“Snitch”

3.5 stars

Starring: Dwayne Johnson, Barry Pepper, Susan Sarandon, Jon Bernthal, Michael Kenneth Williams, Rafi Gavron, Melina Kanakaredes, Nadine Velazquez, Benjamin Bratt

Rating: PG-13, for violence and drug content

Dwayne Johnson adds dramatic heft to this ruthless cautionary tale

By Derrick Bang
Enterprise film critic

Despite what’s suggested by the publicity art, “Snitch” is not another shallow action flick, but instead a grim, thoughtful and quite tense drama about an honest man’s foolish and extremely dangerous descent into the forbidding world of narco-trafficking.

It’s also an impressive step forward for star Dwayne Johnson, mostly known until now for, well, shallow action flicks. Until this moment, his notion of “playing against type” meant silly comedies and family-friendly adventures along the lines of “Tooth Fairy” and “Journey 2: The Mysterious Island.” His work here is in another league entirely, demonstrating acting chops that few would have expected.

Don’t expect Johnson to bust heads and wreak havoc, the way he has done since TV wrestling shows granted access to the likes of “The Scorpion King” and the remake of “Walking Tall.” Writers Justin Haythe and Ric Roman Waugh go for credible drama here, and while the results certainly fall short of, say, “Traffic,” Waugh — also serving as director — ably delivers a believable cautionary tale along the lines of “Midnight Express.”

Life-changing disaster arrives in the blink of an eye, as this film begins, when 18-year-old Jason (Rafi Gavron) foolishly accepts delivery of a package, as a “favor” to a friend, knowing full well that the box is filled with illicit drugs. The thing is, Jason never quite agrees to this scheme, but he does sign for the package. And then he opens it, at which point he’s busted in a police sting.

The “friend” rolls over on him immediately, and suddenly Jason faces a mandatory minimum sentence of 10 years in a federal prison. His only avenue toward earlier release would involve deliberately setting up other friends and classmates, perhaps even fabricating evidence — against people he’s not even sure do drugs — and that’s an act of betrayal he’s not willing to commit.

Jason’s estranged father, John (Johnson), is beside himself. Although long divorced from Jason’s mother, Sylvie (Melina Kanakaredes), John still cares deeply for his son. He’s also a respected and well-connected businessman in his American heartland community — with Shreveport, La., standing in for an unspecified Missouri city — and thus secures a meeting with U.S. Attorney Joanne Keeghan (Susan Sarandon, sublime as always), an ambitious political animal known as the “dragon lady” by cops who work with her.

Initially viewing John as little more than a nuisance, Keeghan reflexively points to the quid-pro-quo nature of the mandatory-minimum sentencing laws. (Sarandon delivers this somewhat condescending lecture with just enough smarm to make it sound like a campaign speech … clearly some intentional shading on her part, and on the director’s.) With Jason unwilling to “play ball,” she insists, her hands are tied.

Desperate for alternatives, John rashly offers to ferret out some drug dealers himself, a gesture immediately viewed with considerable concern by veteran DEA agent Billy Cooper (Barry Pepper, excellent in this strong supporting role). Smelling possible, publicity-laden opportunity — with no risk to her own career — Keeghan accepts this proposal.

After all, John is the perfect plant: He’s an established entrepreneur who runs a trucking firm, a business model known to be threatened in this uncertain economy. Long-haul semis are an ideal cover for drug smuggling, which would make John attractive to … whomever he’s able to find and persuade.

Thing is, though, John isn’t merely a divorced father trying to repair a too-long-dormant relationship with his near-adult son. He’s also second-time married, with a devoted wife (Nadine Velazquez, as Annalisa) and young daughter: a guy with far too much to lose. And that’s the rub: Given this film’s ominous, gritty atmosphere, we know full well that once John embarks on this path, there’s no going back.

And, quite likely, no fairy-tale outcome.

