“The Incredible Burt Wonderstone”

3.5 stars

Starring: Steve Carell, Steve Buscemi, Jim Carrey, Olivia Wilde, Alan Arkin, James Gandolfini, Jay Mohr, Mason Cook, Luke Vanek

Rating: PG-13, for profanity, sexual candor, fleeting drug content and dangerous stunts

Comic talents unite for an amusing poke at showcase magicians

By Derrick Bang
Enterprise film critic

Las Vegas magic acts — with their glitzy, overwrought buffoonery — are ripe for parody, and director Don Scardino attacks this subculture with verve, in “The Incredible Burt Wonderstone.”

Armed with a witty script that hits most of the right notes, Scardino demonstrates his own gift for prestidigitation, by shaping a gaggle of scene-stealing camera hogs into a well-balanced ensemble comedy troupe. That’s no small thing, when dealing with the likes of Steve Carell, Steve Buscemi and Jim Carrey, any one of whom could ruin a project by being too uninhibited … and all have done so, in the past (in Carrey’s case, rather frequently).

Not this time. Scardino keeps his stars on point while also drawing deft supporting performances from Alan Arkin, James Gandolfini and Olivia Wilde. The latter, in particular, demonstrates an unexpected talent for comic timing that was nowhere to be seen in her token hottie roles in “Tron: Legacy” and “Cowboys & Aliens.” Given her work here, Wilde actually may have an acting career in her future.

The biggest miracle, though, is that this film’s script manages to stay reasonably well focused — and dead-on perceptive, as it skewers Vegas’ wretched excess — despite being a committee affair from four writers: Jonathan M. Goldstein, John Francis Daley, Chad Kultgen and Tyler Mitchell.

Gentlemen, my black top hat’s off to you.

The story opens with a brief prologue in the early 1980s, as latchkey kid Burt (Mason Cook) celebrates a birthday by himself, forced by his working mother’s absence to bake his own cake (a droll and endearing touch that hints of great things to come). His one present: a celebrity magic set that will evoke strong memories from viewers who remember being a kid back in that era, when Marshall Brodien — as Wizzo the Wizard —hawked his “TV Magic Kit” of “mystifying tricks” on syndicated stations.

In this case, young Burt is awestruck by the kit’s videotape, wherein tuxedo-garbed Rance Holloway (Arkin) promises that magic can change one’s life. Burt, enchanted, starts pulling scarves out of thin air; his school time antics attract the attention of the similarly geeky — and bullied — Anton (Luke Vanek). The two become fast friends, energized by a desire to invent newer, fresher and ever more amazing tricks.

Flash-forward a couple of decades, as Burt Wonderstone (Carell) and Anton Marvelton (Buscemi) have become hot newcomers on the Vegas stage magic scene. Their enthusiasm and crowd-pleasing skills draw the attention of Bally’s mogul Doug Munny (Gandolfini), who grants them a headlining showroom.

Another 10-year leap to the present day, and things have turned sour. Oh, sure, Burt and Anton still pack the house, but the opulent illusions have become rote — repeated day after day, week after week, year after year — and the staunch friendship has frayed.

Actually, it has torn to shreds, thanks to Burt’s insufferably egotistical behavior. Having decided that he’s the entire act — not to mention God’s gift to women — Burt has become a grotesque parody of himself. Magic no longer matters, nor does the “sense of wonder” that sparked his own youthful enthusiasm, so many years ago.

All this is observed with great sadness by Jane (Wilde), a backstage assistant dragged before the crowd one evening, to replace yet another nubile blonde unwilling to tolerate Burt’s behavior any longer. Jane also loves magic — the proper way, hence her presence on the staff — but Burt couldn’t care less. To him, she’s just another potential score.

Crisis erupts with the flamboyant, camera-hogging arrival of Steve Gray (Carrey), an arrogant, weirdly theatrical “guerilla magician” very much in the mold of David Blaine and Criss Angel. Gray’s gory, stunt-laden shtick is more ghastly circus sideshow than genuine magic, but he definitely knows how to win and control a crowd. And that, to Munny, spells money.

