Watch Captain America: The Winter Soldier Full Movie

Captain America is back, and he’s better than ever. In just a few short days, audiences have rewarded Marvel’s latest effort with cash — lots of it.

With all the money in the world behind it - with years and years of similar movies in the pipeline - the comic book superhero genre is already looking tired and going through the motions. The latest, "Captain America: The Winter Soldier," has the usual overlong running time, the halfhearted feints in the direction of human feeling and the obligatory action sequences that are big without being either exciting or particularly legible.
One action scene gets so confusing and jumbled that the question has to be written into the script: "How do we know the good guys from the bad guys?" The answer: "If they're shooting at us, they're the bad guys." Maybe. Or maybe those are the real heroes, trying to end the movie. For all of us.

Reviewing ‘Captain America: The Winter Solider’ is tough to do without adding spoilers. How do you critique an espionage tale without giving away the best parts? I’ll give it a shot.
Long story short: Chris Evans (Captain America), Scarlett Johannson (Black Widow), Anthony Mackie (The Falcon) find themselves in a situation where it’s essentially them against the world as they try and unravel the mystery behind an attack on Samuel L. Jackson’s Nick Fury. They handle the situation with wit, intelligence, strength, speed, and agility. The chemistry between each of them was great, and Marvel would be wise to continue keeping the three of them together moving forward.
At one point in the film, Cap manages to find a way to directly address agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. He wants them to disobey a direct order — one that may end up costing them their lives — and in doing so he tells the audience what the film is essentially about.

Attention all S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, this is Steve Rogers. You’ve heard a lot about me over the last few days. Some of you were even ordered to hunt me down. But I think it’s time you know the truth. S.H.I.E.L.D is not what we thought it was. … They almost have what they want: absolute control. … I know I’m asking a lot. The price of freedom is high. It always has been. That’s a price I’m willing to pay. And if I’m the only one, then so be it — but I’m willing to bet I’m not.

What is the price of freedom? If you’re a wise guy who enjoyed ‘Team America: World Police,’ you might say “freedom costs a buck-o-five.” If you’re a serious person, you might say that it’s a tough call because those in positions of power have to find a way to maximize both individual liberty and security.

How do you protect a nation when there are individuals and organizations tirelessly plotting ways to take down free societies? When you’re facing down enemies who see no difference between civilian and military targets — when you’re up against an opponent who has erased any notion of the traditional battlefield and replaced it with one where everything is fair game, how much power are you willing to ’s agents: our leaders want “absolute control.” But then the question becomes: Who watches the watchmen? What happens when the ones who protect us lose their way?

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“[Marvel] said they wanted to make a political thriller. [...] So we said if you want to make a political thriller, all the great political thrillers have very current issues in them that reflect the anxiety of the audience. … That gives it an immediacy, it makes it relevant. So [Anthony] and I just looked at the issues that were causing anxiety for us, because we read a lot and are politically inclined. And a lot of that stuff had to do with civil liberties issues, drone strikes, the president’s kill list, preemptive technology. [etc.]“

While I’m actually rather shocked that a Hollywood director had the guts to say that concerns over President Obama’s “Terror Tuesday Kill List” helped inspire a top-notch Marvel movie, on some level it’s no surprise given that the industry’s old-reliable when it comes to political thrillers is to blame America.
As I said in October when the first trailer came out:

The trailer for Captain America: Winter Soldier is finally here. The good news is that it looks like it has all the makings of solid espionage fare: Robert Redford? Check. Russian spies? Check. Shady spy agencies? Check.
The bad news? It has all the makings of a blame-America espionage flick. …
Mullah nuts in the Middle East who deny the Holocaust and call for pushing the Jews “into the sea”? Eh. Chinese Communist intelligence agencies who have never met a U.S. business or defense contractor they wouldn’t hack? Eh. Nebulous terrorist organizations that don’t fly under the flag, even as they plot and plan to kill military and civilian targets on a massive scale? Eh. CIA attempts to “connect the dots” and “neutralize” threats before thousands of Americans die on their way to work on a Tuesday morning? Now there’s a movie!