Worse yet, John doesn’t merely endanger himself and his own two families. Wanting access to the criminal underworld, he also involves one of his employees: Daniel (Jon Bernthal), an ex-con and two-time loser who is genuinely trying to put his life back on track, at least long enough to get his own family out of a gang-infested neighborhood before his young son is seduced into joining it.

Bernthal brings fascinating duality to his character. We feel for him even more than John, in part because Daniel genuinely understands the stakes, having escaped “the life” with the best of intentions. John buys Daniel’s participation with a fat wad of cash, of course failing to mention the actual circumstances of this scheme.

And Daniel can’t help himself. Although trying to better himself, he’s still a hard, dangerous man in his own right … and that much money is irresistible to somebody trying to transcend his circumstances. His eventual surrender — his reluctant willingness to help John — is a genuinely heartbreaking moment.

Nor will it be the last.

Waugh and Haythe’s script is taut, tense and rigorously real-world. This isn’t a cartoon, where heroes dodge hails of gunfire. People who get shot, die; beatings result in hospitalization. John very nearly gets killed during his initial, half-assed attempt to infiltrate the bad part of town.

I’m also fascinated by the parallel structure that Waugh and Haythe work into their story, notably with respect to the children various men struggle to protect. John wants to free his son from prison, while also being mindful of the fresh danger being introduced to his second family. Daniel prays for the means to keep his son, more or less the same age as John’s daughter, from the influence of gangbangers.

And, on the other end of the spectrum, we note that drug cartel oligarch Juan Carlos “El Tope” Pintera (Benjamin Bratt, quietly lethal), enjoying an aristocratic life in the best part of town, dotes on his own, similarly little boy.

Waugh never strays from this story’s coldly authentic atmosphere, even during a climactic confrontation that exposes the full extent of his hero’s vulnerability. Johnson, in turn, brings considerable heft to his ordinary-guy character; his stand-out scene comes during a visiting-hours session with his son, when John realizes that Jason has been assaulted … and we see, in Johnson’s eyes, the horrible implications that could be concealed within that word.

Gavron is just as good here: Jason’s terrified, shamed expression, in turn, offers proof of John’s worst fears.

This film claims, as it opens, to be “inspired by true events,” in this case a January 1999 PBS “Frontline” piece — also titled “Snitch” — that profiled people given the Hobson’s choice of becoming informants or going to jail. The news story, no surprise, focused on how mandatory minimum sentencing and conspiracy provisions have, in many cases, rewarded the guiltiest and punished the less guilty (or more naïve).

Pretentions toward real-world authenticity often are greeted by skeptical smirks these days, but Waugh and Haythe deserve considerable credit for effectively straddling the line. Clearly, these are fictitious characters navigating a writer’s concept of actual fact, but at the same time we recognize the genuine stakes involved, and understand the object lessons at play.

Bottom line: We are well advised to avoid getting caught in this particular set of circumstances.

Not a bad take-home, for a modest little B-drama.

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

“Cloud Atlas”

3.5 stars

Starring: Tom Hanks, Halle Berry, Jim Broadbent, Doona Bae, Ben Whishaw, Hugo Weaving, Jim Sturgess, James D’Arcy, Susan Sarandon, Keith David

Rating: R, for violence, profanity, nudity, sexuality, drug use and often disturbing dramatic intensity

Shirley MacLaine will adore this film, and I’m sure she already has done her part to goose sales of David Mitchell’s source novel.

Rarely has the interconnectivity of past lives been conveyed so cleverly on screen, and certainly never before with such audacious snap. Even if you snicker at the premise and the multiple casting gimmick — about which, more later — it’s impossible to deny the skill with which these half-dozen interlinked stories unfold.

Despite an indulgent length of nearly three hours, directors Tom Tykwer, Andy Wachowski and Lana Wachowski maintain an impressive degree of suspense and momentum, layering cliff-hanger upon cliff-hanger. We can’t help being caught up in the vastness of this sweeping fantasy, or the intimacy of its individual story lines.

