I'm very pleased that my Cinematical colleague James Rocchi both enjoyed Speed Racer and published his review before mine, and here's why: I couldn't wait for the damn thing to end. This garish, aimless film wore out its welcome (and its crayon box) after about 25 minutes, but the cinematic eyesore just kept lumbering on for two full hours. I know it's tough to keep kids still in a movie theater even when they like the movie they're watching, so I can only imagine what parents will be dealing with as Speed Racer's merciless stretches of blah-blah-blah hit the screen. Aside from three or four mega-flashy racing sequences, Speed Racer feels like the pilot episode of a Fox TV series called The Generic Family from Plastic World.

A young man named "Speed Racer" grows up to become a hot-shot car racer (imagine that), but when he refuses to sign with an evil tycoon, it kick-starts a third-act conflict that can only be solved by ... car racing! There's the whole of your plot in a nutshell, but I've left out the resoundingly clumsy flashback structure, the nominally interesting but ultimately pointless side characters, and several absurdly "emotional" moments that might have made an impact if they didn't occur on sets made entirely of bright pink styrofoam and glitter. There's also an allegedly mysterious character called Racer X, a button-cute and entirely superfluous girlfriend character, and (wedged in clumsily whenever things get dull) a mischievous little kid and his monkey sidekick.

Or you could just go see Iron Man again.

Broad comedy and splattery horror are a pretty tough combo to pull off, but if anyone can do it ... the British can. There's no denying that the British are masters of comedy, and they also have a lot of skill with the scary stuff ... most of the time. One need only take another look at a flick like Shaun of the Dead to see how rare and how satisfying a great "horror comedy combo" can be. Which brings us to The Cottage, an enjoyably but fairly schizophrenic genre experiment that does a fine job with the horror and comedy as separate components -- but, as is usually the case, the combination of the two proves to be a very difficult feat to pull off.

Similar in tone and delivery to Chistopher Smith's Severance, The Cottage tells the story of two astoundingly different brothers who (stupidly) decide to kidnap a crime boss' daughter and hold the buxom blonde for ransom, only to discover that their forest hideout is the home of a typically horrific and mutated murderer. In a fashion that may prove familiar to fans of Robert Rodriguez's From Dusk Till Dawn, The Cottage spends about 45 minutes as a dark-hued kidnapping comedy -- and then it quickly changes speed before evolving into a rather energetic horror-fest. The tonal shift creates a flick that doesn't always work well as a whole, but definitely succeeds on the backs of a few strong performances and a handful of amusingly over-the-top gore-splatters.

It consistently amazes me that, despite all the stuff we complain about living here in the United States, that we still have it so much better than most of the other countries on the planet. We're so used to our freedoms that any perceived infringement on them seems like an affront. But imagine if you lived in Iran, where all you're craving is more information than the government-run TV stations are giving you. Satellite dishes, though, are illegal, mainly because of programming that the government thinks is immoral. Many internet sites, especially those that are in opposition to the fundamentalist Muslim government, are blocked. Western music and movies are banned. How would you deal with all the restrictions?

That topic is examined in Head Wind, a fascinating documentary from Iranian filmmaker Mohammad Rasoulof. In the film, he shows that Iranians are starving for information and entertainment, and in this digital age, the government, as hard as they try to, is having a hard time stopping the tide.

Something about Yonkers Joe bugged me.

Don't get me wrong; it was a very well-made and well-acted film, with a very touching story about fathers, sons, and the difficulties of raising special needs kids. It's got two stars, Chazz Palminteri and Christine Lahti, that give their usual solid performances. And it even has a story that's got some nice tension and is emotionally satisfying.

But something bugged me. And I couldn't put my finger on why until the very end, but when I did, it made my discomfort crystal clear: This guy's a crook. Why should I care about him at all?

Oh boy. Let me preface this review by saying that I truly go into all films (festival or otherwise) hoping to love what I see on the big screen. During the movie, I will always try my damnedest to find something worthwhile; something positive to say afterwards. But then you get to a film like Finding Amanda and there's really nowhere to go. Aside from a few cute one-liners, this film was a complete disaster -- to the point where I would strongly advise the creators not to screen this anywhere else until more work was done to it. I hate to be that guy, and I seriously have nothing against the filmmakers, but watching this flick felt like slowing down to check out an accident on the freeway. At first, it doesn't look so bad ... but then you get up close and everything is completely demolished.

Then again, we should've seen this coming. Right off the bat you have what feels like a comedy about a broken television writer/producer (Matthew Broderick) who, in order to prove to his wife that he's not a degenerate gambler/alcoholic, takes a trip to Las Vegas to convince their drug-addicted niece (Brittany Snow), who hooks for a living, to enter rehab. Gee, sounds like a laugh fest! But Broderick was great in smaller, quirkier films like Election; perhaps Finding Amanda would, well, find the right darkly comedic tone and take off from there? Yeah ... not so much. In fact, they should've renamed this one Finding the Right Tone.