Is it annoying that Marvel went for the easy layup by once again putting America in the cross hairs? Yes, slightly. Was the movie entertaining? Of course. In fact, I highly recommend it. It’s just odd that critics of ‘Captain America: The Winter Soldier’ would have a point if they said it would have been better off going with ‘Captain America: Disillusioned with America.’ The movie has an assassin with a big red Soviet star on his metallic arm but no one talks about Communism, except for a passing reference? If the next installment doesn’t get into KGB agents and the world-wide espionage perpetrated by the Evil Empire, then Marvel should just openly admit that its favorite movie bad guys are aliens and Americans.
At the end of the day, there isn’t much to really complain about regarding Cap’s second solo outing. If Marvel continues churning out quality products like this, then Phase II, III, IV and V should roll along quite nicely. If you get a chance to see ‘Winter Soldier’ in theaters, check it out. You’ll be glad you did.

Tuesday 8 of April of 2014

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For Joe Johnston, the business was straightforward enough. His 2011 Captain America picture was the fifth juggernaut in the ongoing Marvel Avengers convoy, and took place almost entirely during the Second World War. In it, the Captain, Steve Rogers (Chris Evans), was a rippling pastiche of a military hero, who waged war in freedom’s name against grim men in black trench coats – Hydra, rather than the Nazis, although you suspect they shared a tailor – and fought with a moral certitude that was supposed to strike us as charmingly dated.

This sequel unfolds almost entirely in present-day Washington DC, where freedom is less of a defendable ideal than a political sales-pitch. Your first clue that something might be afoot, providing you’ve seen Three Days of the Condor or All The President’s Men, is the presence of Robert Redford, who plays a beaming director of the SHIELD intelligence service, and whose DC office block – no more than a hop, skip and jump from the Watergate building, you suspect – houses three state-of-the-art drone gunships in its basement.

The US government plans to send these craft to the Middle East, where they can bullseye suspicious cave-dwellers from on high, which Rogers can’t square with his own, more honestly swashbuckling sense of patriotism.

“I thought the punishment came after the crime,” he tells his commander, Nick Fury (Samuel L. Jackson). “We can’t afford to wait these days,” comes the barked response. More than ever, Jackson here has the cast of an angry pillar box, and in some scenes in The Winter Soldier he seems to transform into a column of pure, compacted rage. First, though, come suspicion and panic: Fury uncovers a conspiracy relating to the drones and becomes the target of an elite assassin, the Winter Soldier, whose own masters (to anyone in the film, at least) are not immediately identifiable.

For Joe Johnston, the business was straightforward enough. His 2011 Captain America picture was the fifth juggernaut in the ongoing Marvel Avengers convoy, and took place almost entirely during the Second World War. In it, the Captain, Steve Rogers (Chris Evans), was a rippling pastiche of a military hero, who waged war in freedom’s name against grim men in black trench coats – Hydra, rather than the Nazis, although you suspect they shared a tailor – and fought with a moral certitude that was supposed to strike us as charmingly dated.

This sequel unfolds almost entirely in present-day Washington DC, where freedom is less of a defendable ideal than a political sales-pitch. Your first clue that something might be afoot, providing you’ve seen Three Days of the Condor or All The President’s Men, is the presence of Robert Redford, who plays a beaming director of the SHIELD intelligence service, and whose DC office block – no more than a hop, skip and jump from the Watergate building, you suspect – houses three state-of-the-art drone gunships in its basement.

The US government plans to send these craft to the Middle East, where they can bullseye suspicious cave-dwellers from on high, which Rogers can’t square with his own, more honestly swashbuckling sense of patriotism.

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Whether the real life, 4-year-old Colton Burpo went to the actual heaven during his emergency surgery in 2003, has not really been my concern since I caught a pre-release screening at the National Religious Broadcasters Convention in Nashville last Sunday. What I was impressed with most, and still marvel at, is that the life of an ordinary pastor and his family living in Nebraska were so authentically captured in a Hollywood film. That's not a given.