And yet, when all is done and the screen fades to black, it seems like a lot of fuss and bother about very little.

The interlaced narratives are driven, to a degree, by the shared memory of a piece of music: the Cloud Atlas Sextet, a symphony written by young ne’er-do-well Robert Frobisher (Ben Whishaw), during his 1936 stint as amanuensis to cranky old composer Vyvyan Ayrs (Jim Broadbent), years beyond his prime. The spirit of this music — actually composed by Tykwer and score collaborators Johnny Klimek and Reinhold Heil — imbues these and all other characters, and the theme itself bridges events from one time period to the next.

A century earlier, in 1849, idealistic San Francisco attorney Adam Ewing (Jim Sturgess) has traveled to the Pacific Islands on behalf of his wealthy father-in-law, to obtain a slave-trading contract with a sanctimonious plantation owner (Hugh Grant). The sea voyage home proves both perilous and enlightening: Ewing contracts a tropical disease that requires the ministrations of the ship’s doctor (Tom Hanks), and confinement to a cabin below decks … where the young attorney finds a stowaway slave (David Gyasi, as Autua).

With the intelligent and resourceful Autua giving a face to the barbarism of slavery, Adam finds himself caught between professional obligations and awakening moral clarity.

In 1973 San Francisco, crusading journalist Luisa Rey (Halle Berry) gets briefly stuck in an elevator with elderly physicist Rufus Sixsmith (James D’Arcy), who — as a young man — is the lover to whom Frobisher writes impassioned letters. The aging Sixsmith is troubled; Luisa therefore isn’t surprised when he calls, late one night, and begs for an interview.

Just that quickly, Luisa begins to unravel evidence of corporate corruption at a nuclear power plant: a level of malfeasance on a horrific scale, orchestrated by shadowy figures willing to silence potential whistle-blowers by any means necessary.

In 2012 England, small-time publisher Timothy Cavendish (Broadbent again) achieves fleeting financial success with the vanity biography of a Scottish gangster. Unfortunately, Cavendish’s new-found wealth attracts the wrong sort of attention, which prompts him to seek help from his brother … but relying on sibling devotion proves ill-advised. Cavendish’s “secure” bolt-hole turns out to be a special sort of nursing facility: an apparently benign old-folks home that’s actually a maximum-security lockdown overseen by a sadistic staff.

As depicted with an exaggerated level of whimsy straight out of an episode of the 1960s British TV series “The Avengers,” Cavendish finds that his sanctuary is so secure that even he can’t escape it.

In 2144 Neo Seoul, we’re introduced to Sonmi-451 (Doona Bae), a “fabricant” genetically engineered as a restaurant server to the jaded aristocrats who manage this Orwellian society. Although designed to be compliant, Sonmi-451’s awareness and curiosity are aroused, first by a sister fabricant, and then by a mysterious revolutionary who orchestrates her escape from the bleak, brutal routine of her day-to-day existence.

But then what? Although hesitantly allowing herself to embrace love, devotion and the range of emotions normally restricted to the aristocratic “purebloods,” Sonmi-451 eventually learns that her freedom has been sought for a reason: a potentially noble calling that she may not have the courage to embrace.

Finally, two centuries further along, with civilization’s remnants clinging to life after some sort of planetary cataclysm, we meet Zachry (Hanks again), a goatherd who spends each day in mortal terror of the ravaging cannibals that inhabit the surrounding woods. The local routine is interrupted by the arrival of Meronym (Berry again), an emissary of an advanced, surviving human community elsewhere on the globe. She seeks something reputedly concealed near Zachry’s village, in a mountainous region deemed forbidden.

Although each of these six narratives is compelling, we’re drawn most to Berry’s resourceful journalist — perhaps because her story line resonates with current socio-political struggles — and to Sonmi-451’s spiritual growth, because Bae is such a compelling actress.

