still doesn’t come close to equaling what Ralph Macchio and Pat Morita could deliver twenty-five years ago, with zero special effects and a much smaller budget.

Let me ask you, dear readers, a simple question…

If I, a dog, am truly man’s best friend, why does my “best friend” assign me movies to review that make me want to dash onto a crowded interstate highway? If only I were so lucky. That would be but a moment of pain, then blissful release into the hereafter, instead of sitting through the 90 minutes of shrill torture that is J-Lo’s latest film, The Back-Up Plan.

Now before you get all over me for hatin’ on Lopez, don’t. I have a deep appreciation for the talented package that is J-Lo. She can sing, she can dance, her ass is legendary, and as she proved in the severely underrated Out of Sight, J-Lo can act. Why she chooses to play disposable roles in forgettable movies is beyond me. She clearly has the goods, but none of that beautiful proof is on display here.

No, what should be a romantic comedy instead becomes a series of contrived relationship interruptions on its way to being a movie about pregnancy, and one that isn’t nearly as funny as Knocked Up. Yes, Alex O’Loughlin is a dreamy lead as J-Lo’s love interest. Yes there are the carefully-plotted and completely ludicrous rom-com moments. But the “will they or won’t they” love story just doesn’t have any life in it. They’re beautiful people being pretty together, but there’s just no soul to it.

What’s the worst thing about The Back-Up Plan? The lack of risk. The entire film feels as if it was spit out of some super-computer designed to create bankable romantic-comedy formula. And if that’s how J-Lo wants to spend what could be the best, most productive years of her acting life, that’s her business. But make no mistake, this is quite simply a Hollywood money grab.

If only we could have Karen Cisco back.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to lay on my back and make my “best friend” rub my belly.

I hesitated to write this review. Not because the piece under review isn’t worthy, it certainly is. But as part of a marketing campaign, it stands as more of a piece of quality branded content than a true piece of documentary film.

That said, Up There is a fascinating portrait of the men who paint the urban landscape.

Created by advertising/marketing agency Mother and production company Mekanism, Up There tells the story of a group of artists tasked with adorning the buildings of New York with branded “art,” which in this case means lovingly-rendered glasses of Stella Artois beer.

Countless millions have walked the concrete underneath the exact kind of art and artistry seen in Up There. The fact that the cost and ease of installing vinyl panels nearly eliminated the very business these men are in is in itself fascinating. Up There does a great job of delivering the passion these people have for the work they do, and the simply-effective camerawork and beautiful music (by The Album Leaf) paint (no pun intended) a detailed picture of their artwork.

Directed by Matt Murray, Up There is a great way to spend 12 minutes and change. But it might leave you thirsty for a beer afterward.

I won’t bore you by offering up the long list of horrendous movies based on Saturday Night Live sketches.

I will simply tell you that the newest SNL sketch-cum-movie adventure, MacGruber, isn’t nearly as bad as It’s Pat, but doesn’t quite reach the comedic heights of Wayne’s World.

Will Forte’s MacGruber has become a staple of the current SNL lineup. In every short bit, he’s faced with having to diffuse a bomb in some random “control room.” But his vanity, ego, racism, homophobia and pride always get him, and his team, killed. Like many SNL characters before him, MacGruber is getting the big-screen treatment, and the results are mixed to disappointing.

This MacGruber is a true American hero, with a mind-boggling list of accolades and awards. After the untimely death of his new bride, MacGruber has retreated to a monastery, leaving his previous life of heroics behind. But when his nemesis Dieter Von Cunth (played ridiculously by Val Kilmer) steals a nuclear warhead, the military calls on Mac to save us all. Joining him on this mission are Lt. Dixon Piper (Ryan Phillipe) and his feathered-do-sporting love interest Vicki St. Elmo (Kristen Wiig).

What works in MacGruber is the occasionally hilarious sending up of the 1980s action movie cliché. The exchanges between Forte and Powers Boothe, as Colonel Faith, echo those between Sylvester Stallone and Richard Crenna in the Rambo movies, only with tongue planted firmly in cheek. MacGruber assembling his “team” is another highlight of the film, and when the film is driven more by the action than the forced comedy, MacGruber entertains.

But there just aren’t enough of those smartly funny “MacGruber” moments, and often director Jorma Taccone seems more interested in low-brow laughs. Don’t get me wrong, what MacGruber does with a stalk of celery is funny…the first time. But something that’s funny once Taccone beats like a dead horse, and the result is an action comedy that stumbles into unfunny-ness when it needs to run free like MacGruber’s Miata.

