By DAN VINTON

If there’s one thing The Last Airbender does well, it proves any mystique surrounding M. Night Shaymalan is gone. With this coffin-bound nail, all residual goodwill The Sixth Sense director retained from followup successes like Unbreakable, Signs and even the creepy but fatally flawed The Village has been throttled by his is own hands.

Shaymalan’s latest, (based on the 2005-2008 Nickelodeon cartoon series I’ve never seen), builds a likable, tactile, genuinely fascinating and lushly art-directed world of mishmashed fantasy/Asian mysticism where unique, element controlling tribes seek Aang, a lost kid who must find himself before he can bring them all together. Along the way, Aang is aided by a couple white kids and and an unexplained floating Wampa-thing that looks like Falcor‘s fat, lazy cousin– all while being pursued by angry members of the warmongering, machine-making Fire Clan.

The story follows a traditional theme undermined and sabotaged by offputtingly miscast high school amateur hour “actors” (including Twilight‘s awful Jackson Rathbone and Slumdog Millionaire’s still-wet-behind-the-ears Dev Patel) who force ear-punishing dialogue in cringe worthy combos in story progression unseen since Barney & Friends. And while a third act showdown between armies of fire and ice picks things up a bit and the action is kinetic and interesting enough to warrant some moderate thrills, the movie collapses against the traveshamockery of its mutton-fisted, amateur and ultimately uninvolving first 70 minutes.

That said, the failure of The Last Airbender isn’t any fault of its source material. Beneath all the missteps, The Last Airbender still hints at a larger narrative backdrop. There’s something genuinely thoughtful, new and thrilling in its mythology– almost enough to like– but a plodding screenplay continues an attempt to explain the story/backstory/future story up to the last frame, a kitchen sink approach that belabors the tedium when it lost virtually every adult in the theater from the first scene.

I don’t mean to turn this into a critique of M. Night Shyamalan, but as a director who showed so much restraint and skill in his previous works and as a guy who takes credit as Director, Writer and Producer, the failure falls on his shoulders. It’s a mess that also sets up a disconcerting revelation that maybe, all along, we were duped; that Shayamalan was able to conceal the flaws in his previous directorial work thanks to casts composed of skilled actors who could pick up nuances and create characters instead of talking dialogue at a camera. Without the trappings of a solid cast and a “twist” device, the once heralded “Next Spielberg” has recently shown– and here virtually seals the deal– he’s a once-proud Emporer now standing naked in the mirror. To put it mildly, comparing the skills shown in his first four films to the directorial failures on display in The Last Airbender is like comparing an ice cold glass of spring water to a warm bottle of piss.

Introduced as the setup to an obviously planned trilogy, The Last Airbender may force distributor Paramount Studios eat its lunch. It’s a 150 million dollar movie made for the very narrowcast segment of 6-10 year old kids. Viewing The Last Airbender with that in mind may help, but any other enthusiasm is all but guaranteed to be voltage free. Which is kind of heartbreaking– there’s some really interesting stuff trying to make a break for it.

If there’s anything summer 2010 movies have been severely lacking, it’s fun and originality.  Scott Pilgrim vs. The World (based on the comic of the same name) wants to change all that.

Michael Cera– whose one-note falsetto, whispered shtick is one I’m not quite tired of yet– is Scott Pilgrim, a dude who meets the girl of his dreams and is subsequently tasked with knocking her seven evil exes the crap out… in amplified video game/comic book style. The fact that it’s directed by the comedically capable Edgar Wright (Sean of the Dead and its much better brother, Hot Fuzz) is a bonus.

The new international trailer has arrived filled and overflowing with internationality. If this Prodigy-soaked ode to comic/pixelated geekery doesn’t get your juices flowing, either you’re too old or hate root beer floats, because this sucker is oozing hipster cred and light, frothy fun. Yeah, I strained that analogy, but click here and see for yourself.

Scott Pilgrim and his world of geekery-meets-reality debuts August 13th.