Neo-Seoul represents a human future gone very, very bad: a cruel, even more corrupt and soulless society than what was depicted in “Blade Runner.” Against this horrific backdrop, Bae’s Sonmi-451 dazzles because of her initial innocence and eventual blossoming. Bae moves and gestures with a dancer’s balletic grace, suggesting a not-quite-human oddness that evokes pleasant memories of other classic cinematic simulacrums, from Jeff Bridges (“Starman”) to Jude Law (“AI”). She’s utterly captivating, and she powers this story line.

That, and its James Bondian overtones. This is, after all, a Wachowski brothers production; it wouldn’t be complete without furious gunplay and aggressive chase scenes, all set against a disturbing futuristic dystopia.

It also could be that we’re drawn so thoroughly to Berry’s Luisa Rey because the actress can emote as her natural self, absent heavy makeup. Luisa’s story line also is stylized in the manner of a 1970s blaxploitation thriller, which perhaps makes it the most accessible of these various narratives.

Similarly, we identify strongly with Sonmi-451’s plight because Bae also is free of the heavy makeup that allows her to play other, smaller roles in the parallel narratives. The worst decision: giving her freckles and “westernizing” her, as the 19th century Ewing’s wife.

Then again, that’s probably no different than “easternizing” Sturgess so he can play Hae-Joo Chang, the revolutionary who comes to Sonmi-451’s rescue; or making Hanks the Scottish thug whose book Cavendish publishes; or — and this really is a ludicrous stretch — making Weaving the domineering Nurse Noakes.

The point: These multiple, makeup-driven roles are distracting. I understand the point behind some of them — as a means to depict the manner in which a spirit flows from one body to the next — but the gimmick calls too much attention to itself, and pulls us out of the story.

Various casual references and events link these six narratives; the number 6 itself pops up repeatedly. Poor, trapped Cavendish describes his odd incarceration in a book that eventually is made into a film, a portion of which helps inspire Sonmi-451, a century later. Rufus Sixsmith physically bridges the 1936 and 1973 events; and Sonmi-451’s actions resonate in Zachry’s post-apocalyptic world.

Even a frantic warning by Cavendish, recalling a notorious 1970s science-fiction film, has unsettling implications.

Then again, Adam Ewing’s sea voyage and Luisa Rey’s journalistic quest seem only weakly linked to the other narratives.

The film’s production design is excellent, keeping both Hugh Bateup and Uli Hanisch quite busy: Whether 19th century slave ship, Scottish estate, 20th century nuclear power facility or eye-popping futuristic Neo Seoul, we’re thoroughly, persuasively immersed in each setting. Editor Alexander Berner also does superb work, balancing all these narratives, accelerating or stretching our “visits” to each timeline as events approach or recede from one crisis to the next.

I find it both amusing and ironic that the Wachowskis, responsible for some of Hollywood’s most bloated and self-indulgent fantasies (“Speed Racer,” the second and third “Matrix” entries) would team up with Tykwer, who brought us one of the most economical thrillers ever made (the 81-minute “Run Lola Run”). Then again, this creative marriage appears to have worked; although “Cloud Atlas” runs 172 minutes, our interest rarely flags.

Even so, the outcome feels anticlimactic: a shrugging “Oh, OK, that’s interesting,” as opposed to the sort of breathtaking, gotta-watch-that-again exhilaration prompted by the audacious final moments of, say, “2001: A Space Odyssey” or “The Sixth Sense.”

“Cloud Atlas” is an investment, and we trust the filmmakers to make the destination worth the ambitious journey. Sadly, the emotional return is something of a letdown.

— Read more of Derrick Bang’s film criticism at derrickbang.blogspot.com

“Arbitrage”

Four stars

Starring: Richard Gere, Susan Sarandon, Tim Roth, Brit Marling, Nate Parker, Laetitia Casta, Stuart Margolin

Rating: R, for profanity and brief drug use

Alfred Hitchcock was famous for this trick.

