Comic [Book] Films (Fri., Aug 16-Sun., Aug. 25, Prince Music Theater, 1412 Chestnut St., 215-569-9700, www.princemusictheater.org) The fate of comic book aesthetics outside their chosen medium isn't often a pretty one. Moving from the nine-panel grid to the big screen, most movie directors plunder comics for the nostalgically four-colored images of their youth, attempting to capture innocence in primary-color tableaux. (Case in point: Warren Beatty's Dick Tracy, whose preferred 1:33 aspect ratio apes both the shape of a comic book panel and the look of pre-1960s Hollywood.) "Comic book" shouldn't be any more specific an adjective than "novelistic" or "cinematic," but rather than sweep or visual power, what the term connotes in ill-educated hands is an allegorically reductive moral vision, caricature rather than character, and a stern resolve to avoid anything remotely resembling the real world. Never mind that there are as many comics that buck that trend as reinforce it; why educate when you can simplify? Major media prefer to either shut their eyes -- thus the New York Times pig-ignorant marveling at the introduction of a gay Green Lantern character, despite the fact that comics with lesbian and gay subject matter have been commonplace since the early 1980s -- or shore up Hollywood's reductive embrace of superhero comics' lowest-common-denominator appeal. Even those comics which break the mold get shoved back into it on the way to the big screen, as demonstrated by the hideous hack job performed on Alan Moore and Eddie Campbell's From Hell.

The best "comic book movies" tend to be those whose antecedents are blurriest, not the direct adaptations. Filmmakers like Terry Gilliam, Stanley Kubrick, John Woo, Sam Raimi, Baz Lurhmann, Darren Aronofsky, the Wachowski brothers, Jean-Pierre Jeunet, even Wes Anderson (see below) all draw on comics' rich visual potential, the strength of the created, rather than the chance, image. (You can probably make a case for some overlap between Terence Malick and Justin Green as well.) The Prince's two-week "Comic Films" series thankfully has some of both. Richard Donner's Superman: The Movie (Fri., Aug 16, 5 p.m.; Sat., Aug. 17, 4 p.m.), may have put Christopher Reeve in tights and introduced John Williams' memorable theme, but that's about all it does. Likewise Barbarella (Sat., Aug. 24, 8 p.m.), Roger Vadim's purely sleazy excuse to dress then-wife Jane Fonda up in revealing costumes. (Chumley and Carlota, please rip Mr. V a new one, willya?) Of course, Barbarella, like Joseph Losey's Modesty Blaise (Fri., Aug 16, 8 p.m.; Sat., Aug. 17, 9:15 p.m.) did provide inspiration for this year's delightful CQ. On the other hand, there's nothing to redeem the 1966 Batman: The Movie (Sat., Aug 17, 7:30 p.m.), an outgrowth of the TV show which introduced the word "Bam!" to newspaper headline-writers everywhere.

The Bat Whispers (Wed., Aug 21, 7:30 p.m.; Fri., Aug. 23, 8 p.m.; Sun., Aug 25, 6 p.m.) reverses the trend; the 1930 film (and its silent 1926 predecessor) were major influences on Batman creator Bob Kane. Sound films from this era are rarely pretty, but at least director Roland West had the use of an early widescreen process to soup up the visuals. Akira (Wed., Aug. 21, 9:15 p.m.; Fri., Aug. 23, 10 p.m.; Sat., Aug 24, 10:15 p.m.; Sun., Aug. 25, 8 p.m.) cuts out the middleman altogether, turning the celebrated manga into an animated sci-fi epic. This new print (dubbed, unfortunately), which inexplicably skipped Philadelphia on its re-release last year, should make for some thrilling viewing.

Animation figures in "Short Films of the Ninth Art" (Fri., Aug 23, 7:30 p.m.), which combines Robert Emmons' documentary Enthusiast: The Ninth Art and Dear Julia, a short animated film based on the comic of the same name by local artist Brian Biggs, not to mention a reading of Biggs' Frederick & Eloise. (Biggs and Emmons will both be present.) The screenings are followed at 9 by a free open trade, where self-publishers, collectors and fans are invited to swap old works for new stuff and generally spread the love. And speaking of spreading the love, local cartoonist Ellen Rosenholtz will be on hand to introduce the first Modesty Blaise screening, and Jeff Kilpatrick of the Philadelphia Cartoonists' Society will lead a how-to workshop for kids on how to draw your own comics on Sat., Aug 17 at 2 p.m.; pre-registration at 215-972-1014 is recommended.