Enough talk. Let’s fight.

With childhood nostalgia anchored firmly in the 80s, I’m a prime target for Hollywood’s recent nostalgia sweep. Thanks to a raging ego, contrarianism and a cold black heart however, I’m a hard sell– or like to think I am. I tend to like 80s nostalgia planted firmly in the 80s- big hair, fluffy innocence, original charm and all. And while we here at AATM are never against a remake/reboot, oftentimes they’re thin rehashes that rely on name brand only and eschew what worked for material that’s simply meaner, uglier, sloppier and strainingly unhip in attempts to be hip.

Still, we’ve got two iconic 80′s pop culture survivors making a play for buckets of summertime dollars– between Karate Kid and The A-Team, welcome to 80′s flashback weekend, 2010. Happily, thanks to some bouncy dialogue, use of its TV predecessors elaborate ruses (peppered with Carnahan’s trademark planning cut to action and back again), cheerful doses of action-heavy camaraderie and enough balance between old and new, The A-Team arrives (10 years and close to 20 writers later) with a giddy dose of shenanigans that equal a testosterone soaked onslaught of both gregariousness and fun.

Directed by Narc and Smokin’ Aces kinetic and personable Joe Carnahan, The A-Team arrives with most of its 80′s roots intact– chockablock with back-slapping, old time buddy banter and the eccentrically likable characters of master-mind Hannibal (Liam Neeson), lady-slayer Face (Bradley Cooper), bats**t crazy Murdock (District 9‘s Sharlto Copely) and sensitive tough guy B.A (Bad Attitude) Barracus (WWE tough guy Quinton Jackson). Set up as a prequel that tells the story of what the TV series opening lines only alluded to, we meet the A-Team before they’ve gelled into The A-Team– a group of Rangers who, by chance, all cross  paths in Mexico before bonding and working in Iraq in the final days of the pullout. Interestingly, that places The A-Team somewhere in the distant future.

Still, the hammer of conflict has to fall and soon the boys are framed for a crime they didn’t commit, creatively bust their way out of respective high security military prisons and come together to both clear their names and ladle up a satisfying platter full of winking, smile-cementing fun that’s as rapid-fire as they come. Inducing “permasmile” can be tough, but with trucks/people/airplanes flipping, characters who look like they’re having fun and bullets and witty zingers zipped by on screen, my first grin came on about two minutes into the film and remained, non-stop, until the 90-minute mark. Disappointingly, it’s there The A-Team loses some of its charming steam as Carnahan lets lose in a third act that buries the audience in a routine, mind-crushing and action dense kitchen sink filled with sensory Red Bull and cocaine overkill of way too much, way too loud.

Still, the action is creative and the first two acts feel so light and pitch-perfect, it supports the leaden weight that almost– almost– collapses on itself. Supporting performances are meaty enough, with a slick performances by Patrick Wilson as a cock-sure CIA handler and video game voice staple Brian Bloom oozing sinister douchebaggery as the A-Team’s polar foil and military contractor, Pike. Oh, and Jessica Biel’s cheekbones and teeth are somewhere in here too, as a Face’s ex and Department of Defense agent tasked with tracking down the A-Team, conflict of interests be damned.

And while Carnahan and his production crew chose an almost dizzying array of quick cuts, stylistic flourishes and rapid-fire camera roller coaster riding for most of the movie (it’s co-produced under Tony/Ridley Scott’s Scott-Free production house, after all), the action remains surprisingly cohesive, building rapid-fire images that cascade into a brain-digested, comprehensive picture.

For a movie that’s based on an ofttimes goofy, death-free 80′s television series about a group of four ex-Green Beret misfits concocting  plans that always come together, The A-Team unapologetically entertains and satisfyingly introduces the second movie of the summer (behind Iron Man 2) that actually feels like it belongs.