Deranged Robert Walker, intended to plant incriminating evidence — a cigarette lighter — to unjustly implicate Farley Granger in a murder, accidentally drops the item into a storm drain while nearing the scene of the crime. We viewers should be delighted; if Walker loses the lighter, then Granger triumphs: Good wins out over evil.

And yet, perversely, as Walker stuffs his arm through the grate during this climactic scene in “Strangers on a Train,” his fingers not quite able to reach the lighter, we’re on the edge of our seats … wanting him to succeed.

In writer/director Nicholas Jarecki’s richly nuanced “Arbitrage,” uber-wealthy New York hedge fund magnate Robert Miller (Richard Gere) cheats on his wife, and has embezzled funds in order to conceal a $420 million shortfall that would derail the sale of his company to a bank. Just to dig the hole deeper, he flees the scene of a road accident in order to evade responsibility.

Make no mistake: Miller is a bad guy … a smug, self-serving reprobate at best, and a conniving, soulless, law-breaking bastard at worst. And still, almost against our wills, we cheer him on, hoping that he’ll somehow keep all these tottering plates spinning, and somehow extricate himself from this ever-widening disaster of his own creation.

Jarecki’s clever premise and archly savvy script deserve considerable credit, as does Gere, giving the performance of his often under-appreciated career. But he’s not the only person tearing up the screen; solid supporting performances also are turned in by Susan Sarandon, Brit Marling, Tim Roth and young Nate Parker.

We’re introduced to Miller on his 60th birthday, celebrated at home while surrounded by his wife (Sarandon, as Ellen), his grown children — Brooke (Marling) and Peter (Austin Lysy), both employees at their father’s firm — and their families. Miller waxes poetically about this generational entourage being his “greatest achievement,” an apparently uncharacteristic sentiment that sets off Brooke’s radar; her father, she knows, gets maudlin only when business is going badly.

And, indeed, that’s the case. The pending company sale hinges on a rigged audit that will conceal the cooked books, and — worse yet — the buyer keeps ducking negotiation meetings, instead sending flunkies. Might he know something?

The crocodile nature of Miller’s schmaltzy tears becomes apparent when he prematurely abandons his own party — claiming the call of “work at the office” — in order to celebrate the event more quietly with girlfriend Julie Côte (Laetitia Casta). She’s a French art dealer looking to establish her own creative career; to that end, Miller has financed a gallery and even concealed her apartment on his company’s books.

Back at the office — for real — Brooke has uncovered disturbing evidence of financial chicanery. Ever the loyal daughter, she shares this discovery with her father, lacking the slightest suspicion that he’d be the source of what seems to be fraud.

Then comes the tragic vehicular accident, from which Miller stumbles away, unseen. Or so he hopes. His loyal but cautionary lawyer (Stuart Margolin, also delivering a well modulated performance) warns that Miller will have overlooked “at least 50 things,” any one of which could result in arrest, trial and a media circus … which, naturally, would derail the pending company sale. Miller chooses to remain quiet.

But the cop who catches the case (Roth, as Detective Bryer) is imaginative, savvy and tenacious; he also has good instincts. From their first “polite” meeting — a masterpiece of innuendo and veiled threat, and a superb verbal duel by both actors — Bryer knows that Miller fled the accident and abandoned a victim. Better yet, Bryer knows precisely how to apply pressure, and whom best to squeeze.

That would be Jimmy Grant (Parker), a young man with an intriguing tie to Miller’s past. We eventually learn the circumstances, but initially see only that Miller regards Jimmy as the one honorable individual in his life: a rather delectable irony. Surrounded by fat-cat lawyers and high-profile movers and shakers — in other words, his own kind — Miller prefers to trust a street kid from a dodgy part of the city.

But because Jimmy doesn’t belong to Miller’s rarefied universe, this young man is desperately, painfully vulnerable … and so we begin to wonder if Miller’s many moral failings will include throwing this loyal lamb to the wolves, in order to save his own skin.

