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.

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I went to see Fool’s Gold with low expectations. In the month of February, one can hardly expect many new releases, and those have to compete with re-releases of estimable films hoping for an Oscar. In February, Hollywood turns a serious face to the public, demanding of us a sober reflection of our times and their art in portraying them. It is not the best time to be entertained.

Then too, the previews for Fool’s Gold inspired little confidence. They advertised an incredibly silly film, showing again that Matthew McConaughey’s screen persona becomes more juvenile as he ages. Thus, I was surprised when the opening credits declared this to be an Andy Tennant film. Hope arose; I like Andy Tennant movies.

Matthew McConaughey plays Finn, a treasure hunter in desperate need of a haircut and some money. Kate Hudson is his ex-wife Tess, still in love with him and the history of sunken treasure but tired of being with a financial child. Treasure lures the wealthy Nigel (Donald Sutherland) and a murderous rapper named Bigg Bunny into the hunt, with Ray Winstone appearing all-too-briefly as treasure-hunter for the rapper. The history behind the treasure they hunt is cleverly plotted, the script giving characters an intelligence that saves them from being laughable.

The movie has not been getting good press, but I enjoy a movie that doesn’t make me squirm with embarrassment, offend my sensibilities, preach to me, or otherwise inspire regret for parting with my money. Though not a kid’s movie (the PG-13 alerts to some language, sex scenes that take place off-screen, nudity limited to one flash of breasts, and violence used more for comedic effect than to horrify), Fool’s Gold shot for entertainment, and I’d say it hit its mark.

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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.

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Hardly a month ago, Will Smith was trekking through the abandoned streets of New York City on his way to martyrdom for the future of the Big Apple. Now disaster and destruction have found the city once again.

This time, harried protagonists have captured the action with a spastic camera, You-Tube style. The unconventional first-person filming in Cloverfield makes it a somewhat dizzying, sickening experience. (In fact, theater signs all but urge patrons to reconsider seeing it). But the overwhelming camera gimmick is the entire point, of course, and the only real reason that Cloverfield is more than another monster movie.

Co-produced by J.J. Abrams, producer of the television show Lost, Cloverfield (rated PG-13 for violence and some disturbing scenes) executes the first-person vantage point perfectly compared with the numerous misguided attempts that have preceded it (Open Water, anyone?). At worse, this sort of film—which usually swaps plot and script for hand-held camera and “simulated experience”—comes off unwatchably dull. But not this one. Cloverfield’s unhurried beginning initiates the audience to the camera and introduces them to the attractive cast, proving once again that effective characterization can inject heart into the most formulaic of thrillers.

From there, believably unscripted performances carry the visceral film, working with the frenetic shots to whip up an atmosphere of raw dread. Viewers feel that they’re trying frantically to escape the claws of God-knows-what. The lack of emphasis on the monster solves the apocalyptic-thriller genre’s most towering challenge—making us somehow believe this stuff. We never get a good look at the beast, never see flyover shots of the city. We experience the film knowing just as much as we’d know if we had happened to be walking the streets of New York on that fateful night: nothing.

There have been rumors of this film beginning a “new generation” that will take advantage of America’s obsession with raw video footage. But let the record show, such an offbeat approach to cinematography only works about as often as the Statue of Liberty is convincingly beheaded on film: Once every few years, and then only with a lot of luck.

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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.

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Today, weddings are expensive obsessions. One afternoon’s flip through the cable stations—to shows like Platinum Weddings and Bridezilla–reveals our fascination with these lavish performances. Thus 27 Dresses arrives at a perfect time but with a surprising message. Television suggests we tend to get married for the wedding; 27 Dresses reminds us that we have a wedding in order to get married.

Katherine Heigl plays Jane, a woman more obsessed with weddings than the average American girl. The obsession developed as a salve against the loss of her mother. She becomes an amateur wedding planner/bridesmaid by night, while by day she is an executive assistant in love with her boss. Drama follows when Jane’s sister comes for a visit and steals every one of Jane’s wedding dreams, from the boss to the dress. Comedy and romance arrive with Kevin (James Marsden). He invades her busy universe as a wedding columnist who finds weddings ridiculous and thinks her obsession will inspire an article that will advance him towards more serious journalism.

The appeal of 27 Dresses rests in the forced association between Jane and Kevin, their conflict and friendship. The dialogue has the wit of classic comedies from the 30s and 40s; the montage where she walks him through the 27 weddings for which she has bridesmaid dresses makes the movie. There are sexual references and a sex scene more implied than seen (which earns the PG-13 rating), but neither Jane nor Kevin advocate the casual sex their friends look for at weddings. For them, weddings are commitment not entertainment.

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The United States has the second worst newborn death rate in the developed world and one of the highest maternal mortality rates among all industrialized countries. Midwives attend over 70% of births in Europe and Japan, but that figure totals less than 8% in the US. Yet, the US spends twice as much per birth as any other country.

Ricki Lake’s documentary, The Business of Being Born, begins with these statistics and progresses through a reasoned argument for educated mothers and informed birth decisions. The filmmakers exhibit restraint and avoid placing the blame on anyone - the problem is too little education and cost cutting, they suggest – and instead focus on providing information through statistics, interviews with medical professionals, and real-life stories. The film is unrated, but there’s plenty of (non-sexual) nudity, distressed women in labor swearing like sailors, and footage of live births – probably not for the squeamish.