Around the world, people of faith all have different views of the nature of God, Jesus, and Heaven (not to mention other prophets, gods, and revelations). Of course, these differences exist not just between religions, but also within Christianity itself (there can even be many, many differences between believers within the same congregation and even within families). Even people engaging in similar approaches to biblical interpretation (e.g. literal readings of the King James Version of the Bible) can yield very different conceptions of the nature of Heaven. The result, of course, is that within Christianity, there are thousands and thousands of good-faith understandings of God, of the permanence of the soul, and of Heaven.

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Given this, how could it be conceivably possible that Colton Burpo's revelation of the true nature of God and Heaven happened to conform exactly to his father's views on them?

I should note that you do not have to question the existence of God or of Heaven to wonder about this. In fact, I think the question is more troubling for true believers. For real believers, the question is not whether there is a heaven or not (that is beyond question); the real question is whether Mr. Burpo is using his son as a false prophet.

I think people should really consider that before endorsing or supporting this book

I, too, have had a terrifying experience where my child was extremely sick, doctors could not diagnose him for a couple of days, he went into the hospital, and when he was finally diagnosed was not expected to live. This is where my 'judgmentalism' comes from...

Thinking I was going to be buying a sweet little, uplifting tale that would resonate with me as I am a person of great faith and unfathomable love and thankfulness to God _ I came to a point in this book (about midway through Chapter 6) where I had to quit reading this book. The more I read (as written by the little boy's father) about the actions of these parents before actually seeking medical attention for their obviously sick child, the more judgmental I became. I don't like it when I find myself judging people, so the best thing for me to do was to delete the book from my Kindle and just forget about it. If I could ask for my money back, so that no money goes into the hands of people who acted so ignorantly, I would.

Here are a few examples of their behavior that just stupified me: When little Colton first became sick, before a trip, his mother took him to the doctor and the doctor wrote his illness off as a stomach flu. The parents prayed not that their sweet little 3 year old get better, but that he would get better enough not to interrupt a trip. (The trip was for a district church denomination meeting.) So, little Colton seems to be back to his old self the next day, so they go on their trip.

While out on their trip, both of their children become sick one night and the parents believed there was a revisitation of the stomach flu. That's understandable. However, when the 6 year old daughter who only threw up a couple of times overnight and the 3 year old continues to vomit "hourly", without any sign of improvement whatsoever, do they check-out of the hotel and take him to the ER or head back home? Nope, they take him to the home of some friends (let's just give this virus to everybody we know) so the mother can take care of him while the father attends church with one of the friends. Ignorant, selfish call I think. But, we're all entitled to a dumb move now and then. So, I keep reading. Once church is over, the father and his friend come home to find the 3 year old still very sick and vomiting "profusely".

The male friend the father went to church with that morning is concerned, thinking the symptoms might equal appendicitis. The father, whose experience as a pastor and garage door salesman make him an expert, decides that it's not appendicitis. Fine, anybody can be wrong. Keep reading... so dad decides it's not appendicitis and must still be the (contagious) stomach flu, therefore the family will just stay another night with their generous hosts - just in case they haven't made them sick yet, I guess. The following morning,after a night of the little boy STILL vomiting, the parents pack up to go home and their host, seeing the sick child cradled in his mother's arms, says that the little boy looks "pretty sick" and suggests that the parents take him straight away to the ER.

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Well, the parents reason that the 3 hours they would sit in an ER would be better spent driving home, so they head on home. They call ahead to their local doctor, make an afternoon appointment, and before heading out explain their reasoning to their host. The host "said he understood", but the father "could tell he was still worried". Okay, even now the friends of the parents are apparently thinking "what are you DOING?". Two hours into the drive, after the parents have had to stop and change clothing on an already fully potty trained child (!!!) whose began soiling himself and the child is by now "crying constantly" and they've had to stop "every 30 mintues" for him to throw up. So, they're still an hour or so from home, and they STILL DON'T STOP AT AN ER! I mean, come on people, it doesn't take a triple digit IQ to figure out at this point that 48 hours of hourly to half-hourly vomiting by a 3 year old can result in dehydration so severe that he could be having organ problems.