With the combined might of uber-producer Jerry Bruckheimer, Jake Gyllenhall’s rockin’ abs and respected director Mike Newell (Donnie Brasco, Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire), Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time hits Memorial Day weekend with a big question mark: will this video-game based movie finally pass over the threshold of wretched to mediocre and inspire a franchise in vein of Pirates of the Caribbean? I’ll always argue a movie’s success should be based on its merits as a film rather than comparison to a video game, but the short answer is this: Prince of Persia is both fun and miles beyond its pixel-inspired brethren. And while it shares the common theme of a heroic orphan thrust into a world of magic and adventure, it does lack a Depp-like meat hook and falls short of Pirates charm– though, surprisingly, not by much.

Steeped in the craggy canyons, expansive deserts and mile-high minarets of a romanticized height-of-power Persian Empire, The Prince of Persia succeeds in taking the Cliff note narrative of 2003′s video game of the same title– invading prince discovers a dagger able to turn back time and eventually helps a princess recover it to thwart the evil plans of a duplicitous court adviser–and beefs it out with enough neutral (though slightly overstuffed) mythology, plucky character and surrounding quest to elevate it beyond the simple cut and paste/flat fan service of previous game to film failures.

To its credit, Prince of Persia feels sufficiently epic, loaded with lavish costumes, desert-rosed set design and deeper than expected plotting. Prince of Persia’s characters follow the same route–they’re not deep or groundbreaking by any means but they fare decently, if only acting as well-dressed decently acted pins to bounce Jake Gyllenhall’s Prince Dastan toward a date with destiny. Exceptions include the always dependable Alfred Molina as the just-short-of-scene-stealing crowd-pleasing thief/man of business sidekick, Sheik Amar. Gemma Arterton (as Jake’s foil Princess Tamina) brings a fun (if at times skirting the bounds of overbearing) pluck to the Princess Leia-cut heroine– as well as a refreshing reminder of what beautiful women look like when they don’t pursue anorexia’s shallow facsimile of “beauty” by throwing up what they just ate at the craft services table. Ben Kingsley, as nefarious royal adviser Nazim, effortlessly oils his way through a villainous role he seems to phone in during the B-level off-season.

In whole, Prince of Persia delivers on its promise of summer movie enjoyment and should leave adventure seeking audiences both satisfied and transported. That’s not to say it’s without its flaws– by midpoint, the sword fights and roof-jumping action (based on the core game play of the video game series) tend to lose steam on each of their many incarnations and the muddy mythology weighs in where it doesn’t need to. This all leads to a supremely disappointing third act conclusion, again inspired by 2003′s Prince of Persia game. The telegraphed trickery is weak, with an undermining twist that disappointingly lands a body blow to the character building goodwill and dramatic exploits introduced through the first two acts.

Still, despite its flaws, there’s a good-natured spirit that threads its way through the film. And while Prince of Persia never excels where it should, it remains a fun old-timey narrative in an otherwise dull summer and a movie whose goodwill made it hard not to enjoy.

And while the award show made by the Hollywood Marketers Alliance is still a big shill, this clip kind of tilted me the other way, thanks mostly to the awesomeness of The Hurt Locker, the subtle self-effacing of Jeremy Renner and the smooth charm of Aziz Ansari.

Then again, there’s always the You Tube highlights.

Say what you want about Rourke, but at least he’s got a sense of humor.

As is, that’s a very quick turnaround schedule for a big film we haven’t heard much of anything about for the last two years. Batman Begins to Dark Knight had the benefits of a three year production schedule– Batman 3 gets two. While a lot of the casting is already in place, there’s still actor schedules  to be adjusted, script hammered out, etc. But hey- that’s movie geek stuff.

In the mean time, the good news is that Batman 3 is finally on the table and hurtling toward its 2012 release date. That way, when the the world is exploding, sliding into the ocean and being perforated with comets and rhetorical “told you so’s” from everyone we now think is crazy, at least you’ll have your Batman 3 Bluray to cling to.

