Worth the hype, Iron Man (rated PG-13 for some intense sequences of sci-fi action and violence, as well as a brief sexual situation and language) is an imposing addition to Marvel’s big-screen superheroes. Tony Stark (Robert Downey, Jr.) is a playboy and the grown-up whizkid head of Stark Industries, a weapons manufacturing company started by his father.

After an ambush in the Afghani desert, he’s holed up in a cave for three months, ostensibly building a missile for his captor. Upon his escape, having discovered that the weapons he’s built to defend his country are being placed directly in the hands of the bad guys, he vows to reform his company and starts tinkering in the basement. Meanwhile, his business partner Obadiah Stone (Jeff Bridges) is out trying to save the company . . . or is he?

Iron Man is certainly backed by some political undertones. The original comic book placed Stark’s saga against the Vietnam War, but it’s been easily updated for today; these familiar terrorists hide out in caves and prey on innocent villagers. Stark Industries’ logo bears a striking resemblance to that of Lockheed Martin. Tony’s change of heart doesn’t equal simple pacifism, but rather a desire to come up with something to save the innocent while punishing the bad guys.

Director John Favreau has pulled together a tour de force film, equal parts adventure and drama, in which stuff blows up with impressively satisfying force. Robert Downey, Jr. is, simply put, brilliant - rather than succumb to the melodrama that often pops up in this genre, Downey mumbles his way around screen, rarely taking his wealth or braininess too seriously, but is downright frightening when he is doing what he feels is right. He doesn’t have any particularly magical superpowers. All of his clout lies in his wealth, brains, charm, as well as his canny assistant Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow) and a handful of near-future technologies.

Hollywood is uncannily good at accidentally making films with similar plot elements at the same time; witness both the two Truman Capote biopics and the two magician movies (The Illusionist and The Prestige) in nearly simultaneous production during 2006. Sometimes, however, the clustering is more purposeful, if unintentional – the spate of recent Iraq films illustrate the long-identified principle that when politics are in the picture, the movies tend to bunch up, too.

Now that illegal immigration has resurfaced as a hot topic, filmmakers are taking notice. Two recent films have gingerly approached the topic, choosing to at least partially diffuse the inflammatory nature of the material by focusing on individual stories that, if not based on real stories, certainly could be.

La Misma Luna (Under the Same Moon), an undeniable tear-jerker, is the story of Rosario (Kate del Castillo), a Mexican woman living illegally in Los Angeles and working several housekeeping jobs to earn enough money to apply for citizenship and bring her son, Carlitos (Adrian Alonso), into the United States. Carlitos is tired of waiting for her and decides to take matters into his own hands. From here, it turns into a kind of Homeward Bound remake, as Carlitos crosses the country, runs from the INS, warms the heart of a gruff itinerant laborer (Eugenio Derbez), and looks for his mother. Rosario, in the meantime, struggles with her loneliness and her desire to provide for Carlitos’ future.

The film is equal parts Spanish and English (Ugly Betty’s America Ferrara has a small role as an American college student) and it’s obviously heartfelt. Unfortunately, it’s also sometimes cloyingly sentimental, with a supporting cast of not-quite-three-dimensional characters (the oblivious rich boss, the benevolent café owner, the conniving relatives, the lovable grandmother), and the conclusion calls for suspension of disbelief – not necessarily a bad thing, but if a filmmaker’s goal is to portray the plight of a particular group of people, the last thing they need is for the audience to leave feeling that they’ve seen a fairy story.

The Visitor moves off the west coast and explores a different kind of tale. Directed by Thomas McCarthy (whose earlier work includes The Station Agent), the story mostly avoids the syrupy-ness trap and bucks the ironic bent of the current independent film scene with an earnest, distinctly un-supercilious tale. Walter (Richard Jenkins) is a crotchety college professor living a sterile self-absorbed in suburban Connecticut. Upon arriving in New York City for a conference, he finds a young couple living in his apartment: Tarek (Haaz Sleiman), a Syrian-born drummer, and his Senegalese girlfriend Zainab (Danai Gurira), who sells handmade jewelry in a street market. Initially withdrawn, Walter warms to the couple – victims of a real estate scam - as Tarek shares his love of drumming with him. But when Tarek is arrested for allegedly jumping a subway turnstile, the tale turns to heartbreak, and Tarek’s mother (a stunning Hiam Abbass) comes to New York to search for her son.

Jenkins, who hasn’t done much work as a leading man, turns in a wonderfully nuanced and understated performance; his growth from cold reticence to passionate involvement happens in small gestures and looks. The rest of the cast throws themselves into their roles with aplomb and heart, and the tale’s melancholy conclusion proves more poignant than the happy ending of La Misma Luna.