Gere has long been dogged by accusations that his limited acting chops bring down otherwise solid dramas, but that never has been fair. True, his range is narrow, and he has been involved in more than his share of stinkers (“King David,” “First Knight,” “Red Corner” and “The Mothman Prophecies,” among others). But Gere also is sensational in the right role, and has electrified the screen in films ranging from “American Gigolo” and “An Officer and a Gentleman” to “Primal Fear” and “Chicago.”

He’s at his best playing shady, smarmy alpha males who arrogantly believe they can fool, cheat or otherwise end-run their perceived inferiors; we love to watch him inhabit such characters, because it’s so much fun when they get caught. Gere’s performance here is a benchmark for all such parts, to be placed alongside Michael Douglas’ work in “Wall Street” (the first one, not the sequel).

Roth, an equally striking on-camera presence, gives as good as he gets; his verbal sparring with Gere is the stuff of memorable cinema. Roth also scores well in a subtler part, because Jarecki’s script quickly forces us to confront a common moral quandary: Is it permissible to behave a “little bit” badly, in pursuit of a nobler goal?

And if the answer is a hesitant yes, are the good guys really any better than the bad guys?

Marling, a rising multi-hyphenate best known for co-scripting little films in which she also stars (“Another Earth,” “Sound of My Voice”), makes Brooke the character with whom we most easily empathize: an intelligent, ethical woman whom we can count on to do the right thing. Parker, conversely, is the feisty yet wholly overwhelmed innocent: the one we desperately hope won’t drown in this rising tide of bad behavior.

Jarecki comes to us with modest prior credits: TV commercials, music videos, a short film and co-authorship of the script to 2008’s “The Informers,” a complex, multi-strand — and failed — roundelay drama akin to the Academy Award-winning “Crash.” I’ve no idea how that thin résumé allowed him to persuade anybody to finance “Arbitrage,” but I’m grateful to all the folks who gave the green light; this is smooth, accomplished scripting and filmmaking.

As the saying goes, I can’t wait to see what Jarecki does next.

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

STARRING: Frank Langella, Susan Sarandon, Peter Sarsgaard, James Marsden, Liv Tyler, Jeremy Strong, Jeremy Sisto

By Derrick Bang
Enterprise film critic

Science fiction isn’t solely devoted to opulent spaceship battles and grim post-apocalyptic survival sagas, despite Hollywood’s best efforts to suggest as much.

Some of our best cinema sci-fi has been much quieter and more deeply moving: gentle parables that employ only modest futuristic touches in order to confront universal truths — often uncomfortable ones — about the human condition.

These days, as aging baby boomers contemplate the frightening implications of mental and/or physical deterioration, we’re seeing a corresponding focus on gerontology issues. Science fiction has responded in kind.

“Robot & Frank” is a whimsical, charming and poignant character study: a film school short expanded into a full-length feature that enchanted this year’s Sundance Film Festival audience and went home with the Alfred P. Sloan Feature Film Prize. The tone of Christopher D. Ford’s original script — his first big-screen effort — feels very much like that of a Ray Bradbury story: thoughtful, occasionally poetic and willing to tackle unsettling topics.

But this slice of elder life is disarmingly cloaked in the trappings of a mild-mannered comedy, and the story’s more serious elements sneak up on us. Director Jake Schreier, also making an impressive feature film debut, paces the narrative quite skillfully; he also draws persuasive performances from his cast members, most notably star Frank Langella.

The setting is “the near future” in the upstate New York community of Cold Spring. Frank (Langella) lives alone in an increasingly cluttered home that is nestled in the woods, a comfortable walk from town. Frank’s grown children, Hunter (James Marsden) and Madison (Liv Tyler), have grown worried about his apparent inability to care for himself; his fading memory also plays tricks on him, such as an ongoing desire to dine at a long-absent local restaurant.

Frank’s one regular joy comes from the walking trips he takes to the Cold Spring Library, where he exchanges oft-read books while chatting with the librarian, Jennifer (Susan Sarandon). She is the facility’s sole remaining human employee — filing duties and record-keeping having been embraced by computers and ambulatory machines — and Frank is pretty much the building’s only visitor.