Filmmakers acknowledge throughout the film the possible need for hospital care and medical intervention in high-risk pregnancy. In fact, the film’s director, Abby Epstein, became pregnant shortly after taking on the project. The end of the film chronicles her own birth story, in which she and her midwife quickly decide she must deliver her baby in the hospital due to somewhat premature labor and the breech position.

There is certainly a clear pro-home birth stance taken here, and that’s a contentious position to take. But by featuring interviews with natural and home birth advocates as well as a host of (presumably) less biased sources – several obstetricians, NYU faculty, and the former director of women’s and children’s health for the World Heath Organization – The Business of Being Born emerges with a clear, cogent case for unmedicated, natural births that for the most part avoids hyperbole and scare tactics, and presents information that anyone planning to have a baby in the United States should at least consider in making an informed birthing choice.

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National Treasure: Book of Secrets (PG) is both campy and campground. Its American history is hokum. The plot depends on an easy break-in to the Oval Office, an easy kidnapping of the president from a dinner party, a City of Gold under Mount Rushmore, a book stashed in the Library of Congress that contains the truth about the Kennedy assassination and Area 51 of UFO fame, etc., etc. – but no one takes any of this seriously.

What’s makes this film fun for the whole family is the campground part: It’s a throwback to action movies without sex, violence, bad language or hatred of America. Nicolas Cage as Benjamin Franklin Gates gives patriotic talks and risks death to prove that an ancestor was not a John Wilkes Booth co-conspirator. Binding up the nations’ wounds also leads to a binding up of familial wounds: Is it a spoiler to report that Gates’s estranged parents reunite, he and his estranged girlfriend reunite, etc., etc.? I don’t think so, because all of that is eminently predictable, and it’s still fun to see fine actors such as Helen Mirren and Jon Voight having a good time as they and the producers laugh their way to the bank.

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Congressman Charlie Wilson (Tom Hanks) is a playboy, a womanizer, and liberal politician representing a conservative constituency during the Cold War. His charm has gotten him re-elected five times, but has done little with his time in the House.

But when Joanne Herring (Julia Roberts) - friend, sometimes lover, social activist, and sixth wealthiest woman in Texas – arranges for him to fly to Pakistan, Wilson is astounded by refugee camps full of Afghanis driven into Pakistan by communist armies. Recognizing the opportunity to defeat communists and aid refugees by beefing up covert strikes, he pushes for increased funding – and nearly every politician on the Hill owes him a favor.

Anyone expecting to be offended by Charlie Wilson’s War will not be disappointed. Both religion and politics play a key role in the screenplay, and nobody – not even Wilson – is treated with kid gloves. Screenwriter Aaron Sorkin (The West Wing), whose leftward leanings are no secret, dives right in, introducing us to Wilson at a party in Vegas which immediately earns most of the film’s rating (R for strong language, nudity, sexual content, and some drug use).

Cinematically speaking, this is a tight, witty, ironic screenplay, a “talky” film with wall-to-wall dialogue that assumes a savvy audience. The film romps along without taking a breath. It’s a solid cast, the best of whom are Philip Seymour Hoffman as a disgruntled CIA agent and Amy Adams as Wilson’s longsuffering aide.

I’m neither old or wise enough to comment on the politics of the film; however, it works well as a story of many flawed people – and everyone in this movie, whether liberal, conservative, Christian, Jewish, or Muslim is inherently flawed – banding reluctantly together to fight a common enemy. Wilson is an agnostic representing a culturally Christian constituency, and through tremendous effort manages to unite not only Republicans and Democrats in the effort, but secretly align Israel and Egypt in the effort to take out the communist armies. Idealistic, perhaps, but in this case, it worked.

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Persepolis (rated PG-13 for mature thematic material including violent images, sexual references, language and brief drug content) is France’s official submission for Best Foreign Language Film at the Academy Awards. Based on a graphic novel of the same name by Marjane Satrapi, the film is a monochromatically animated coming-of-age story set against the Iranian Cultural Revolution.

Raised in Tehran by educated parents, precocious Marjane watches a fundamentalist cultural shift and the West’s involvement in her country’s war through young eyes. She enthusiastically adopts the beliefs of her politically subversive relatives (a dearly loved Communist uncle, a sweet, wise grandmother) while simultaneously becoming enamored of taboo Western culture, buying Iron Maiden cassettes off the street and helping hide evidence of secret house parties from the police.

Marjane’s childhood stories are affected by aspects of the Cultural Revolution, disorienting viewers who are not as up on their Middle Eastern history as they should be (and presumably, most American audiences fall into this category). The occasional haphazardness of the resultant narrative is understandable. While shaped by their culture, children rarely recall all of its details coherently.

But it’s when Marjane leaves her native Iran to study in Vienna that the story drags. Through her eyes, we experience teenage anarchist culture in Europe, bad relationships, and depression. This latter narrative lacks the drive and purpose of the early parts of the film, introducing tedium into the mix, to poor effect.

Still, Persepolis wins points for originality of presentation and a sensitive yet critical handling of Islamic political fundamentalism. The animation is innovative, mixing elements of color and monochrome, texture and simplicity, and the dialogue is clear and subtitled well. One wishes Satrapi continued her story beyond the film’s conclusion to explain her journey toward publishing the story. However, what Persepolis did accomplish – likely fulfilling its purpose – was planting a spark of interest in learning more about its historical and cultural context.

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