One of the best things about covering a film festival in New York is that there are about a billion different dining options available to you, even if you just have a half-hour between screenings. And, while I'm pretty good at exploring the dining scene in my home state of New Jersey (and yes, Jersey has a dining scene), I rarely get a chance to get more than a one-shot opportunity to sample what the Big Apple has to offer. So I made sure I used my time wisely.

I think I did a good job: last Friday, after my set of screenings, I met a friend and his sister and went to Resto, a Belgian place whose waiters wear t-shirts that say "I'm bringing the fatback." Oh, they love their fat there; my entree was a beef cheek carbonnade that was softer and tastier than any normal stew beef you can think of. Oh, and they had frites (fries) and beer there. Lots of frites and beer.

Life in Flight should prove to any aspiring screenwriter that you don't necessarily have to have an original story in order to get a screenplay made. In the film, which debuted at Tribeca on Sunday, first-time writer / director Tracey Hecht tells the tale of a man who's supposedly living the good life, but it's not the one he wants. And it takes meeting a young, vivacious woman for him to fully realize it.

Heard that story before? Sure you have, probably dozens of times. You've seen it in goofy romantic comedies from The Seven-Year Itch to Joe Versus the Volcano as well as "indie" dramas like Garden State. But good writing and acting always trumps originality of story, and Life in Flight has both, though there's still room for improvement.

When I sat down to watch the excellent documentary Head Wind (review coming soon), I didn't realize that I'd be subjected to the mental torture that was the short called Beginning Filmmaking. I don't think the rest of the sparse crowd expected to see the short, either, because we all kept asking each other in very loud voices, "Why aren't we seeing Head Wind?" and "Why the hell doesn't this guy leave his kid alone?"

In this short, filmmaker Jay Rosenblatt chronicles a year of trying to teach his four-year-old daughter Ella how to become a filmmaker herself, based on something she babbled when she was eighteen months old. He even goes so far as getting Ella a brand new camcorder for her fourth birthday.

Did I say she was four? Well, I can't say that enough, because throughout the 23 mind-numbing minutes of this film, Rosenblatt tries to teach Ella how to be an auteur, giving her lessons in composition, focus, light, and story. He's talking to her like she's an NYU film student, and all she wants to do is play with her toys and flick boogers (well, she doesn't do that last thing on camera, but don't most kids that age do that?).

While it might sound somewhat cheesy, I had just as much fun watching seniors dance to hip-hop music than I did watching Iron Man over the weekend. Seriously. Of course, they're two completely different films -- one is a mega Hollywood blockbuster with loads of special effects, while the other is a sweet documentary about older folks who refuse to let age keep them down. And yet, both have a lot in common; mainly, that each film doesn't pretend it's something it's not. Gotta Dance is not out to mock these folks for wanting to add a little hip-hop to their lives; this documentary exists to celebrate that fact and invite us along for their wild ride.

Essentially, the New Jersey Nets basketball team came up with a PR stunt that includes forming a hip-hop dance crew made up entirely of senior citizens (or folks over the age of 60). From day one of auditions, cameras are allowed backstage to document this entire process -- which includes choosing the team, learning the different routines (with help from the current crop of Nets dancers) and performing them in front of live audiences during halftime at six Nets games. The cynical side of me kinda feels this whole documentary was dreamt up by the Nets organization in an attempt to get them some more good press. Regardless of those original intentions, Gotta Dance is still a fun film for the entire family.

The HBO-produced documentary film Baghdad High offers a fairly basic yet intriguing enough premise: The filmmakers gave video cameras to four Iraqi high school students and asked them to simply record as much of their "normal life" as possible. (I'm of the opinion that any time you give a teenager a camera, you're getting everything BUT "normal life," but obviously I'm not the first to claim that the act of recording something instantly obliterates "normalcy.") The point here seems to be that ... hey, you know what? Aside from the fact that they live very far away in a country that's going through some terrible problems these days, these teenagers are a whole lot like ... our teenagers! Wow, how shocking is that?!?!?

What's most interesting about these kids is that, despite the fact that they all live in Iraq, they also come from very different religious backgrounds -- and yet they're still friends! (Hope for the future sometimes comes in small packages, I suppose.) All four of the boys are perfectly charming and entirely typical: They whine about homework, they stress over studies, they gripe about being bored, they argue with their parents, and they do all the stuff that your favorite teens do: Video games, pop music, sports, rough-housing, etc. So far all its admirable intentions, the simple truth is that Baghdad High makes a very good point about the similarities of human nature (especially where teens are concerned), but then it just sort of ... keeps making the same point over and over.