Wait, the dad even says that 2 hours into this 3 hour trip home that they know he must be getting dehydrated (ya think?!?) and they STILL DIDN'T STOP. So, they get back to their hometown in 3 hours and, though earlier in the book Dear Old Dad says they called ahead for an appointment with family doc, when they get home you know what they do? They go to the ER. FINALLY! And when they get to the ER, the kid is so sick, they don't make the family wait the dreaded 3 hours that the parents had speculated about earlier, no, one look at the child and the ER staff immediately takes them back.

Blood work is performed, Xrays are performed, and IVs are run. Results... the doctor doesn't know what's wrong with the child, but the Xray shows 3 masses in his stomach. While the IVs and antibiotics (antibiotics... they don't give those for stomach virus) are dripping, friends begin streaming in. One friend suggests that the parents should have the boy transported to Denver Children's (ya know, since doctors at Podunk Hospital don't know what's wrong). The parents dismissed this, instead deciding (I suppose) to let the Podunk docs google until they make a diagnosis.

On day two, after the boy is STILL throwing up and only getting worse "faster", mother stays on at the hospital while Dad works and prays. Finally, on day 3 at Podunk, it dawns on the parents of little Colton (whose looking like death to his parents)that maybe they should take him to another hospital. Denver Children's? Noooo, that would be too far from the parents "base of support". ARE YOU KIDDING ME? WHAT ABOUT COLTON'S MEDICAL SUPPORT? This is where I quit reading. I know from the photo on the cover that little Colton survived and is doing well (he's obviously not 3 anymore).

But I just, at this point, had formed such an unfavorable opinion of these parents selfishness or ignorance or both, that I just didn't want to read anymore. As a parent, I love to the point I would die for my kid. Sitting in an ER 3 hours from home is a far cry from death. Subjecting him to days of continual degradation of health and wellbeing so that I can be close to those who will pat my back and tell me it's all gonna be alright is not my idea of taking care of my child. I'm sorry if this feeling is offensive, but it's why I could not finish this book.

.

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Writer/director Richard Shepard proved a deft hand with the quirky crime picture with 2005's "The Matador," which featured former James Bond Pierce Brosnan strutting his stuff in all manner of garish and laugh-and-cringe-inducing ways as a hitman grappling (absurdly) with a midlife crisis. Shepard's new picture "Dom Hemingway" features Jude Law, sporting ridiculous facial hair, some interesting fake bridgework, and behaving in a similarly let-it-all-hang-out mode—like Brosnan's character, the ex-con Law plays here has little compunction when it comes to parading about in all manner of undress. The drama "Dom Hemingway" explores involves a vicious lout finding a form of redemption, and while that's an all-too conventional scenario, Shepard's movie plays it out in a brisk, inventive fashion and delivers a moviegoing experience that's almost equal parts stingingly sharp and genuinely sweet. "Is my [redacted] exquisite," is the first line Law's Dom Hemingway utters, referring to a particularly beloved appendage of his while standing naked as the day he was born in a prison cell.

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The soliloquy that follows continues in that, um, vein, and Law delivers it with spittle-dispensing brio whilst building up to a punchline that's as funny as it is genuinely distasteful. Soon enough, Dom is out of prison, having gotten "the call," and he's off to set a few things straight, including a confrontation with the civilian who married his wife, and a sit down with the Russian crime lord he declined to rat on almost a decade and a half earlier. His negotiations do not go so great. As he confesses to his best pal Dickie—played in a marvelous turn by a martini-dry Richard E. Grant, whose sickly pallor is offset by eyewear tinted hepatitis yellow, a remarkably evocative look—Dom has got anger issues.