Wonderstone isn’t capable of modifying his moldy act; more to the point, he rejects the need to do so. A freak such as Steve Gray couldn’t possibly be the next best thing.

When the dust settles, Wonderstone is alone, unemployed and living in a shabby hotel room. And wondering how it all went wrong.

Scardino capably navigates this delectable premise while savagely skewering its many deserving targets. Costume designer Dayna Pink outfits Wonderstone in the hilariously tacky, chest-baring garb with which we’ve long associated Siegfried & Roy; Burt and Anton’s deliberately corny, story-driven act mostly wastes time while occasionally pausing for the sort of big-big-big illusions beloved by Lance Burton and David Copperfield. (The latter briefly appears in a droll cameo.)

The elevator to Burt’s penthouse home is large enough to be the suite itself, and when Munny embraces his own grand plan to open a new casino, he naturally names it after himself, grinning broadly from a multi-story video screen that beckons passersby to enter.

Gray’s self-abusing, over-the-top stunts are funny because — as Criss Angel’s fans know — they’re not all that exaggerated; Carrey, in turn, nails the lofty attitude and weirdly egotistical patter of such an individual. Indeed, this is by far the best performance Carrey has given in years, and it’s nice to see him back to form.

His penetrating, ferociously manic gaze never has been put to better use.

But the ripe satire, so well set up and delivered, wouldn’t have nearly the bite without the genuine heart that rides alongside. Buscemi’s Anton is a gentle guy who has put up with a lot over the years, and can’t understand how his longtime “best friend” could treat him so badly. Carrey’s Gray, at the other end of the spectrum, is a nasty piece of work: a smug, vicious opportunist who smells blood in the water, and wants to humiliate Wonderstone even more than he wants his own headlining career.

Carell swans his way through Wonderstone’s puffed-up behavior, somehow believing that every emotional failing — every thoughtless, self-centered act or gesture — somehow is a virtue. Wonderstone is the one character who might be too broad at times, notably when he and Marvelton attempt their own street stunt, but Scardino mostly remains on the right side of that razor’s edge separating astute humor from merely stupid slapstick.

More to the point, Carell has the range to switch from broad overstatement to softer pathos; we’ve seen the latter in “Crazy, Stupid, Love” and “Dan in Real Life.” Carell makes us believe that Wonderstone is worth saving.

Arkin further spices the brew, when a much older Rance Holloway pops up in the third act, as a resident in a retirement home for Vegas performers. This is roughly when the story shifts tone, blossoming into an underdog redemption saga with clearly defined heroes and villains.

Holloway’s insistence on the “purity” of magic, particularly close-up magic, obviously requires a certain amount of same in this film. Many (most?) of the illusions are assisted by camera trickery and CGI sweetening, but we are blessed with a few moments of coin/card manipulation and authentic sleight-of-hand. I particularly enjoyed the golf ball routine that Holloway and Wonderstone share with the retirement home residents.

With so many disparate elements, all sorts of things could have gone wrong en route to the finished film … but Scardino pulls it off, with a warm, funny and genuinely entertaining result. And that, too, is quite a trick.

— Read more of Derrick Bang’s film criticism at http://derrickbang.blogspot.com. Comment on this review at www.davisenterprise.com

“This Is 40″

3 stars

Starring: Paul Rudd, Leslie Mann, Megan Fox, Jason Segel, Graham Parker, Chris O’Dowd, Albert Brooks, John Lithgow

Rating: R, for crude humor, sexual candor, pervasive language and drug use

By Derrick Bang
Enterprise film critic

Some perceptive truths about marriage, mid-life crises and parental angst linger around the edges of “This Is 40,” but they tend to be overshadowed by Judd Apatow’s reflexive insistence on vulgar humor, crude slapstick and bewildering plot detours. Obviously, he just can’t help himself.

Although Apatow oversees a busy comedy empire, “This Is 40” is only his fourth feature as director, following “The 40-Year-Old Virgin,” “Knocked Up” and the tediously morose “Funny People.” This new film, something of a peripheral sequel to “Knocked Up,” focuses on the five-years-later lives of Pete and Debbie (Paul Rudd and Leslie Mann), that film’s sidebar characters.