Ah, the road film. The formula is tried-and-true: usually two people, taking to the back roads of America in order to get somewhere by a certain time or for a particular reason. Along the way, cars break down, trains are jumped, and quirky characters are encountered. It can be funny, sweet, or darkly dramatic. But the formula rarely strays. Because of this, the key to a good road film is what happens during the journey. You want to see lessons learned, growth, and bonding. But you also want to see interesting characters and maybe a good car chase thrown in, too.

Tribeca seems to have at least one of these films every year. Last year it was Chasing 3000. This year, it's Tennessee, a slow-moving but sweet story of two brothers who go back home to find their abusive father; what they find, though is that there's more than one reason to go home.

I couldn't get to any of the press screenings for Man on Wire, so I decided to get on a Rush Ticket line and (gasp!) actually pay to get into a public screening. I was third on line, and I thought I was in good shape. I mean, it was 4:45 on a Tuesday; who was going to see a documentary about the guy who walked a tightrope between the Twin Towers almost thirty-five years ago?

Turns out that people in New York aren't as busy as you think, since the screening was packed to capacity. But they were in for a good show, as this documentary combined archival footage, interviews, and appropriately cheesy reenactments to tell the story of how in 1974, Philippe Petit, a French juggler and tightrope walker, managed to sneak a crew and a bunch of equipment to the top of the World Trade Center, extend a tightrope between towers, and walk across without a net.

The low-key Spanish import Fermat's Room falls into that (very small) sub-genre that I've just now designated as "math horror." (Vincenzo Natali's Cube also belongs in this group, and maybe even a few other movies that I can't think of right now.) This is a strange but engaging Spanish thriller in which four well-established mathematicians convene after receiving a mysterious invitation, and then find themselves trapped inside a shrinking room. The only way out is to solve a bunch of math riddles, but the biggest question is this: Why the heck is someone trying to kill four mathematicians in the first place?

Handsomely shot and boasting fine work from its five main only actors, Fermat's Room is the sort of mystery / thriller that will appeal to folks who enjoy a good mind-bender as much as they dig a good foreign flick. It's certainly not as bizarre (or nearly as bloody) as Natali's Cube, but I'm betting the films would make for a pretty interesting double feature all the same. And while some of the in-movie puzzles are relatively obvious (hell, they even borrow one from Jim Henson's Labyrinth!), the movie as a whole proves to be sort of a puzzle in its own right. The third act revelations might not be all that shocking, but they work well enough in the low-key context of the piece.

If Seven Days Sunday were an American film, it would probably be some sort of push-button "after school special" affair, one that underlines all its main points and closes with a predictably simplistic message: Violence is bad. But Seven Days Sunday is instead a small German film that aims to dramatize an actual event -- and it's pretty impressive how the filmmakers never once stop to "explain" anything away. Sometimes bad people do bad things, and generally all we can do is analyze the aftermath and hope to prevent future horrors. Period.

Adam and Tommek are a pair of aimless teenagers who spend their days mired in one of Germany's more uncomfortable blue-collar neighborhoods. Although he's supposed to be some sort of altar boy, Adam is much more interested in trying to impress tough-guy Tommek. There's a cute blonde neighborhood girl who certainly seems to hold a torch for Adam, but the two boys are too busy stealing wine and robbing the locals to pay much attention to mundane things like puppy love. (Tommek definitely wants a piece of the blonde for himself, but she seems more than a little turned off by his "extreme" ways -- at the beginning, anyway.)

And here's another street-ballin' flick that wants you to know how tough it is to make it in life when the only thing not lyin' to your face is that dirty old basketball. Ball Don't Lie had a lot of potential and some sweeet b-ball sequences, but annoying editing and several mis-placed flashbacks ultimately hurt the film, which boasts appearances by Nick Cannon and Rosanna Arquette -- both of whom populated just about five to six minutes of the 102-minute feature. Chris "I'm Starting to Use My Real Name Instead of Ludacris" Bridges also shows up as a mentor who doesn't do much mentoring, except for schooling and then being schooled on the cement court.

He's not the only one: When it's not dazzling us with some fancy footwork, Ball Don't Lie schools us in the pitfalls of a broken foster care system; one that finds our hero, Sticky (newcomer Grayson Boucher), moving from one dysfunctional situation to the next. At some point, Sticky meets a girl who works at Foot Locker -- tries to find enough money to buy her a necklace for her birthday -- and then he gets beat up by a guy with a gun. The end. I don't mean to be harsh toward the movie, but it just doesn't serve a purpose -- it didn't go anywhere. I never read the book this was based on (written by Matt De La Pena), but I'd like to think it contained a little more than "What a sad situation for that poor boy."