Broke, bloody and liquored up, Dom shows up at his daughter's doorstep hoping she'll welcome him with open arms. But Evelyn (Emilia Clarke of "Game of Thrones" as a redhead), now living with her significant other and their son, is less than impressed with her father. And so begins his quest to win back her affection, while dipping back into a life of crime to try to make a bit of change. Luckily, he's still an expert when it comes to opening safes.


A temperamental, egotistical, British ex-con with a soft side for the daughter he left behind, Jude Law is magnetic as the title character in "Dom Hemingway," an amusing tale of vengeance, debauchery and redemption told stylishly by writer-director Richard Shepard.
Dom is introduced shirtless while delivering a verbose rant about his genitalia, which he likens to titanium, a Renoir or Picasso painting, a Nobel Prize winner, a cheetah, lightening and more. Few outrageous comparisons are spared.

"I tried yoga, the inspirational CDs, but the anger's still there," he says ruefully. But he can't help himself. On a jaunt to the South of France to meet crime lord Mr. Fontaine (played by Demián Bechir, having some broad fun), Dom takes a shine to the Russian mobster's pneumatically gifted trophy companion Paolina (Madalina Ghenea), which leads to some temporary awkwardness. Although he initially presents himself to Fontaine as "a petty serf, with good hair, and a strong liver," once he's got a few drinks in him, the ace safecracker is apt to start strutting about proclaiming "I'm Dom Hemingway" and making an unspeakably profane scene. However, Shepard's a writer of pretty distinct cleverness, and he does not take this face-off to any place immediately predictable.

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Dom's gutter eloquence has a touch of the poetic, and he's a beast with a beating heart. A notorious safecracker, he has just served 12 years after refusing to rat on his boss, and he now wants his reward. So after a three-day bender of hookers and cocaine, he teams up with his old crony Dickie (Richard E. Grant, playing the straight man for once) and drives up to the villa of the sinister Mr. Fontaine (Demian Bichir), who pays his debt to Dom by gifting him with nearly a million pounds. But then, thanks to more drugs and a car accident, Dom loses the money, and this sets up the film's ingeniously karmic, yin-and-yang version of a crime-caper plot. As Dom attempts to reconnect with his daughter (Emilia Clarke), his luck keeps jerking back and forth, and the movie whiplashes between freedom and violent desperation, with each twist really asking, Does Dom deserve to get what he wants? Law makes Dom a brilliant contradiction. He's a piece of pond scum with a sense of honor, a bad man and a good man. And the question of which side will rule turns Dom Hemingway into the most mesmerizing drama of British lowlifery since Sexy Beast.

Subsequent events at Fontaine's home land Dom, broke and busted up, at the home of his estranged daughter. There, he learns he's got a half-Senegalese grandson, and that, as he expected, his daughter wants nothing to do with him. Hemingway's bull-in-a-china-shop brashness alternates with a tender side that Law is careful to show hints of from the movie's very beginning. Part of the delight of this episodic movie is seeing how the two sides fight each other in the run up to the movie's climax, in which Dom is forced to examine what it is he really wants out of life while playing a pretty dangerous game with a former criminal associate from whom he wants to cadge some work.

I will not lie: while an objective assessment of the movie's ending might conclude that in certain respects it's a little too satisfying, I was happy to let the whole thing have its way with me. I brushed away a tear at a graveyard scene, and pumped my fist grinning after a living character got a particularly well-turned comeuppance. Cool stuff, and Law should get some kind of award in a "Most Shamelessly Enjoyable" acting category.

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Morris' film THE UNKNOWN KNOWN is a gripping exploration of the career and philosophy of former U.S Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld.

Using declassified memos, Morris guides Rumsfeld through a discussion of his controversial career as a high-level executive under four different Republican presidents. Such absorbing topics as Vietnam, the Cold War, Desert Storm and the War on Terror are all examined through the words of one of America's most divisive and complex public figures. (c) Fantastic.

