I haven�t had a new change of clothes since arriving here Thursday. Honest, right? But also awkwardly unnecessary? I hear ya. What�s preferable: truthful provocation or blissful ignorance? Bobcat Goldthwait probes this dilemma with crude but thoughtful aplomb in Stay, a movie about [spoiler] rippling through the foundations of suburban complacency. The Housewife in Denial has long been a satirical dead horse, but what�s novel about Stay is its willed discourse, its skewed, multi-faceted appraisal of whether to spill the beans. Goldthwait smartly renders his dystopic nuclear unit, each member defective not by inheritance but by human caprice or long-trodden rebellion. I really enjoyed the Dad character (spare imdb page = vagueness), long used to servicing his wife�s ignorance but just as abundant with workman-like resolution to love his daughter. Sadly, the crass-honest dichotomy extends to the filmmaking: Bobcat just isn�t too subtle. That I barely recall any specific annoyances a day later is probably good sign.

Now The Science of Sleep, I wasn�t expecting: the first screenplay penned by Eternal Sunshine director Michel Gondry, it�s a thematic recapitulation of the latter, which now, unbelievably, looks restrained and conventional by comparison. To even approach the level of giddy inventiveness going on here, imagine early Godard re-interpreted by a pre-schooler on acid who just watched 8 �. Gondry sublimates our childhood daydreams and finds daunting significance in them, almost to the detriment of human interest: anything can metaphysically happen here, and when blue cellophane began pouring from a sink, I burst into euphoric, convulsive laughter, mentally going: �have I ever been this happy watching a film?� The pitfalls of oneiric livin� still reign large: �people don�t work in dreams!� Gael Garcia Bernal�s adroit office-worker howls, only to be slammed down on a copy machine by his abstracted colleagues, with scribbled sharpie in place for the burden of Writing. And the film�s dilution of the mathematical with the abstract is both profound and a whole lot of fun: discussing perpetual movement as a game of sidewalk chicken with players moving side-to-side, Bernal illustrates that the human mind transcends such reiteration, and then, man�s complexity acknowledged � drum solo! What went wrong then? It�s possible any isolated 20 minutes of Science would constitute one of the greatest of all films, but 105 is just numbing, and a mere 40 or so were, for many who walked out. But considering the film�s rapturous highs, perhaps I�m being unduly harsh. I look forward to seeing it again, preferably very stoned.

Gee, directing duo Richard Glatzer and Wash Westmore of porno comedy The Fluffer shoot a film in their own predominantly Latino neighborhood… wonder where the inspiration for the sparring, inclusive but picky gay householder couple came from? It�s a blatant subplot a clef, but it�s also self-critical, and is typical of light, endearing farce Quinceanera�s many boons. Among the team�s assets are full-blooded characterizations and a casually transgressive sense of humor, both integral to shaping protag Magdalena (Emily Rios), who takes everything in stride with fussy persistence, from her bf�s sincerest oaths of affection to her draconic household�s exile, always asking for a little more even when happy and ergo set to endure progressively precarious auspices without becoming a Victim. Jesse Garcia�s turn as uncloseted tough-guy cousin Carlos is also notably fine: not a purveyor of Heathcliff-esque, stone-faced repression, he simply compensates for flaming gestures with equivalent machismo, e.g. thieving a CD for one of his older gringo paramours.

Chris Gorak�s Right at Your Door was Right in My Face, or at least the sister of lead actor Rory Cochrane was, asking me beforehand to let her know how I enjoyed her brother�s suffering. Dude went pretty deep. He�s a talent. A+. Otherwise, this movie sucks. Those who demand that disaster films reach their �natural� cynical conclusion will rejoice, and meanwhile the rest of us will cackle at Gorak�s stale manipulations � there�s a little boy, who gets saved, named Timmy, and referred to as, seriously now, �Little Timmy�! Cochrane�s Tough Decision to leave wife Mary McCormack to die is uninflected by anything besides everyman pragmatism, cues for easy identification never erring because man and wife love each other very, very much. We definitely don�t identify with the all but heartless rescue workers, who, gasp, follow orders without tearful compunction. Gorak feebly lets us know he hates our institutions, but recognizes Us. We all know the general outline of how everyday victims are left helpless by disaster. Tell us more.

Politically neutral, but no less shallow, Forgiven suggests that Paul Fitzgerald hates Dubya, but feels terribly guilty about it. Playing the small-scale GWB figure himself, Fitzgerald achieves the triple non-threat of unconvincing writing, directing and acting � too amateur to sob on command, the entrepreneur simply buries his head in his hands and shakes around a bit. He expects us to despise his oily politician for his suburban comfort and specious demagoguery, and pity him when he undergoes tragedy. Sorry, Paul, but that�s not how ambiguity works. And if you mean to ask rhetorically if anyone in your audience would enjoy seeing the president ruthlessly tortured, I suppose my answer is� maybe?