Except that Katherine Heigl, who played Debbie’s sister Alison in “Knocked Up,” is nowhere to be seen here. Apparently she got lost in translation.

As this new film’s title suggests, events center around the ramp-up to Pete’s impending 40th birthday. He’d normally share this milestone with Debbie, but a refusal to face the onset of middle age has prompted her to deny her own birthday; indeed, she even rolls back the clock and claims a younger age, a running gag that becomes truly hilarious during a routine doctor’s office visit, when various nurses and receptionists try to nail down her birth year.

That scene works, by the way, because Apatow goes for subtle underplaying, rather than his usual, last-row-of-the-upper-balcony broad strokes.

Age-related angst aside, Pete and Debbie aren’t in a terribly happy place for several reasons, starting with financial troubles. Pete’s indie record label is hemorrhaging money because he insists on representing aging “classic rockers” who have no relevance to modern music fans. (In a nice nod to the real world, venerable British singer/songwriter Graham Parker plays himself and delivers several songs in various scenes.)

Debbie’s boutique clothing shop is short $12,000 that seems to have been skimmed by one of her two employees: knock-out sex bomb Desi (Megan Fox) or mousy Jodi (Charlyne Yi). Pete further exacerbates the cash-flow situation by continually lending money to his mooch of a father, Larry (Albert Brooks, overplaying his patented Jewish shtick).

Plenty of money, as it turns out, and this financial issue eventually becomes quite distracting. Even without the 80 grand shoveled in Larry’s direction during the past few years, I cannot imagine how the income from two small, struggling businesses could produce the ridiculously opulent lifestyle that Pete and Debbie enjoy with their spoiled and over-privileged daughters, Sadie (Maude Apatow) and Charlotte (Iris Apatow). Their house alone is humongous, and stocked with every possible high-tech toy; Pete’s party, when it finally arrives, looks like something catered at a Beverly Hills country club.

Both Pete and Debbie have grown insecure about their bodies, and their sex lives, and their desperate search for “alone time.” (Pete’s solution to the latter will be recognized by every guy in the theater.) Their alternately frustrated and panicked reactions to these various traumas, large and small, are spot-on; fortysomething (and older) viewers will roar with pained recognition, while their kids — who shouldn’t be watching this tawdry movie in the first place, but I know better — will wince and say “Ewwwww” a lot. (Too much parental information.)

Indeed, all details relating to this age crisis, and the myriad ways our bodies begin to betray us, are by far the best part of “This Is 40.” Apatow has a rare gift for drawing humor, often ribald humor, from our everyday anxieties: both the minor ones that we attempt to joke about in public, and the private ones that we don’t even like to share with our partners.

I’ll even grant Apatow a solid understanding of a typical family generation gap, and the tension created by an elder daughter entering her teen years, and no longer wanting anything to do with her younger sister. Apatow should know; they are his daughters (and Mann is his wife/their mother). Granted, Maude Apatow’s Sadie overplays the shrill bee-yatch card, but she has cause, having to endure such lunatic parents.

Iris Apatow’s Charlotte, in welcome contrast, delivers a far more natural and authentic performance as the sweeter younger child, prone to perceptive and quite telling comments.

Too many other stray issues, however, seem shoe-horned into the script solely to give various supporting characters and guest stars something to do. Melissa McCarthy, so funny in “Bridesmaids,” struggles gamely but can’t leverage her hopeless cameo as the obnoxious parent of a boy who runs afoul of Debbie after leaving nasty messages on Sadie’s Facebook page. Daft as this scene is, however, it’s nothing compared to the weird place Yi’s Jodi eventually wanders, during a confrontation with Debbie.

And while we might have been amused to discover that either Pete or Debbie’s father is preoccupied by next-gen families with younger wives, playing this card with both Larry and Debbie’s estranged father, Oliver (John Lithgow), is just silly. Indeed, poor Lithgow hasn’t the faintest idea how to handle his part, and no wonder; Apatow doesn’t even try to justify the reasons for Oliver’s hands-off approach toward Debbie. It’s just another inexplicable left-field detail like the size of Pete and Debbie’s house.