“The Unknown Known,” Errol Morris’s engaging, purposefully confounding portrait of former defense secretary Donald Rumsfeld, takes its title from one of Rumsfeld’s gnomic, angels-on-a-pin disquisitions that helped make his news conferences during the Iraq War must-see TV for Washingtonians and policy wonks everywhere.
That signature Rumsfeldian pugnacity — and improbable charisma — are still much in evidence in this alternately enlightening and infuriating documentary, which in its structure and subject matter invites immediate comparisons to Morris’s brilliant 2003 film, “The Fog of War,” about Robert McNamara. But as “The Unknown Known” makes clear, Rumsfeld is no McNamara: Seemingly unable to engage in self-reflection, let alone self-criticism, Rumsfeld is given virtually full rein to control the narrative by Morris, who is far more interested in letting the audience dwell inside his subject’s strangely attenuated moral imagination, rather than challenge it.

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That’s not to say that “The Unknown Known” doesn’t possess value, as both an artistic exercise in Morris’s oblique, un-prosecutorial brand of filmmaking and as the political history of an era that spans the Nixon administration and the Bush Doctrine. The film traces Rumsfeld’s beginnings as a Navy veteran and congressman in the 1960s, a career during which he became a superbly skilled Washington navigator: a canny, smoothly effective careerist whose love of words (he’s an OED fan) would become crucial to advancing his agenda. At the Pentagon, he treated colleagues to a blizzard of white-paper memos that he called “snowflakes,” in which he asked questions both sharply literal and fuzzily rhetorical, often conducting high-flown inquiries into the meaning of such terms as “guerrilla warfare” and usually ending with a perfectly passive-aggressive “Thanks.”

Through skillful editing and a stirring score by Danny Elfman, “The Unknown Known” invests Rumsfeld’s otherwise banal Washington trajectory with unlikely tension and suspense. What’s more, his maddening habit of pseudo-philosophical speculation fits neatly into Morris’s own ruminative, erudite rhetoric. But if viewers come to “The Unknown Known” hoping for catharsis — or even just a few answers — about Rumsfeld’s role in planning and executing the invasion of Iraq in 2003, they may find themselves leaving more frustrated than rewarded. Faced with the enormity of losses in Iraq and whether the decision to invade was the right one, Rumsfeld has only this to say: “Time will tell.”

Morris doesn’t always let such verbal shrugs be the last word: At one point Rumsfeld flatly declares that the United States doesn’t assassinate people, to which Morris quickly replies by reminding him of the Dora Farms strike, when the military tried to kill Saddam Hussein with four “bunker buster” bombs. But just as often, Morris is inclined to let Rumsfeld have his say unchallenged, without even a follow-up question. Tracing his subject’s tenure as a Middle East envoy in the 1980s, Morris shows the now-famous picture of Rumsfeld smiling and shaking the hand of then-enemy-of-our-enemy Hussein — and there it hangs for posterity, un-remarked or commented upon.

One of the film’s visual conceits is a vast blue ocean that, coupled with huge stacks of papers and card catalogues, suggests the vast written record that Rumsfeld has created, perhaps in part to obscure some vital, hidden — and damning — truth. It’s an elegant metaphor, but rather than ferret it out, “The Unknown Known” leaves viewers feeling just as at sea as when the film started. We might have journeyed inside Rumsfeld’s mindset for a while, but are we richer for the excursion?
Speaking of the Sept. 11, 2001, attacks as a “failure of imagination,” Rumsfeld compares the episode to the bombing at Pearl Harbor, noting that the U.Sl.military at the time was “chasing the wrong rabbit.” Morris is clearly chasing the right one; in this case, though, the rabbit was clever enough to get away.


★ ★ ½ PG-13. At Angelika Film Center Mosaic and Avalon. Contains some disturbing material and brief nudity. 103 minutes.

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Former Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld is Teflon and unruffled throughout Errol Morris’ gripping new film. It’s as if the director of “Gates of Heaven,” “The Fog of War” and the Abu Ghraib prison chronicle “Standard Operating Procedure” had set his camera before a slab of stone.

