The Majestic

A high-gloss, tear-stained love letter to movie magic, The Majestic actually possesses none of the qualities that make movies magical. Essentially a talented TV director working in the wrong medium, Frank Darabont (The Shawshank Redemption, The Green Mile) certainly does his best to make the film live up to its title, but he’s so busy squeezing every last bit of small-town goodness out of his pastoral ’50s setting that even the "little moments" feel like they’re scored for timpani. Jim Carrey, who might as well just change his name to Robin Williams, plays Pete, a blacklisted screenwriter who drives off a bridge, gets amnesia, and is reincarnated as Luke, the beloved son of a small California town who’s been missing in action since the end of WW II. A guy who’s never believed in anything, least of all Communism, he’s at first bewitched, then transformed by the town’s faith in him, or who he seems to be. Martin Landau has some exceptionally fine moments as Luke’s grieving father who restores the Majestic, the movie theater they once ran, to its former glory. But the film goes from merely flat to overtly offensive with its grafted-on political climax, which does such a violent disservice to those who fought anti-Communist hysteria you want to spit at the screen. Like Forrest Gump, The Majestic professes respect for men who gain conviction while slighting those who already possess it, and ends in an outright lie. (Pete/Luke invokes the exact same strategy that sent the Hollywood Ten to jail, but inexplicably gets away with it.) Flatulently overlong — Darabont seems incapable of making a movie that lasts less than two-and-a-half hours — and insincerely saccharine, it’s Capra for people who can’t stand black-and-white.

—Sam Adams

(AMC Andorra; AMC Orleans; UA Main St.; UA Riverview)