The always engaging Chris O’Dowd shines as Ronnie, one of Pete’s record label colleagues. O’Dowd’s best moment comes when he and Jason Segel, also droll as Debbie’s physical trainer, wind up vying for Desi’s attentions in a swimming pool. It must be noted, as well, that Fox finally has found a role perfectly suited to her limited thespic talents. Sadly, she really is little more than her bodacious bod, and the character of Desi is carefully tailored to Fox’s modest acting range.

Lena Dunham, currently a hot commodity on HBO’s “Girls,” pops up as Pete’s other record label employee; Tatum O’Neal lends her voice as a Realtor during a phone call with Pete, but I doubt you’d recognize her without being told. But you will recognize Green Day’s Billie Joe Armstrong, as an appreciative fan during one of Graham Parker’s club gigs.

The lion’s share of screen time, however, belongs to Rudd and Mann. She does a far better job of keeping Debbie more or less grounded and genuine; her various mood swings — and some of them are pretty wild — never completely bury Mann’s core vulnerability. For the most part, Debbie deserves our support and empathy.

Not so Rudd, who channels yet another of his cranky, condescending, self-involved jerks. At a crisis point, after we’ve spent close to two hours with this couple, Debbie wonders whether they’d even be together today, had she not gotten pregnant with their first daughter. Pete is stuck for an answer, and that moment feels right; why would she continue to put up with him?

That awkward, devastating pause carries far more truth than the film’s obligatory final scene, which leaves us feeling that nothing has been resolved. That may accurately reflect the real-world squabbles of mismatched couples, but it’s not terribly satisfying.

As is the case, ultimately, with much of this film.

— Read more of Derrick Bang’s film criticism at derrickbang.blogspot.com. Comment on this review at www.davisenterprise.com

“Hotel Transylvania”

Four stars

Starring (voices only): Adam Sandler, Andy Samberg, Selena Gomez, Kevin James, Fran Drescher, Steve Buscemi, Molly Shannon, David Spade, CeeLo Green, Jon Lovitz

Rating: PG, for mild rude humor and some scary images

“Hotel Transylvania” is generously laden with similar knee-slappers, many piling one atop the next in the rat-a-tat-tat manner of a classic Road Runner cartoon. But this is no seven-minute short; director Genndy Tartakovsky and editor Catherine Apple successfully maintain an exhilarating pace without sacrificing the character elements necessary to hold our interest.

It’s an impressive feat, no less so when considering the involvement of five credited writers: Peter Baynham, Robert Smigel, Todd Durham, Dan Hageman and Kevin Hageman. That many cooks generally spoil the magic potion, but in this case, everybody’s sensibilities mesh nicely. The result is a light-hearted spoof of familiar movie monster traditions, blended with wry takes on young love and an unusually extreme generation gap.

Long, long ago, in a haunted forest far, far away, Dracula (voiced by Adam Sandler) constructed a lavish “five-stake resort” that he dubbed Hotel Transylvania: a posh refuge for monsters and their families to vacation, far from curious — and potentially dangerous — eyes. As has become typical of our 21st century re-evaluations of fantasy creatures, these poor monsters are the world’s maligned and misunderstood, hunted and killed by the humans who fear and hate them.

Bearing that last thought in mind, Dracula’s massive sanctuary also has been designed as a place where his daughter, Mavis (Selena Gomez), can grow up safely. Dracula has particular reason for this parental concern; a century and change ago, his beloved wife — Mavis’ mother — was killed by just such a human mob.

But Mavis is celebrating her 118th birthday, and — just like the tower-bound Rapunzel, in 2010’s “Tangled” — she yearns to explore and experience the outside world. Until now, Dracula has managed to delay her desire, in part through the distraction of ever more elaborate birthday parties.

This one is destined to be no exception, with a guest list that includes Frankenstein (Kevin James) and his brassy wife, Eunice (Fran Drescher); Wayne (Steve Buscemi) and Wanda (Molly Shannon), a couple of loving werewolves who have produced litter after litter of pups; Griffin, the Invisible Man (David Spade); Murray (CeeLo Green), a boisterous, jive-talking mummy; and Quasimodo (Jon Lovitz), the hotel’s temperamental head chef, never seen without his loyal rat assistant, Esmeralda.