Rumsfeld’s truth-defying, never-wrong solidity emerges as talk turns to the decisions that led the U.S. into Iraq and Afghanistan beginning in 2003. Then there’s the running of those wars and the WMD that didn’t exist. Now 81, Rumsfeld talks of the thousands of what he calls “snowflakes” — terse yet oddly prosaic memos he sent to his staff during the Nixon, Ford and G.W. Bush administrations. Rumsfeld’s Cheshire cat grin turns wistful. Morris, offscreen, sometimes sounds flummoxed by the man.
The matchup, culled from 30 hours of interviews, is intoxicating, and at times maddening, to watch. Both adjectives may be deliberate for at least one participant, whose quote — “There are things we don’t know that we know” — gives this great documentary its enigmatic, telling title.

 

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Morris' film THE UNKNOWN KNOWN is a gripping exploration of the career and philosophy of former U.S Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld. Using declassified memos, Morris guides Rumsfeld through a discussion of his controversial career as a high-level executive under four different Republican presidents. Such absorbing topics as Vietnam, the Cold War, Desert Storm and the War on Terror are all examined through the words of one of America's most divisive and complex public figures. (c) Fantastic.

"There are (known) knowns, things you know you know," former Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld once said. "There are known unknowns, the things you know you don't know. But then there's that third category, and those are the unknown unknowns."
So what do we know about Rumsfeld?

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Well, on paper we know he was a straight-arrow kid who served in the Navy, married his high-school sweetheart, was elected to Congress and became, at 43, the country's youngest Secretary of Defense. Also, several presidents later, our oldest Secretary of Defense.
And then, most essentially perhaps, the architect of our post 9/11 geopolitical strategies, the cheerleader for our wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, and the man in charge when prisoners were — let's use the correct words — tortured and abused.

But what would he rather we not know about him?
That's the fuel behind "The Unknown Known," a laser-focused documentary from Errol Morris. Morris has pulled people into the spotlight before (including another Secretary of Defense, Robert S. McNamara). But Rumsfeld is a special case.
For one thing — no insult to former Morris subjects — he's whipsmart. (A Princeton grad, Rumsfeld went on to Georgetown Law and can not only think fast on his feet, but clearly enjoys the give and take of philosophy, debate, even semantics).

For another — unlike McNamara — he has no doubts, no second thoughts and certainly no guilt. You disagree with stationing troops in Afghanistan? With the perpetual detention of captured combatants? Well, then, perhaps you should express those thoughts to the current president — who's kept those Bush-era policies in place.

Errol Morris must have thought that it would be a real coup to do a documentary about Donald Rumsfeld, just as it was when he got Robert McNamara to confess his doubts and mistakes during Vietnam in The Fog of War. To make The Unknown Known, Rumsfeld agreed to be interviewed for more than 30 hours in front of Morris' specially rigged Interrotron camera. But when you see the movie, you'll know why: Donald Rumsfeld is a man who likes to hear himself talk. That, after all, was the ultimate message of those realpolitik Zen koans (''Stuff happens,'' ''Osama bin Laden is either alive and well or alive and not too well or not alive'') he dropped in his Iraq-war press conferences. He was making his prankish obfuscations the real story, a gambit the press mocked but also fell for.
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In The Unknown Known, Rumsfeld prattles on, quoting from the thousands of ''memos'' he churned out like notes to be stuck in fortune cookies during his tenure in Washington. The memos are stray thoughts, directives, and random bits of Rumsfeldiana; the film's message seems to be that in corrupt governments, words are used not to communicate but as a kind of fascist confetti. Yet to take the playfully convoluted, semi-nonsensical aggression of Rumsfeld's language and make it the whole point of a movie is to fall into the trap of mistaking the spin for the story. (Also available on iTunes and VOD) B-

 The film certainly serves as something of a cousin to “The Fog Of War,” with the focus placed almost entirely on an extended interview with his subject. Morris has more material to work with here, though—Rumsfeld dictated regular memos (or, as he calls them, “snowflakes”) throughout his career that have subsequently been archived, and which, according to him, may number in the millions. Now (mostly) unclassified, Morris intersperses his more direct questions by getting Rumsfeld to read some of these memos directly into his trademark “Interrotron,” which allows Morris to interview his subjects while still allowing them to look directly into camera.