In contrast to the recent proliferation of war movies, these films also approach a similarly politically divisive topic with some joy and humanity, making them far more delightful to the audience. Instead of painting in broad strokes, they tell intensely individual, humanizing stories that put a face to something you may only read about in the newspaper. Whatever your political beliefs, films such as these are a thoughtful reminder that nobody is simply a statistic.

Wong Kar Wai’s films are most closely related to poetry – nonlinear, dreamy, sumptuous. Rather than making the film’s elements subservient to plot, Wong plays with lighting, color, editing, speed, and sound to cast a mood, allowing the audience to intuit the story, rather than simply tell it to them, and interpreting the adage “show, don’t tell” in his own distinct way. My Blueberry Nights is the internationally acclaimed Hong Kong director’s first English-language film, though his earlier work (including In the Mood for Love and 2046) has garnered a modest but rabid global following.

Elizabeth (Norah Jones), heartbroken and lonely, spends her evenings in a tiny New York café talking and eating blueberry pie with the proprietor, Jeremy (Jude Law), who has his own story of lost love. In an effort to break free of her sadness, Elizabeth travels to Memphis, where she waits tables, tends bar, and catches the tail end of Arnie and SueLynn’s tragic marriage (David Strathairn and Rachel Weisz). In Nevada she meets Leslie (Natalie Portman), a big-talking, high-flying Nevada gambler, before making peace with her past and turning her face toward New York again.

Though Elizabeth’s travels take her across the country and back - on the open road, under hazy bar lights, backlit by neon signs, and in the inky blackness of a New York night – there’s no real pretense at historical or geographic accuracy. Instead, he’s created a dream world, succulent and filled with lovely, sad women, a world in which romance and love ebb and flow slowly and stickily. Jones isn’t a great actress, but she certainly has expressive eyes and a sweet demeanor fitting to her character. In fact, all of Wong’s female actresses look uncannily, attractively alike, in keeping with his fluid fantasy of beauty. Jude Law is merely lovable, but Strathairn stands out against the rest with a heartbreaking performance.

The whole movie doesn’t hang together quite right, but there are enough truly lovely moments to make the rest seem forgivable. My Blueberry Nights isn’t destined to top Wong’s canon or anyone’s best films list, but like a big piece of blueberry pie, it goes down easy and leaves one with a smile.

A trio of neglected lower-class brothers, raised in southern Arkansas, has been taught by their embittered mother to hate their father’s four other sons, who were brought up in comfort and security. Living as adults and relative strangers in the same small town, both sets of brothers are drawn into conflict after their father’s funeral. Both the peaceful and the guilty are dragged into the tragedy – a vengeful give-and-take that doesn’t seem likely to end.

This is the feature debut of writer/director Jeff Nichols – an Arkansas native - and if it’s a harbinger of things to come, Nichols’ career will be worth tracking. Tautly calm, with hints of Flannery O’Connor, Shakespeare, and Cormac McCarthy, the tale moves smoothly and subtly toward the inevitable, never once tipping toward sappily suggesting that the boys are all brothers and should just get along. The dialogue is real and often funny, and the cast, led by the craggily rugged Michael Shannon, is simultaneously understated and inspired.

Because the father’s funeral sparks the story, his specter hovers hazily over the story – though absent, the ambiguity of his character is palpable in nearly every word, decision, action, and conversation. Each man is innately aware of “what has to be done”, not only to protect his family but also to quench his thirst to prove something to his father who, whether through his presence or absence, love or neglect, has taught him how to see the world.

Shotgun Stories is a tale about familial duty, bitterness, and hatred. It’s clear that revenge cannot satisfy the hurts of the past, but the film holds out hope that while old wounds are never fully healed, those who are enemies can still learn to live in peace.

The first thing you have to know when seeing Michel Gondry’s films (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, The Science of Sleep) is that he was out sick the day they sent the junior high memo that growing up means losing your imagination.

And what an endlessly inventive imagination Gondry possesses. He inhabits a world that resembles ours but is a little less rational, a little more playful, with slightly brighter colors. Pretty much anything can happen in his films without surprising the characters. Essentially, he’s retained what we all had when we played princesses or pirates as children. In Eternal Sunshine, people’s memories are erased as a sort of reverse therapy for past loves and losses; in The Science of Sleep, dreams and whimsical fantasies and little handmade stuffed animals fuel a one-sided romance.

His latest (and far more light and cheery) film, Be Kind Rewind (rated PG-13 for some sexual references), sets the latest magical Gondry-land in Passaic, New Jersey – one of the little decaying towns a half hour’s drive in no traffic from New York City. Mike (Mos Def) works at Be Kind Rewind, a thrift/video rental store – of the old variety, no DVDs – owned by Mr. Fletcher (Danny Glover), who’s on vacation. Jerry (Jack Black) is the mechanic living in a trailer across the intersection. When Jerry becomes magnetized and accidentally erases all the tapes in the store, they decide they’ve got to record their own versions of all the films, from Ghost Busters to 2001: A Space Odyssey to Rush Hour 2. As you might imagine, hilarity ensues.

