Here in the dawn of the New Year, I'm still nursing my holiday hangover, so I'm going to finish up with my three-part Overlooked and Underrated series of columns, starting with Julian Jarrold's Becoming Jane, a fictitious biographical romance about Jane Austen (Anne Hathaway). It garnered unfavorable comparisons to Shakespeare in Love (1998), a film as dreadfully over-hyped as its cousin was under-hyped. (The hype meter must be perfectly balanced now.) James McAvoy -- currently receiving showers of awards attention for his involvement in Atonement (306 screens) -- plays the smoldering lover who titillates the educated and prickly Miss Austen. Unlike most brain-dead comedies in which the lovers are supposed to "fix" each other's shortcomings, these lovers are perfectly matched. Not to mention that Maggie Smith gives another one of her deliriously snooty performances.

I can't figure out why Richard Shepard's The Hunting Party failed, when it was just as energetic and funny as The Matador -- unless critics bristled at the film's political pokings. In this one, Richard Gere, Terrence Howard and Jesse Eisenberg make a wonderful team as three journalists (ranging from rookie to washed-up) who journey through Bosnia to find an infamous war criminal. Shepard's movie is constantly unexpected and alive, with three-dimensional characters you won't soon forget. Stick around for the whimsical closing credits, which explain the parts of the film that were "real."

With the writer's strike in full swing, I thought I'd pay tribute to a few of the writers who currently have films in theaters. Quite frankly, you really have to admire some of them. Take Allison Burnett, who adapted Feast of Love (2 screens) as well as this year's earlier Resurrecting the Champ. Burnett received very little love for either movie, but consider how hard it must have been to cut down a novel and expand a newspaper article at the same time? It makes my head spin. It's also quite impressive that Burnett was able to work again after his earlier script was turned into the universally panned film Autumn in New York (2000). But the thing that impressed me most of all about Burnett is his first produced script, Bloodfist III: Forced to Fight (1992), a vehicle for "Z" level action star Don 'The Dragon' Wilson. This is from a guy who studied playwriting and has published a novel. I can only imagine what it must be like to sit down and actually write something like that. Do you tape the paycheck on the wall next to your desk and keep staring at it? Good for Burnett that he made it out of that hole.

Then there's The Simpsons Movie (96 screens), which has at least eleven credited writers, and possibly more who added material without credit. Among them we have David Mirkin, who directed one of my all-time favorite guilty pleasures, Heartbreakers (2001), and James L. Brooks, who won an armload of Oscars for Terms of Endearment (1983). Most of the others are from TV, and I'd like to think they wrote this movie the way they might have written a half-hour episode: by sitting around a big table and throwing out ideas and laughing a lot. Those writer rooms are usually decorated with stuffed animals and novelty items, as well as plates of donuts and other snacks -- perhaps some kind of air freshener as well. It makes me all warm just thinking about it.

Every time I see an action movie with shaky, hand-held camerawork, I take a moment in my review to complain about it, but I never have the room to go into detail about why I hate it so much. Now that Michael Bay's Transformers (360 screens), Rob Zombie's Halloween (371 screens) and Brett Ratner's Rush Hour 3 (400 screens) have fallen into my humble lower domain, I'd like to discus it further.

The earliest example of shaky-cam I can remember comes in Stanley Kubrick's Dr. Strangelove (1964). Kubrick was known as filmmaker married to smooth, steady camerawork, using long takes, wide, deep compositions and slow, clean, traveling movements. So when he used the hand-held to emphasize the chaos of combat in Dr. Strangelove, it was an innovation. The scene has two important attributes: it's still recorded in long takes, so the viewer has a relatively good idea what's going on, but more importantly, in this particular scene, in this particular movie, it doesn't matter exactly what's going on. Only the larger concept of the fracas itself matters.

Today, just about every other Hollywood film uses shaky-cam, though European filmmakers generally prefer longer takes and less shaking. Since cameras get lighter and easier to use every year, it makes sense. With hand-held, it takes much less time to set up a shot. No more laying down track or mapping out every inch of camera movement. But hand-held has been quickly abused, and it's almost always used wrong. Bay's Transformers is a particularly heinous example. Each time a transformer switches from car to robot, Bay moves his camera right up to the action, as if it's taking place mere inches from our faces. Since the robots are several stories high, this is painfully disorienting. It's like trying to view the Empire State Building by waving a camera in front of a few bricks. Moreover, a filmmaker friend told me that, because the robots were created with CGI, Bay probably added his shaking camera after principal photography, with computers.

Zombie's Halloween should offer a pretty cut-and-dried case study. For dialogue sequences, Zombie keeps the camera fairly still, but when Michael Myers attacks, he begins jerking and lurching around. This does not emphasize the terror. It's more like riding a roller coaster and anticipating a ten-story drop before suddenly finding yourself thrown from the ride. Compare this to John Carpenter's masterful original, which was also filmed handheld, but via long, graceful, gliding Steadicam shots. Part of the problem with most shaky-cam work is that the director is forced to cut it together very quickly to hide the fact that very little is actually visible.