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After living for centuries and influencing the careers of countless famous musicians and scientists, vampire Adam (Tom Hiddleston) has become a reclusive musician. He spends his days recording albums on outdated studio equipment and lamenting the state of the modern world while he sulks in a dilapidated house in a deserted Detroit neighborhood. He has become convinced that humanity is doomed and continually refers to humans as "zombies". Adam survives on blood-bank donations regularly supplied by Doctor Watson (Jeffrey Wright), who is happy to take Adam's money and not ask any questions.

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Having acquired substantial amounts of scientific knowledge over the years, the vampire has managed to build contraptions to power both his home and vintage sports car with technology originally pioneered by Nikola Tesla. Despite his reclusive nature, he is immensely wealthy and remains a popular musician. His many fans endlessly speculate about his whereabouts and real identity. Adam is horrified when a few of them turn up on his doorstep one night having figured out his address.

He ignores them and they go away. The vampire also pays Ian (Anton Yelchin), a naive human "rock and roll kid", to bring him various vintage guitars and recording equipment. One night, Adam asks him to track down a wooden bullet for, as he puts it, "a project". Ian fulfills this request and Adam loads it into a small pistol. He contemplates suicide but a video phone call from his wife, Eve, convinces him not to go through with his plans. Eve has spent the past several years living in Tangier where she purchases her blood supply from another vampire, Christopher Marlowe (John Hurt). Fearing for Adam's life, she flies to Detroit.

The lovers unite and are content enjoying each other's company, eating blood popsicles, playing chess, dancing to music at home, and driving around the city at night. Then, a short time later, Eve's younger sister, Ava (Mia Wasikowska), arrives from Los Angeles and shatters the couple's idyllic seclusion. After a night out at a local club, Ava kills Ian, draining him of blood, and she is kicked out of the house by Adam. Adam and Eve dispose of Ian's corpse in an abandoned factory.

Ava's impulsive behavior, in addition to a growing number of Adam's fans continually trekking out to the house, forces the couple to hastily return to Tangier. Experiencing blood-withdrawal, they discover that their longtime friend and mentor Marlowe has fallen ill due to a bad batch of blood. After revealing that he secretly penned most of Shakespeare's plays, he dies. Running low on finances, and with no blood supply to curb their cravings, the couple spot a pair of young lovers kissing. "What choice do we have?" Adam remarks before the two of them approach the couple with their fangs out.

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Noted indie director Jim Jarmusch directs the vampire story Only Lovers Left Alive. Tom Hiddleston stars as Adam, a bloodsucker who makes a living as a reclusive musician. He reunites with the love of his life, Eve (Tilda Swinton) a fellow vampire who leaves her home overseas to be with him in the downtrodden Motor City. They eventually get a visit from Eve's irresponsible sister (Mia Wasikowska) who irritates Adam and eventually causes trouble with the one human - the vampires refer to the.

Tilda Swinton and Tom Hiddleston make a dashing and very literal first couple—centuries-old lovers Eve and Adam—in Jim Jarmusch’s wry, tender take on the vampire genre. When we first meet the pair, he’s making rock music in Detroit while she’s hanging out with an equally ageless Christopher Marlowe (John Hurt) in Tangiers. (Long-distance spells aren’t such a big deal when you’ve been together throughout hundreds of years.) Between sips of untainted hospital-donated blood, they struggle with depression and an ever-changing world, reflect on their favorite humans (Buster Keaton, Albert Einstein, Jack White) and watch time go by, each finding stability in the other.