It’s official: Hollywood is experiencing their worst summer since 1983. According to the Hollywood Reporter, after four years of continuous up-growth, ticket sales are down a formidable 13 percent from last year’s record-breaking season.

Only three films, all conveniently aimed at 14-year-old boys, lived up to greedy box office expectations: Revenge of the Sith, War of the Worlds and Batman Begins. Wedding Crashers brought unexpected financial relief, though the mind boggles over America’s willingness to buy into the tabloid-peddled Mr. and Mrs. Smith. The tide of hype ran high for Kingdom of Heaven, The Island and Stealth, but combined they barely topped the $100 million mark. (Kingdom of Heaven will definitely lose something on DVD, but it’s well worth a rental.)

Audiences venture into “art” films only when they are guaranteed safe passage; in other words, none of that foreign stuff with the fancy talking written on the bottom. Proof positive: Only two indie films, the cuddly basic cable documentary March of the Penguins and Crash, a film that boldly declares racism a bad thing, managed to successfully break out of the art-house circuit.

High ticket prices, DVD sales and the prevalence of home exhibition should absorb some of the blame. Many are quick to finger onscreen commercials for part of the slump. One mental patient actually attempted to sue a theater chain for projecting commercials. Stop whining! Just so the trailers, give or take a few extraneous ads, hit the screen promptly at 7:00 p.m., who cares what’s shown during intermission? Generally nothing cures bad box office quicker than good pictures, but contrary to popular belief, 2005 has been a damn fine year for movies, particularly those not playing at a theater near you. Between Memorial Day and Labor Day, the 15 weeks that comprise Hollywood’s brain-dead summer season, megaplexes do not need to drape garlic bunting across their box office windows to ward off true film lovers. Did anyone in their right mind truly expect to find entertainment value, let alone cinematic enlightenment, in Dukes of Hazzard, Monster-In-Law or Constantine?

So far this year, the majority of films that courted favor dealt in seemingly unpleasant subject matter: a failed pimp and drug dealer turned rap singer (Hustle and Flow), a deaf DJ (It’s All Gone Pete Tong), bear food (Grizzly Man) and anti-war documentaries that don’t fit the Bush mold (Gunner Palace, Shake Hands With the Devil). None of these are more off-putting than seeing Jane Fonda return to the screen, ostensibly to sell her autobiography, playing second fiddle to Jennifer Lopez. This family “comedy” drew more viewers than the superb (and death-obsessed) The Upside of Anger. Why see Mysterious Skin, a brilliantly made and hopelessly disturbing film about pedophilia, when you can watch a bunch of midgets in garbage cans sport laser beams and doing battle with blue-screens?

The desire for escapism is always at the forefront, but why not escape with a sharp, observant film rather than another robotic visit to the mall? The public should be commended for sending studios a message by shunning the vast majority of this summer’s crop. If only they had spent their entertainment dollars wisely on foreign and independent films that play locally at Landmark’s Ken, Hillcrest and La Jolla Village cinemas. Coming of age in neighborhood screens that regularly showcased works by Bunuel, Antonioni, Bergman and Fellini brought about immunity to subtitles early on.

In the ’60s, the notion that thinking while watching actually provided a more rewarding evening out at the movies seemed to take hold. The early ’70s saw a renaissance in American cinema. You couldn’t step into a theater without confronting groundbreaking works by Scorsese, Bogdanovich, Coppola and countless other talented artists. George Lucas directed American Graffiti, his only human (and humane) film to date, during this period. When Close Encounters and Star Wars swamped box office records, and Georgie and Stevie went on to create the bashing thrills of the Indiana Jones cycle, moviegoing as we knew it was forever altered. Theaters split, showtimes staggered and a weekly grosses gloss supplanted quality criticism. Check your brains at the ticket counter and pick a shoebox to watch ’em in, folks. All of the impact that art films had on the late ’60s was flushed in favor of mindless escapism. If only studio moguls defined escapism as sharp, engaging filmmaking instead of stomach-churning amusement park rides.