I can’t say I recommend MacGruber, except maybe as a dollar-theater curiosity. But you can certainly do much worse at the cinema these days (The Back-Up Plan, anyone?). I chalk MacGruber up as just another promising comedy idea executed just the way MacGruber himself diffuses those bombs. Poorly.

When the recent Oscar nominations came out, there weren’t really very many surprises. Okay, there usually aren’t, because by that time, there have been so many awards handed out the lead horses are easy to spot.

But in the category of Best Animated Feature, one film earned a clear “huh?” from most. That film is The Secret of Kells, and while it may not have had the wide release or big box office of Up or Fantastic Mr. Fox, its nomination was well-deserved.

Ninth-century Ireland can’t have been an easy place to grow up. Between the absolutely inhospitable climate and the occasional marauding horde, well there’s just not that much time for a kid to be a kid. And when you’re Brendan, the orphaned nephew of the Abbot of Kells, your chances for joy in life are slim. Brendan’s story, and the story of Kells, is the driving force behind the narrative of the film. While his uncle the Abbot is busy building a wall to protect the town from the approaching Norsemen, Brendan does just about everything except what the Abbot wants, including falling in with the recently-arrived Aidan of Iona, a masterful illustrator who sees Brendan as his apprentice. With the help of Aisling, a fairie spirit, Brendan discovers the world outside the wall, but it may be both his and the town’s undoing.

Kells was directed by Tomm Moore and Nora Twomey, and the visual style of the film is amazing detailed and completely fascinating. There’s no need for 3-D trickery here, this is pure two-dimensional artistry, with more to see in every frame than the eye could ever capture. There are visual elements borrowed both from Disney and from Japanese anime, but Moore and Twomey, and a host of artists, make them their own, especially the forest scenes with Brendan and Aisling.

I’m not going to pretend to have any context for the story of the Book of Kells, a medieval transcript that is a sacred item in Ireland’s heritage. But if the illustrations themselves are as spectacular as the animation in the film, it is a special book indeed. The Secret of Kells is, in many ways, a more lyrical animated film than I’ve seen in a long time. It moves at its own pace, with much the same feel of classic Irish song.

What Moore and Twomey have created in The Secret of Kells may not last as long as the book itself, but it deserves its own place in the soul of Ireland.

Anyone who underestimates the power of art to transform our lives needs to look no further than the White House. Shepard Fairey’s graphically striking image of Barack Obama helped move a man from candidate to consciousness, and changed the face of American politics forever. Fairey, like shadowy underground characters named Banksy and Invader, is a “street artist,” but the influence of his art goes far beyond the streets.

With the Sundance-lauded documentary Exit Through The Gift Shop, first-time director Banksy shines as bright a light as the dark world of street art would ever allow. But the question is, what exactly is that light illuminating?

Banksy is what some people call an “art terrorist.” His works are only graffiti in the most literal sense. I mean, what do you call the stenciled outline of a small child floating away under a handful of balloons on the Palestinian side of the Settlement Wall? Or an inflatable dummy wearing an orange prison jumpsuit placed next to one of the most popular rides at Disneyland?

But as interesting a subject as Banksy would be for a documentary, Exit Through The Gift Shop isn’t “about” him.

The driving force behind the film is somewhat-unhinged Frenchman Thierry Guetta. When first we meet him, he runs a second-hand clothing store, kind of, but his real “passion” is filming. He takes a camera with him everywhere, recording everything. On a trip overseas, he discovers that his cousin is actually a street artist named Invader, and documents his exploits. He gradually becomes accepted as part of the community, and eventually they come to depend on him both to capture their temporary art and to act as lookout for the cops. When Guetta embraces his inner “art terrorist,” he is transformed from a humble documentarian into Mr. Brainwash, an artist whose commercial desires far outstrip his actual talents. But if thousands of people line up to admire his work, and spend seven figures buying it up, what does that say about the very movement he started off documenting?

Sitting in the dark, the audience is left to wonder whether Banksy’s film, and Guetta himself, is just another piece of thought-provoking art meant to encourage us to examine the nature of art and commercialization in a culture driven by consumption.

Thankfully, all of this comes in a very entertaining and creatively-packaged film. You may not quite have all the answers when you leave a screening of Exit Through The Gift Shop, but the questions you’ll ask are interesting enough to keep you occupied long after.