In my book, Ratner's crimes are a good deal worse. Ratner had the opportunity to direct Jackie Chan in his first big Hollywood-financed film. Chan is an exceptionally skilled martial artist. He choreographs his stunts and moves at lightning speed and razor precision. He has even established an emotional logic for his stunts, and he's a fairly good director himself, having made more films in Hong Kong than Ratner has here. Chan's method, and indeed the method of most Hong Kong filmmakers, is to choreograph the action first, then film it clearly without getting the camera in the way. Instead, in all three Rush Hour films, Ratner shakes the camera around and butchers everything Chan does. Nearly every martial arts star working in Hollywood has suffered the same problem, while -- ironically -- the talented Hong Kong directors, who know how to photograph action, have ended up making "B" movies with Jean-Claude Van Damme.

When we humans walk down the street, our heads and eyes bob up and down. But our brains automatically adjust so that our vision remains constant and smooth. If you're walking along a sidewalk and your gaze fixes on a car parked at the end of the block, the car does not jerk up and down. So when a filmmaker runs through the forest carrying the camera and filming the running movement, he's not actually capturing the feel of running. He's capturing chaos. The idea of making a movie is to get into the audience's heads. So by filming smoothly and cutting when necessary -- like the blinking of an eye -- the action should be closer to what everyone can relate to. Brad Bird's Ratatouille (393 screens) offers an excellent example of this. When his rat hero Remy explores the kitchen of the restaurant, Bird's "camera" swoops around the room at top speed, but it never loses the concept of the room. We're always aware of the room and our place in it.

That's the key: space. Even though Paul Greengrass's The Bourne Ultimatum is filmed entirely with shaky-cam, the space is always clear. The old-time Hollywood action directors like Howard Hawks and Raoul Walsh understood this instinctively. Let the audience see. Most of today's "action" directors, I suspect, very simply don't understand action, so they use the shaky-cam as a way to hide their ineptitude. The lack of action and choreography is covered up in the sludge of fast film and fast editing. What's even more perplexing is that nobody ever seems to notice or complain. (One of the most poorly made movies of all time, Gladiator, actually won a Best Picture Oscar.) Audiences are apparently used to shoddy work and wouldn't know good work if it bit them. We deserve better than what we're getting. All it takes is a taste of the good stuff before the bitterness of the bad stuff comes out.

It's October and I have to admit that I'm feeling a little empty without my annual Truman Capote movie. In 2005 there was Bennett Miller's excellent Capote and then last year came Douglas McGrath's Infamous, which, surprisingly, was equally good. I mean, couldn't some enterprising filmmaker have conjured up a movie about Capote's emotionally wrenching experience writing Breakfast at Tiffany's or something? But while I'm on this subject, those two movies proved a remarkable double feature, highlighting two different approaches to the exact same subject matter. Neither movie suffered, but each did something of its own uniquely well.

That was a rare opportunity, but there are always interesting pairs of movies out there for different reasons. For example, Steve Buscemi is currently starring in two movies, Interview (4 screens), which he directed, and Delirious (1 screen), directed by Tom DiCillo. In both, he plays a kind of desperate, pathetic journalist. With his increasingly saggy, sour face, he brings a kind of parasitic feel to the job, but there's still something captivating about him. He's one of those great "ugly" actors they used to hire back in the 1970s: people who look like people instead of movie stars. He is superb at soulful cowards and failures, often with a temper, and he has graced some of the best films of the past 20 years (Reservoir Dogs, Fargo, Ghost World, etc.)

The third film by Julie Taymor, Across the Universe (339 screens), has racked up an intriguing mixture of reviews. Some have ecstatically called the film a rousing success, and Anne Thompson, writing in Variety, has compared Taymor to Orson Welles! Other reviews have called the film an unmitigated disaster of proportions similar to the infamous flop Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (1978), which also re-imagines several Beatles numbers and incorporates them into an ill-advised movie musical. Myself, I rated the film somewhere in the middle. I thought it had a handful of truly inspired moments, a few truly awful moments (apologies to Eddie Izzard), and a great number of numbingly routine ones. (It reminded me too much of a play, not a movie.)

Writing in the New York Times a few years back, A.O. Scott mourned the absence of total disasters in the movies. A lack of disasters meant that people weren't really putting themselves on the line, and by turns, that safeguard also results in a lack of real masterworks. Pauline Kael once wrote a review of Bernardo Bertolucci's 1900 entitled "Hail, Folly." She praised "huge, visionary epics" of "mad" directors, like D.W. Griffith's Intolerance, Erich von Stroheim's Greed, Abel Gance's Napoleon, Sergei Eisenstein's Ivan the Terrible trilogy (left unfinished after Part II), and Francis Ford Coppola's then as-yet-unfinished Apocalypse Now. "The calamity of movie history is not the follies that get made, but the follies that don't get made," she said.