Be Kind Rewind might be a little kooky for many moviegoers. Driving narrative isn’t Gondry’s strong suit, and the story is unashamedly gimmicky. But it’s funny and heartfelt, a tale of a community banding together around art, and for the camcorder generation – those of us who grew up making homemade movies in our backyards – it’s warmly nostalgic.

Hollywood – the neighborhood – is the only district in Los Angeles with specific municipal borders. Hollywood – the movie world – also has rigid, invisible borders for a little club based on looks, charm, and sometimes talent.

But if the 80^th Oscars were any indication, those borders are expanding.

First, independently-produced films are making big waves in Hollywood. This year’s indie darling was Juno, whose screenwriter, Diablo Cody, took home an Oscar for Best Original Screenplay. Other Oscar-nominated indies include The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, The Savages, and I’m Not There. Even many studio films were the work of formerly independent writer/directors, such as Paul Thomas Anderson (There Will Be Blood) and Joel and Ethan Coen (No Country for Old Men).

Some traditional studios have started subsidiary companies to help produce independent films. Indie films bring fresh talent because they often cost less than big-budget Hollywood blockbuster productions, so the folks with the wallets feel more comfortable bankrolling a talented but unknown writer or director. With a tighter budget and without a big studio producer holding the purse strings, the film’s creative team and director has to exhibit extraordinary creative thinking.

Second, the hosting – not just the nominations – showed Hollywood’s expanding borders. Jon Stewart’s comedic talents lie in his ability to recognize the absurd and cheerily knock us all off our pedestals – a talent he happily exercises lampooning politicians from both sides of the aisle each night on his “fake” news show, “The Daily Show.” Stewart, a New Yorker, hasn’t spent much time in Hollywood – his major film credits include Death to Smoochy and Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back – and he has ruffled Academy feathers by hinting at common perceptions of L.A. This year he didn’t hesitate to make fun of the Hollywood club’s self-congratulatory pretentiousness, even as he stood in front of it. Stewart’s got nothing to lose by poking fun at the Academy, and he knows it.

Third, many of the night’s awards went to people who don’t have American accents or speak very little English at all. Some of the wins were predictable: Daniel Day-Lewis (British, for There Will Be Blood), and Javier Bardem (Spain’s first Oscar winner, for No Country for Old Men). Some were surprises: Tilda Swinton (British, for Michael Clayton) and Marion Cotillard (French, for La vie en rose), who is heralded as a sign of a fresh direction in acting. Europeans won all awards in sound editing, costume design, makeup, score, and art direction. Irish Glen Hansard and Czech Marketa Irglova won perhaps the most cheered and most heartwarming award: Best Song for “Falling Slowly” from Once, a low-budget Irish film.

Joel and Ethan Coen were the notable American exceptions, winning big with Best Adapted Screenplay, Best Directors, and Best Picture for No Country for Old Men. But they prefer not to talk very much. (Ethan’s two acceptances speeches: “Thank you.”)

What do the Oscars say about Hollywood? Early reports indicate that this was the least-watched Oscar show ever – early ratings reports are 14% lower than in 2003. So maybe America doesn’t really care about watching what is essentially an industry awards gathering. But the Oscars are for the folks in the Kodak Theater, and they’re seeing an influx of new blood from those outside the mainstream, an injection of different artistry into the medium.

New Yorkers are famously shaped by their city, with its rich cultural resources and light-speed pace. So when Tara Leigh Cobble, Christian singer/songwriter and Tennessee native, felt a pull to move from Nashville to New York City, she resisted at first. New York seemed an impractical and illogical choice.

But what Tara Leigh found, and what all true city-lovers know, is that it’s not the architecture, culture, or scenery that makes a city; it’s the people. She took the step of faith and found herself surrounded by God’s grace and mercy in the experience.

In Crowded Skies: Letters to Manhattan, Tara Leigh recounts the many ways God has taught her about listening and trusting Him since she and New York “got together” - from finding a place to live and a parking spot, to a vibrant, challenging church community, to living rightly with old friends and being His ambassador to new ones.

With honestly, clarity, and chuckle-inducing frankness, Tara Leigh builds on the stories from her previous book (Here’s to Hindsight: Letters to My Former Self) and gives a picture of learning to trust when the path ahead is unclear – whether that’s while on a tour, weathering family emergencies, in a relationship, or walking the streets of Manhattan late at night with the Chrysler tower winking back.