Sure, there’s the hardcore Halo fan kingdom lead by Spartan Wannabe-0345 “Ralph”, but no matter how many times they’d pay to see the movie in the theater or how many times they flame this site, the Halo franchise is quickly exiting the public zeitgeist and diluting its own power. You need look no further than Doom (five years too late) or the Firefly Browncoats (we love our movie but we can’t make it profitable) to see the future state of Halo‘s franchise destiny and fans.

And while I’ve been an ardent defender of the Halo franchise and its potential for becoming a film, as Andy’s often said, that window is quickly closing. Still, I hope I’m wrong. Microsoft continues to fund live-action commercials highlighting various aspects of the Halo universe. Maybe rabid fans could splice those and loop them into a 90 minute feature at this point.

The latest entry? How to make your very own Spartan. Apparently, you climb onto a table, insert an 8-track of your favorite emo band and flex while a bunch of robotic needles squirt you full of Spartan juice. Sounds like Halo fan fic porn, but it’s true. Just watch:

Debuted at Sundance ’10 and picked up by Lionsgate for a fall release, Buried follows a U.S. civilian (Ryan Reynolds) who is buried in the Iraqi desert after his contractor outfit is attacked. Word is, the film mostly takes place in the box, but is loaded with twists and turns– which should make both claustrophobic and twistaphobic audiences all kinds of queasy.

Check out the trailer below which, incidentally, must hold some kind of record for the least expensive (but nonetheless, effective!) trailer ever made.

Filmed top to bottom for a 2D release, Clash of the Titans composition, lighting, effects and edits were created for the unaided eye. As a result, Clash of the Titans retrofitted 3D presentation is a dim, vision punishing mess of double imaging and off-kilter depth; slipshod artifacts that disrupt viewing to the point of souring it.

Technological grumbling aside, Clash of the Titans the movie fares slightly better than its 3D boondoggle thanks to its world of exotic pizazz and the goofy strength of mythological fantasy. Decidedly darker than the 1981 original, Clash of the Titans earnestly updates its predecessor’s aesthetic with armor for togas, cornrows for mop-tops and earnest crankiness for good humor, but suffers from an equal distribution of emotional vacancy and watch-checking sag when monsters aren’t stomping, roaring and slithering onscreen.

Tired of the Gods’ petty cruelty mankind has taken to relying on their own strength. They’ve stopped praying, stormed Mount Olympus and defied the Gods.

Petulant rebellion doesn’t sit well with Zeus (Liam Neeson), who sends brother Hades (a very brotherly looking Ralph Fiennes) to unleash some God-fearing terror on the city of Argos in the form of a choice: offer up the princess Andromeda (Alexa Davalos) or face the wrath of an angry Kraken in 10 days time.

Perseus (Sam Worthington), surrogate son of a God-stomped fisherman and bastard son of Zeus, signs up to stop the Kraken, save the princess and avenge the death of his adopted family. With a handful of gruff warriors and mysterious hot-sage Io (the angelic Gemma Arterton), Perseus suits up and sets out for some Grecian style vengeance. Along the way he stabs/beheads monsters, rides a Pegasus, discovers his lineage and shows the Gods a good ol’ fashioned what-for.

1981′s Clash of the Titans was a light, mythological adventure that basked in the charm of its Harryhausen-born monsters. Director Louis Leterrier’s remake keeps some of that same DNA,  but never finds time to introduce a relationship that isn’t a one-dimensional key to unlocking a revelation or a character who isn’t dying to lead the movie into the next effect sequence. The movie feels heavily pared down to action sequences and relies on the clamoring largess of special effects and fantasy to connect with the audience.

In a movie less concerned about character, all that stuff could be dismissed. But Clash of the Titans does makes efforts to indicate its character relationships are important– the quest and subsequent plot depend on them. Unfortunately, the decision to amp  action over connective tissue bumps princess Andromeda, Io, a pair of tag-along hunters and an adversarial relationship between Perseus and warrior leader Draco to nothing more than passing nods– and when characters start taking dirt naps, it’s difficult to imagine why it matters.