Manoel de Oliveira's Belle Toujours is back on the charts this week, playing on one lone screen, in Denver, according to my information. Among its other qualities and achievements, it marks the fourth collaboration of director Oliveira and actor Michel Piccoli (a fifth, a short segment in an anthology film, appeared earlier this year). At 81, Piccoli is practically a living legend, having worked with Alfred Hitchcock, Luis Buñuel, Jean-Luc Godard, Jacques Rivette, Louis Malle, Mario Bava, and many other greats. He also appears in Jean-Pierre Melville's 1962 Le Doulos, currently re-released on 2 screens. It's a delicate relationship between director and actor; Piccoli and Oliveira seem to be developing a comfortable working relationship in which each brings out the best in the other. This has happened relatively few times over the past century. When it happens, it can be very exciting, but when a director and an actor don't click, everything can fall to pieces.

Milos Forman has coaxed and guided some great performances over the years, notably Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Tom Hulce and F. Murray Abraham in Amadeus and Jim Carrey in Man on the Moon. But he has rarely been praised for directing women, as evidenced by his awkward handling of Natalie Portman in the awful Goya's Ghosts (37 screens). The movie earned advance attention for its nude/sex scene, but will probably be remembered for fitting Portman with a set of humorously bad fake teeth and for her self-consciously dazed walk, newly released from prison, through a chaotic town square. Forman may be to blame, but Portman is out there, on the screen, all alone and in front of everyone.

A conversation arose in the screening room the other day about the sorry state of young, romantic performers in movies today and the overwhelming blandness slathered across our movie screens. Pretty, plastic, chiseled faces smile at one another and sometimes kiss, and their efforts leave everyone cold. Critics and audiences often use the word "chemistry" to describe these encounters; either the characters have it or they don't. Strangely, there's really no way to tell if it's even there until the movie is finished. You can put two actors in a room together, or screen test them, but none of it comes together until the audience becomes a factor.

One reason most movie couples have been so bland lately is the ever-increasing control that studios are demanding of their product. Every aspect of filmmaking must be regulated and stabilized, and so, to make the most of their romantic stories, these same studio people very simply cast the most beautiful actors they can find. Beautiful people sometimes explode on the movie screen with lots of personality and star power, but just as often, they don't, looking more like polished statues without so much as a heartbeat. James Dean was very handsome, but he had a surprising element, a kind of unpredictability, as well as world-heavy sadness. But James Franco, who played Dean in a TV biopic, has only the looks. As shown in his most recent film, Spider-Man 3 (151 screens), where there should be passion and danger and excitement, there's only grooming. At times I honestly can't tell the difference between him and Paul Walker.

Adrienne Shelly's Waitress (116 screens) is a delightful little film, a yummy food movie and a romance with a dark, quirky, funny edge to it. Everyone seems to like it. It has made over $2 million so far in its brief run, and its IMDb ratings are high. Word of mouth should keep it running for a good long while. Certainly it's one of my favorite films this year so far, or at least one that I wouldn't hesitate to recommend or perhaps even see a second time. But there's another element to the film that permeates, yet comes from outside it.

On November 1, 2006, Shelly's husband found her body hanging by a bedsheet in her Manhattan bathroom. At first glance, it looked like suicide, but clues quickly led to the arrest of 19 year-old construction worker Diego Pillco, who confessed to the crime. Apparently, Shelly, 40, had complained about the noise he was making in the apartment below. Waitress had been completed and was ready to roll at the Sundance film festival just two and a half months later.

I was just re-watching my favorite Christmas movie, Miracle on 34th Street (1947) on DVD, though I was lucky enough to see it several years ago on the big screen. I like it because it has a real sense of the hustle-bustle of the season, of a chill in the air and the feel of ducking indoors for a hot cup of coffee. It even has an impressive documentary feel during the Macy's Thanksgiving parade sequence. It feels entirely modern, with its frank discussion of psychiatry and of the crass commercialism of Christmas. Of course, I'm a sucker for all the sentimental hogwash as well. I get all choked up when Kris Kringle sings with the Dutch girl.

One thing I noticed, though. Fox has released a new DVD of the film. I don't own it; I'm perfectly happy with my old edition from 1999. The new disc comes with a colorized version of the film as well as the original black and white, but it also comes with a full-color box cover, advertising Santa (Edmund Gwenn) in his bold red and white suit and ruddy pink face. I know Santa is always supposed to look like that, but I don't miss color in Miracle on 34th Street. Certainly the producers had the choice to film in color if they'd wanted to, and certainly color was more expensive, but they chose black and white and they stuck with it, knowing that it wouldn't detract from the film experience. It didn't. It was a hit and won three Oscars.

Given that it's Thanksgiving and that I'm in a cheery sort of holiday mood, I thought I'd relax today and look at some of the food movies that are currently playing.

I'm thankful for Richard Linklater's Fast Food Nation (321 screens), which could have been another preachy, sociopolitical treatise on how badly big corporations, organized religion and crooked politicians are screwing up the world. Of course, this film is as angry as all the others, but Linklater knows how to package it and to make it as entertaining as his other multi-character piece, Dazed and Confused (1993). This film is bold enough to ask: what can we actually do, or should we bother to do anything at all? Of course, there's no edible food in this movie, but I'm thankful for Bruce Willis' great scene as a cattle supplier, scarfing down a giant cheeseburger (with a beer) and casually telling fast food burger chain rep Don Anderson (Greg Kinnear) that a little cow excrement in our burgers isn't going to kill anyone.