But those are only the front-and-center characters; the guest list also includes riffs on every creature known from myth and cinema, from the gelatinous Blob and the Creature from the Black Lagoon, to the multi-headed Cerberus, the Abominable Snowman, an underwater octopoid beast so huge that we never see more than a tentacle or two, and the assorted witch maids, headless drivers, mariachi skeletons, limb-challenged zombies and haunted suits of armor that serve as the hotel staff.

Not that it makes a difference, despite Mavis’ fondness for all these weird uncles and aunts. Holding her father to a promise he made years ago, she demands that he allow her to spread her (bat) wings.

As it happens, though, her desire for travel gets put on hold with the unexpected arrival of one last guest: an energetic, way-cool motormouth dude named Jonathan (Andy Samberg), who can shred a guitar or a skateboard with equal élan. Jonathan has been backpacking his way across Europe, and with the insatiable curiosity of any 21-year-old, he naturally follows up on an oft-heard rumor about a mysteriously spooky castle hidden deep within the Transylvanian woods.

But Jonathan’s presence is a catastrophe for Dracula, who has long guaranteed his premises to be human-free. Concealing Jonathan’s healthy pink complexion isn’t difficult; a bit of make-up and an electrified hairstyle later, the kid is introduced to everybody as Johnnystein, Frankenstein’s supposed cousin (actually, the cousin of the fellow who, ah, supplied one of Frankie’s arms).

But Dracula has a much tougher time dealing with the luminescent goo-goo eyes that suddenly flash between Jonathan and Mavis: love at first sight.

What’s an undead dad to do?

Sandler makes a wonderfully pompous vampire, clearly regarded as the big cheese by all his supernatural friends and guests, but helpless in the face of his daughter’s stricken, disappointed expressions. Sandler gives his black-caped character a wide range of moods and emotions, from unexpected gentleness — always played against a given scene’s apparently ominous mood — to breath-catching flashes of blood-curdling fury. Based on the actor’s track record with recent dim-bulb comedies, I think he’s much better as unseen voice talent.

Samberg’s Jonathan is a stitch. It’s funny enough when this hyper-enthusiastic sorta-slacker first assumes that he has stumbled into some sort of fan gathering, with folks sporting really rad costumes; it’s positively side-splitting when the poor guy realizes that he’s surrounded by (gulp) actual, rotted-flesh-and-putrefied-blood creatures of the night.

Until he (literally) bumps into Mavis, of course. No warm-blooded guy could resist a girl this cute … even if she does have fangs.

Gomez successfully navigates Mavis’ many moods, ensuring that her typically teenage character is headstrong but not demanding, mildly self-centered but never unpleasantly selfish. Mavis isn’t merely the apple of her father’s eye — a weakness she cheerfully exploits to her advantage — she’s also adored by all who visit the castle. And, really, we can’t argue with her desire to escape the constricting confines of her father’s enveloping cloak … no matter how noble his intentions.

Buscemi is a hoot as a beaten-down father never able to hide from his bratty brood, and James gives Frankenstein an intriguing reading as a sort of blue-collar working stiff. Lovitz initially makes Quasimodo an overly solicitous toady, but this character turns menacing in the final act.

Mark Mothersbaugh contributes a vigorous orchestral score, punctuated at key moments by energetic pop anthems such as a reworked cover of Carly Rae Jepsen’s “Call Me Maybe” — here retitled “Call Me Mavy” — and a climactic rap duel involving Dracula, Jonathan and Mavis, called “Problem (The Monster Remix).” Cute stuff.

You’re well advised to spring for the film’s 3D format, which lends additional depth and dimension to bat flights and pell-mell pursuits through the castle’s darkened passages. The 3D “money sequence,” however, is a ballroom duel of sorts between Dracula and Jonathan, with floating tables as game pieces. This has nothing to do with the story, and could be viewed as a time-filling distraction … were it not so giddily exhilarating.

I hope “Hotel Transylvania” hangs around for at least a month, because it’ll be perfect family viewing for the night before Halloween.