Still, there’s fun to be found in Clash‘s creatures and the hijinks of Fiennes’ oozing, duplicitous Hades vs. Worthington’s growling Perseus. There’s also an interestingly secular take on God vs. Man theology: humans were empowered by Gods, so with a bit of God in all humans, what’s the point of Gods anyway- isn’t it our worship that gives them power in the first place? It’s a meaty piece of post-religious bit of deconstructionism, but one that feels almost too heavy for a film with material this light.

And that’s the disappointment; Clash of the Titans is a movie that,in spite of its potential campiness, takes itself too seriously but doesn’t demand much to remember.  Imagery and locales succeed in entertaining, but only stiltedly so, which makes Clash its own Kraken. As the movie’s centerpiece, the Kraken is a disconnected melange of squid, crab and Gears of War Berzerker– but is never shown in full. The thing is so enormous it never registers as comprehensible or tacitly ominous. The Kraken simply is.

Clash of the Titans carries the same weight. It’s a movie that can be enjoyed on levels of spectacle and fantasy, but one that ultimately disappoints.

Based on the books of the same name, How to Train Your Dragon plays more as a prequel than actual adaptation, introducing us to the wannabe Viking whelp Hiccup (Jay Baruchel) and Berk– the island of burly, hairy Vikings he calls home. Saddled as an apprentice to the town’s blacksmith, Hiccup pines for dragon-slaughtering action– the kind his ancestors have enjoyed for 300 years. The desire to prove himself isn’t heartfelt as it is to impress his Dad, King Stoick the Vast (Gerard ‘Thank you for letting me use my accent” Butler) and land a date with the local hottie Astrid (America Ferrera). Unfortunately, Hiccup’s a skinny sissy who uses his head for thinking instead of bashing– a habit the townspeople are sure won’t help when multiple dragon species raid the village and make a mess of things.

Luckily, nerdery comes in handy when Hiccup invents a weapon to catch dragons and bags the most feared (yet never before seen) Night Fury. But when Hiccup approaches the dragon, his soft sensitive feelings get in the way and instead of killing the Night Fury, he names it Toothless. From there, How to Train Your Dragon becomes a boy and his dog story, with a charming relationship of trust and understanding developing between the two. Using his new found understanding of dragons to pacify instead of kill, Hiccup becomes the village hero until his dragon pal secret is discovered.

Thanks to cinematographer Roger Deakins, How To Train Your Dragon is an eye popper. Deakin’s cinematic style uses light play and color complements that are oft-times breathtaking. The character design refreshingly eschews Dreamworks usually ugly choices and offers an appealing combination of Chris Sanders’ round curves with Nico Marlet’s (Kung Fu Panda) low-eyed, sharp angles. By film’s end, kids will be clamoring to nuzzle up with Toothless.  John Powell’s score is touching and plucky where it needs to be and the voice acting (including Apatow guy Jonah Hill, Late Night’s Craig Ferguson and go-to geek Christopher Mintz-Plasse) is naturally unobtrusive.

One of the most trumpeted aspects of this film will be its seamless and kinetic flight sequences. In 2D they carry an energy that soars. Word is, seeing them in 3D is nothing short of magical.

Still, the heart of the story lies in the relationship that develops between Toothless and Hiccup and the total wild-yet-emotionally accessible artistry the animators give the dragon. It’s a satisfying, charming and visually fulfilling narrative that’s equal parts exhilarating adventure, rapturous wonder and smile-inducing heart.

After a few years in the film festival circuit and making international rounds, The Good, The Bad, The Weird has nabbed a US release via IFC and on-demand. It’ll have a limited theatrical run, but will probably hit home video before long.

Still! Don’t be put off by the fact it’s a Korean film– this sucker’s well reviewed and has pulled down awards at the Cannes, Telluride and Toronto film festivals. Couple that with the fact the Asian film market’s “big movies” have become very accessible to American audiences used to the flow and sensibility of western film, and The Good, The Bad, The Weird looks very fun.