Amélie/The Royal Tenenbaums ($29.99 DVD each) How can two movies that seem to proceed from such similar principles produce such different results? Jean-Pierre Jeunet, whose Amélie follows The City of Lost Children and Delicatessen, comes from a background in animation, yet his visually crammed movies never feel as overworked or overdetermined as Wes Anderson's The Royal Tenenbaums. (Jeunet's abortive Alien: Resurrection felt more like a victim of the language barrier than his visual sensibility.) Jeunet was accused of warping reality by digitally removing graffiti, trash and modern cars from the Montmartre streets, yet his implicit fable feels less false than Anderson's explicitly mythic Manhattan (which contains such deliberate give-aways as the fictional 375th Street YMCA). Amélie is the more synthetic movie -- Jeunet's audio commentary reveals a startling number of scenes with digital manipulation, even those you wouldn't suspect -- yet his tinkering is of a piece, and the wonderfully warm performances of Audrey Tautou and Mathieu Kassovitz prevent the movie from overdosing on its own artifice. Jeunet and Guillaume Laurant's dialogue may be no great shakes, but Jeunet loves his actors' faces like a silent film director.

Anderson, on the other hand, casts actors like Gene Hackman and Anjelica Huston and uses them like mannequins. (One favorite anecdote from the DVD's audio commentary: Hackman expressing alarm when he realizes that the camera crew has trucked down to a spot by the river with a perfect view of the Statue of Liberty, only to have Anderson deliberately position an actor between the landmark and the camera -- perhaps because the veteran actor doesn't understand the logic of going out of your way to craft an elaborate in-joke between yourself and the crew.) Tenenbaums seems to take place in something like the real world, but perhaps that's the problem; Anderson doesn't cop to his own fantasies. Jeunet celebrates an unabashed love of pop culture, while Anderson coats his with an art-house veneer (thus the faux-primitive artwork on the walls of Owen Wilson's character's house, drawn from Anderson's own collection). Anderson fills his soundtrack with rock 'n' roll treasures, but his characters rarely seem to listen to it; the Tenenbaums moment when Gwyneth Paltrow and Luke Wilson slip on a Rolling Stones LP (LP!) is deliberately framed as a childhood regression. Anderson loves music, and he knows how to use it -- think of the film's most indelible moment, as Paltrow glides across the tarmac to the tune of Nico's rendition of "These Days" -- but it's almost always exterior to the world on screen, accompanying rather than part of it. Even that Rolling Stones moment is a fake; Anderson switches the order of songs on the record. At least Jeunet takes his bull by the horns.

Elvis: That's the Way It Is! (Fri., Aug 16, 8 p.m., $5, International House, 3701 Chestnut St., 215-895-6542, www.ihousephilly.org) Sadly, there's no room in Screen Picks for my rant about the canonization of Fat Elvis, who consistently outshines his younger, more talented self in the popular imagination and ensures that he's remembered more as a figure of camp than excitement. Filmed in 1970 in Las Vegas, this concert movie features such latter-day hits as "Suspicious Mind" (I prefer Dwight Yoakam's version) and "In the Ghetto" (ditto Cartman's). Screening 25 years after his death, That's the Way It Is! isn't the way it always was.

All About Eve/Sweet Smell of Success (Sun., Aug 18 at 5:30 and 8 p.m.; Tue., Aug. 20 at 7 and 9:30 p.m.) Closing out the Prince's "Dream Double Features" is Deena Plevinsky's twofer. Joseph Mankiewicz's Eve isn't a great film so much as a showcase for a handful of great performances, most obviously Bette Davis' sullied ex-starlet and George Saunders' Wildean turn as a sublimely jaded theater critic. Despite its moments of camp savagery, the film is awfully plodding at times, almost more fun to quote than it is to watch. Sweet Smell, by contrast, is pretty close to a masterpiece; neither Burt Lancaster nor Tony Curtis was ever better, and Alexander Mackendrick's direction sharpens every stake before it's driven home.