— Read more of Derrick Bang’s film criticism at derrickbang.blogspot.com. Comment on this review at www.davisenterprise.com

“Celeste and Jesse Forever”

3.5 stars

Starring: Rashida Jones, Andy Samberg, Ari Graynor, Emma Roberts, Chris Messina, Rebecca Dayan, Elijah Wood, Will McCormack

Rating: R, for profanity, drug use and sexual candor

At first blush, however, the opposite seems true of the title characters in “Celeste and Jesse Forever” … and that’s the clever twist in this arch and perceptive script from Rashida Jones and Will McCormack.

Celeste (Jones) and Jesse (Andy Samberg) are introduced on what seems an average day. They’re bubbly, effervescent and completely at ease with each other. They enjoy many of the same artful pursuits, while cheerfully tolerating each other’s varying tastes. They finish sentences together, dissect restaurant menus in mock German accents, and share little physical rituals, from air-hugs to hilariously vulgar acts with tubes of lip gloss.

In a word, they’re cute enough to be cloying.

Unfortunately, they aren’t a couple. At least … not really.

Indeed, they’re long separated and in the final stages of divorce. But an inability to stay married hasn’t damaged their friendship, although this dichotomy falls outside the bounds of comfort for their respective best friends, Beth (Ari Graynor) and Tucker (Eric Christian Olsen), coincidentally engaged and soon to be wed.

We deduce that Celeste and Jesse once were perfectly matched, during the younger days that led to their own wedded bliss. But Celeste has matured beyond the giddy rush of carefree twentysomethingness; she has become the ambitious, workaholic co-owner of her own media consulting firm. She’s also a frequently quoted “trend analyzer” and the author of a book on same, provocatively titled “Shitegeist.”

The passive Jesse, alternatively, prefers the lackadaisical existence of an artist. He’ll blow off deadlines — even on projects for Celeste — in order to watch TV or get stoned with good buddy Skillz (McCormack), a casual pot dealer who is quite vexed by the medical marijuana clinics that are interfering with his business model.

Before long, we recognize what Beth has known all along: Although Celeste and Jesse superficially are the epitome of soul mates, their relationship is anything but healthy. He doesn’t want to move on, clearly hoping that she’ll change her mind and take him back. She can’t move on, panicked by the thought of truly losing the one guy who puts up with her.

She even lets Jesse live in the large studio in the yard behind the house they once shared together. He may as well be a goldfish in a bowl.

Jesse tries to date; Celeste doesn’t bother. She can be magnanimous about his efforts, because he invariably selects no-hopers such as the cute but deadly dull counter girl (Kate Krieger) at a local yogurt shop: clearly no threat.

Eventually, though, Jesse does slide into a serious new relationship, with Veronica (Rebecca Dayan), a woman he dated casually a few months earlier. They bump into each other again in a bookstore, and Celeste’s radar pings: This won’t be one of Jesse’s casual dates. Just like that, Celeste’s carefully constructed outer shell crumbles, and her inner shrew comes shrieking to the surface.

And we wonder how we ever could have admired her … or how Jesse ever could have fallen in love with her. Or whether she even deserves to be loved.

Jones, a personable actress with superb comic timing, has paid her dues on TV shows such as “Boston Public,” “Unhitched” and “The Office.” More recently, she has turned in small but memorable supporting performances in films such as “I Love You, Man,” “The Social Network” and “The Big Year.” She projects a perky, captivating blend of intelligence and understated sensuality; she’d definitely be the most engaging guest at a dinner party.

Based on this impressive scripting debut, she’s also a savvy writer with a perceptive ear for authentic dialogue and relationship angst.

Samberg, a longtime “Saturday Night Live” regular too frequently trolling in big-screen junk like “Hot Rod,” “What’s Your Number” and “That’s My Boy,” is a pleasant surprise here; I hope he makes wise use of this breakthrough role. We may not wholly approve of Jesse’s repeated failure to embrace responsible behavior, but we sympathize with him; he’s a nice guy trying to do the right thing. Like many of today’s twentysomethings, he simply needs to be pushed out of the nest.

Graynor, another talented young actress on a well-deserved rise, does marvelous things with her slow takes and looks of stunned disbelief, the latter often prompted by Celeste’s increasingly erratic behavior. Chris Messina, recently seen as the perplexed brother in “Ruby Sparks,” has an equally engaging role here as Paul, a guy who meets Celeste in a yoga class and tries — a bit too glibly — to kick off a relationship.