In Bruges (rated R for lots of bad language, strong bloody violence, and some drug use) takes place, unsurprisingly, in the medieval-looking Belgian city of Bruges, where hit men Ray (Colin Farrell) and Ken (Brendan Gleeson) have been sent to hide out and await orders after a successful but tragic hit in London. Seeing the architecture and history of the city provides Ken with continual delights, but Ray just can’t quit bellyaching about the boring place. But as it turns out, idyllic Bruges is not as pastoral as it seems, and the choices Ray and Ken have made are about to catch up with them - in the form of their vengeful boss (Ralph Fiennes).

The film seems almost calculated to offend, and not because of its language as much as its cheeky and pervasive political incorrectness (think Hot Fuzz). Much of the humor revolves around tongue-in-cheek humor about nationalities and midgets, which - coming from the pen of British filmmaker Martin McDonagh and the mouth of a hit man of dubious intellect - is surely intended more dryly than many audiences (particularly American ones) might perceive.

The film is tightly written, funny, and well acted (particularly by Farrell, whose squeaky vocal delivery provides its own humor, and Gleeson, who can convey a lot in an eye roll). Shot on location in Bruges, the film begins with bright, touristy vistas, then grows more gothic in tandem with the tale’s lurking menace.

What makes In Bruges more than just another bloody, farcical buddy comedy is that it’s infused with reflections on sin, guilt, and redemption – weighty thoughts for murderers-for-hire. Ray and Ken have a lot of time on their hands, and they spend a bit of it seriously contending with their understanding of God, wrongdoing, and the afterlife. And while Ray’s conscience drives him toward mental anguish, Ken chooses to act sacrificially to give Ray a chance of survival and a new start in life. Though it’s far from a morality tale, In Bruges grapples with the human conscience and the powerful nature of forgiveness, sacrifice, and love.

Makoto Fujimura (WORLD’s 2006 Daniel of the Year) is a Japanese-American painter, a leading voice in the arts and faith dialogue, the founder of the International Arts Movement, and a member of the National Council on the Arts since his 2002 presidential appointment.

His lyrical new book, River Grace, is an intimate personal look at Fujimura’s growth as an artist, and how his work and his relationship with his wife were tools God used to draw him to Himself. Fujimura begins with a poetic explanation of the ancient Japanese painting technique called Nihonga, of which he is a widely recognized practitioner. Using the stories behind several paintings, he illustrates his growth from belief in Art as the source of truth into a recognition of Christ as the center of existence.

With gentleness and elegance, Fujimura’s book examines the relationship between faith, art, and love. It also includes images of several of his paintings and their stories. As a recognized innovator in the field of Nihonga painting as well as a thoughtful follower of Christ, Fujimura has a unique perspective that encourages the reader to think deeply about priorities, faith, and creativity.

4 months, 3 weeks, and 2 days (not rated, but involving sexual situations, brief nudity, and language) is the best and most heartbreaking film you probably won’t see this year.

It joins the recent renaissance in Romanian cinema, which includes the highly lauded 2005 film The Death of Mr. Lazarescu, which grimly satirized the inefficiency of the Romanian healthcare system. 4 months, 3 weeks, and 2 days follows in that socially conscious vein by dealing with illegal abortion in Romania in the late 1980s, near the end of the communist regime.

Director Cristian Mungiu says the film is based on an unforgettable story he heard fifteen years. In it, Otilia (Anamaria Marinca, in a devastating, astonishing performance) seeks to help her friend Gabita (Laura Vasiliu) obtain an illegal abortion. Difficulties ensue: the hotel staff looks with suspicion on a single girl checking into a hotel alone, Otilia’s relationship with her boyfriend is disintegrating, and the “doctor” demands the unthinkable in repayment for the procedure.

Despite the controversial subject matter, the film employs ultra-realism to get as close to “just the facts” as possible. Even the most reprehensible characters are portrayed with little judgment. There’s no skimping on the facts. The abortion is crudely performed and the girls are unable to protect themselves from danger precisely because the procedure is illegal, but abortion is not celebrated nor is the trauma and tragedy ignored. (We even see the aborted baby’s face.) Mungiu seems to be saying that everyone here is an unwilling victim of the world they live in.

This film has landed on many prominent critics’ top ten lists this year and won respected awards across the globe. Oddly, it was ignored last week by the Academy for the Best Foreign Language film nominee shortlist (along with the critically celebrated films Persepolis and The Orphanage). Whether this is due to the subject matter or the filmmaking style – bleak ultra-realism is not appealing to many American filmgoers – it’s truly a shame. This is a tour-de-force portrait of a country bone-weary with years of communist dictatorship, a poor economic climate, and a constant struggle for survival.