Hunter makes time-consuming weekly drives to check on his father, more out of a feeling of responsibility than any genuine desire to spend time together; we sense efforts to surmount mild estrangement, the cause for which eventually becomes clear. Hunter, increasingly concerned by what he finds each week, threatens placement in a senior care facility; Frank angrily resists.

So Hunter compromises by gifting his father with a walking, talking humanoid robot that has been programmed to improve the old man’s physical and mental health. Stung by this presumptuousness, Frank bitterly resents the hovering presence of this mechanical nanny, which now micro-manages his every move, from strict, healthier diets to enforced regular waking and sleeping hours.

This arrangement seems doomed to failure, until Frank discovers that his new companion’s programming is somewhat light on ethics. Although the robot understands concepts such as theft, it has no inherent objections to such behavior. And if Frank becomes newly invigorated by this discovery, well, so much the better.

You see, Frank is a “retired” cat burglar, long chafing at his inability to continue the quite exciting, high-stakes career that he remembers so vividly. The robot has physical skills that Frank’s old fingers now fumble, not to mention additional abilities — such as rapidly trying all possible values of a combination lock — that would require prohibitive amounts of time for a human being.

And thus a new — and quite unlikely — criminal team is born.

Langella, for years an under-appreciated actor only now receiving proper recognition for a long and remarkably varied career that recently brought him an Academy Award nomination for 2008’s “Frost/Nixon,” delivers a precise, delicately nuanced performance. His expressive features convey a wealth of emotions, from stubborn petulance to sorrow, embarrassment and the genuine fear that he may have become as obsolete as the books in the town library.

Watch for the flicker of interest — so marvelously subtle, at first — as Frank learns of his new companion’s moral shortcomings.

Tyler breezes into this story when the globe-trotting Madison — a political activist with rather strong views on the subject of robot helpers — decides to visit and care for Frank herself. It’s a noble gesture, but Madison can’t begin to cope with the situation; Tyler deftly conveys her character’s warring, guilt-laden emotions.

Marsden has a somewhat tougher role, because Hunter lacks the comfortable relationship that his sister shares with their father. Hunter is more apt to act according to his own definition of a “best” solution, rather than working with Frank toward a mutually agreeable goal. And yet, even as a successful adult with a family of his own, Hunter stills recalls being the little boy who worshiped his dad.

Sarandon, as always, is an effervescent revelation. Jennifer is a patient woman with an obvious fondness for Frank, and of course we wonder if anything will come of that.

Peter Sarsgaard supplies the robot’s voice, and longtime movie buffs will blink more than once, because the calm, carefully modulated tones strongly echo HAL, from 1968’s “2001: A Space Odyssey.” Fortunately, Sarsgaard inhabits a far more benevolent artificial construct … and one whose fate soon concerns us quite deeply.

Because that, too, is a heavy topic in Schreier’s film. The agony of encroaching senility is uppermost — the potential loss of a once-vibrant man, cast aside much like Jennifer’s cherished books — but Ford’s screenplay also contemplates the degree to which a robotic being can blossom from intrusive pest to valued friend.

People, particularly lonely people, have long valued their strong bonds with pet cats and dogs. In our probable brave new world, is it so difficult to imagine the same thing happening with mechanical companions? Briefs clips of actual robots — some clearly designed to assist the elderly — accompany this film’s closing credits, and they lend weight to all such questions.

Steven Spielberg capably covered this territory with 2001’s “A.I. Artificial Intelligence,” his contemplative and often quite disturbing adaptation of Brian Aldiss’ short story, “Supertoys Last All Summer Long.” Schreier and Ford’s new film makes an excellent, if less flashy, companion piece: a “what if” tale that encourages us to acknowledge some painful, real-world truths.

And that’s the mark of a truly successful science-fiction story.

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