Emma Roberts delivers a strong performance as Riley, a sulky pop star-of-the-moment who has hired Celeste and Scott’s company to manage her image. At first blush, Riley seems oblivious … but she isn’t stupid, as Celeste unfairly (but typically) assumes. This particular character arc is delightful, because the two women initially loathe each other, with Riley even nailing Celeste with the insightful accusation of “contempt before investigation.”

But things change, and Riley eventually proves instrumental in Celeste’s awkward efforts to find her way back to personhood. That’s the core issue, of course: whether Celeste can rise above her self-absorbed persecution complex and become, well, likable.

Director Lee Toland Krieger paces his film well, often cleverly playing with our expectations. He also has the wisdom to resist the uber-tight close-ups that often mar this sort of story; he trusts his cast members to deliver the goods in gentler two-shots.

And I love the way co-scripters Jones and McCormack bring their narrative full circle, with some deft parallel structure in a final scene that echoes an earlier moment.

One large complaint, though: As was the case with Greta Gerwig’s character in “Lola Versus,” Jones’ Celeste spends far too much time indulging in recreational — or dispirited — drug and alcohol binging. It’s excessive to the point of medical concern, and therefore quite distracting. If this is an accurate portrayal of Generation Next, they’ll all lose their livers before turning 40.

Substance abuse issues aside, “Celeste and Jesse Forever” is engaging, frequently funny and often heartbreaking. Jones and McCormack concoct an emotional roller coaster ride with plenty of bumps, but that’s an accurate reflection of our real world. Relationships can be messy, particularly when those involved are in different places at different times.

Sometimes, sadly, love just isn’t enough.

— Read more of Derrick Bang’s film criticism at derrickbang.blogspot.com. Comment on this review at www.davisenterprise.com

“Ruby Sparks”

Four stars

Starring: Paul Dano, Zoe Kazan, Chris Messina, Annette Bening, Antonio Banderas, Steve Coogan, Elliot Gould, Alia Shawkat

Fresh, provocative concepts are one of cinema’s great treasures: unexpected delights — often in quiet, unassuming packages — that catch our fancy because they deserve to.

They’re usually script-driven, sometimes a debut screenplay by a young actor flying beneath the radar … but not for long. Think of Sylvester Stallone, stubbornly shepherding 1976’s “Rocky” to the big screen as a starring vehicle for himself. Matt Damon and Ben Affleck, and 1997’s “Good Will Hunting.” Sofia Coppola, and 2003’s “Lost in Translation” (not her first script, but certainly the Academy Award-winning effort that made her career). Michael Arndt, and 2006’s “Little Miss Sunshine.”

The latter also marked the directorial debut of Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris, a filmmaking team who cut their teeth on music videos and the MTV series “The Cutting Edge” before turning their deliciously quirky sensibilities to full-length features. They’re obviously selective, having waited six years before embarking on their sophomore effort.

And while “Ruby Sparks” certainly benefits from their capable guidance, this wonderfully idiosyncratic charmer will be immortalized as the film that transformed Zoe Kazan from a little-known young actress — you might remember her from supporting roles in 2008’s “Revolutionary Road” and 2009’s “It’s Complicated” — to a multi-hyphenate: star, writer and producer.

“Ruby Sparks” is Kazan’s tart, unapologetically preposterous update of the ancient Greek “Pygmalion” myth, which concerned a sculptor who fell in love with a statue he created, after it came to life. George Bernard Shaw turned this concept into a 1912 play that eventually begat the acclaimed 1956 Broadway musical “My Fair Lady,” which has remained famous — as a film and stage production — ever since.

In Kazan’s hands, the sculptor becomes novelist Calvin Weir-Fields (Paul Dano), a former literary wunderkind who sold his acclaimed first novel while still a teenager. But like other first-time author celebrities before him — Margaret Mitchell, J.D. Salinger and Harper Lee come to mind — the subsequent fame has proved stifling and artistically crippling. Now, a full decade later, Calvin still rides on the fame of his debut book, but he hasn’t been able to write anything new.

His brother, Harry (Chris Messina), figures that everything would get better if Calvin could move beyond the still-festering break-up of a longtime relationship, by dating again. Oddly, though, Calvin’s dreams have been pleasantly invaded by a personable young woman who first appears, missing one shoe, as a back-lit apparition on a beach. She continues to pop up when he sleeps, her presence becoming more tangible. More in self-defense than anything else, Calvin starts to write about this young woman, both recording his dreams and layering her with back-story and character traits.

Including a name: Ruby Sparks.

Novelists often discuss this very phenomenon: the enchanting allure of creating characters who become so real that they seem to leap off the page. In Calvin’s case, this is precisely what happens: He descends the stairs of his luxurious Hollywood Hills home one otherwise ordinary morning, to find Ruby (Kazan) asking if he’d like breakfast.

Thus far, Dano has held our attention as a bruised, socially inept and mildly idiosyncratic recluse: a guy with no friends, who’s more comfortable with his books than with the folks next door. What happens in the next 10 minutes is the make or break point for the rest of this film, as Calvin struggles with the ludicrous insanity of what seems to have happened.

Kazan (the writer) doesn’t shy from the absurdity of it all; she simply plunges forward and demands that we accept the impossible, just as Calvin insists that Harry do the same. Dano is note-perfect during this brief transitional stage — his efforts to evade Ruby in his own home are hilarious — and, rather quickly, we simply go with it. Why not?

And how could Calvin resist? Ruby is the epitome of his frustrated, yearning imagination; she can’t help but be the living, breathing personification of his ideal soul-mate. And, in truth, Kazan (the actress) imbues Ruby with a giddy, irresistible effervescence: She’s charismatic, appealingly flawed — bad taste in men, up to this point — and attuned to Calvin’s every mood.

Calvin adores her; she, in turn, mirrors that love. Everything is perfect.

For a time.

Novelists also discuss another phenomenon: the character who refuses to move in intended directions according to a pre-planned plot, who exerts a will of her own and behaves the way she desires, thank you very much. And so it is with Ruby, who eventually begins to transcend the details Calvin thought to grant her.

What happens next … ah, but that would be telling.

Dano and Kazan share marvelous chemistry: no surprise, since they’ve been an off-camera couple for five years. And while real-life couples sometimes don’t display the all-essential, meet-cute spontaneity of fictional on-screen lovers, Dano and Kazan — no doubt with help from directors Dayton and Faris — obviously worked their way around that issue. They share the necessary magic and, ah, radiant sparks; their antics — particularly early on, during montages set to French pop anthems such as “Ça plane pour moi” — are deliriously, impishly romantic.

Messina successfully navigates a very difficult and delicate role as Harry, the one person taken into Calvin’s confidence, who knows about Ruby’s actual origins. Harry becomes our surrogate: the cynical, dubious guy who initially believes that his brother needs to be committed, but then is forced to acknowledge the evidence of his own senses. Messina also delivers his barbed one-liners with panache, as Harry struggles to re-define his entire understanding of God’s universe.

Progressing through the buoyant introduction and increasingly unsettling second act, we simply can’t imagine where Kazan’s script will take us … although we also can’t shake the disturbing feeling that events will spiral out of control, and in the worst possible way. Regardless of such concerns, though, we’re truly, madly and deeply hooked, probably from the moment we meet Calvin, and certainly from the point Ruby enters his life.

Kazan’s screenplay is witty, clever, occasionally snarky and unerringly perceptive in its analysis of relationships, and how they’re sustained … or not. On top of which, she uncorks a final scene — two deft lines of dialogue — that is every bit as memorably exquisite as Shirley MacLaine’s insistence that Jack Lemmon “Shut up and deal,” as “The Apartment” concludes. No small feat, that.

Like “Little Miss Sunshine,” though, “Ruby Sparks” — however delightful — is a “small” film that may not bear the weight of the media tsunami destined to overwhelm it. Do yourself a favor: See it now, quickly, before the hype raises expectations too high.

— Read more of Derrick Bang’s film criticism at derrickbang.blogspot.com. Comment on this review at www.davisenterprise.com