The only changes were for the worse: bigger budgets, dumbed-down plots and no senseless wear and tear on the gray matter. It’s 2005 and the biggest hit of the year is another goddamned Star Wars sequel. People cry out for good storylines, yet are content to watch an anamorphic video game with dialogue that would make Buster Crabbe wretch. (“Join me and together we can rule the universe” – delivered straight without benefit of tongue firmly planted in cheek. Feh!) Besides, people who go to movies strictly for stories would best be served watching disease-of-the-week tales on the Lifetime channel. It ain’t what you say but the way that you say it, and the surest tonic for a weak script is a strong storyteller. Methinks I found a fresh yarn-spinner with a solid screenplay to back him up!

Written and directed by Mike Mills

Based on the novel by Walter Kirn

Starring: Lou Pucci, Tilda Swinton, Vincent D’Onofrio and Keanu Reeves

Running time: 96 minutes in CinemaScope

Surely you didn’t think that I’d bitch and moan this long without giving my readers at least one current film to illustrate my argument, and first-timer Mike Mills’ Thumbsucker scores high marks in that most vilified of genres: the teen comedy. Hollywood has forever attempted to prove their moral conscience by cranking out dozens of anti-drug and alcohol films. After seeing Michael Keaton in Clean and Sober jumping up and down on the top of the steps like Rocky with an AA chip, I fled the theater and crawled into the first bar I could find. The only American film to show why people take drugs was Gus Van Sant’s Drugstore Cowboy. Everything else resulted in either kicking the habit or death by association. Face it, the only reason that Jessica Biel lived to see reel six of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre was her reluctance to take a hit off a joint in reel one.

The unappealing title may suck, but Thumbsucker is the finest anti-drug film since Drugstore Cowboy, as well as one of the sharpest films about addictive personalities since Altman’s rambling gambling opera California Split. You know the old adage that pot leads to harder drugs? Thumbsucker argues that anti-psychotic drugs lead to pot. Tom Cruise should heartily endorse this picture.

Justin Cobb (Lou Pucci) is an androgynous 17-year-old unable to kick the habit: he’s got a thumb on his back. His sucking further distances his father (Vincent D’Onofrio) who insists on being called by his first name as he goes kicking and screaming into parenthood. Mom (an intentionally made-down Tilda Swinton, who also produced) is off in her own world trying to win a date with soap opera star Benjamin Bratt. Prescription medication to combat ADHD produces a speedy clarity that propels Justin to debate team stardom as well as possibly the only student ever to finish Moby Dick while still in high school.

Acting more as a peer than as a debate coach, Vince Vaughn, doing a fine riff on Ernie Kovacs’ Percy Dovetonsils, not only allows Justin to share a field trip hotel room with three underage female debaters, he agrees to buy the kids a six-pack. This is not a case of a guy doing some teens a solid on a Friday night – Coach knows Justin takes Ritalin, and no matter how smart the boy is or how responsibly he acts, no teacher would risk losing their job in such a thoughtless manner. Equally at question is Keanu Reeves’ attempt at self-parody: he Bill & Ted’s his way through the role of a New Age dentist.

Minor gripes aside, Thumbsucker joins the ranks of Donnie Darko and Igby Goes Down as an honest, credible exploration of a modern teen’s journey through high school hell. Pucci’s transition from thumb to pharmaceuticals to bong shows the makings of a future star. Given Hollywood’s demand for instant gratification on opening weekend, word-of-mouth doesn’t have time to spread before a film quickly vanishes from theaters. This quirky little comedy will probably have legs on home video. Why wait?

Of course if you’re addicted to multiplexes there’s always The Exorcism of Emily Rose. I need another exorcism picture like I need a head in my hole. No pea-green puke or spinning heads; instead we get religion on trial. Nearly two-thirds of this clone is spent in a courtroom: “Anatomy of an Exorcism.” First-rate actors Laura Linney and Tom Wilkinson do a superb job of trolling for paychecks. If you’re still scared by screaming cats shattering the purposely silenced Dolby, have I got a movie for you! For me, an Exorcist by any other name still stinks. Wait for it to come out on home video and don’t rent it.

0

Better than all three Lethal Weapon movies combined and a safe distance from Midnight Run, the bi-racial buddy picture The Man has enough laughs to warrant a dollar-night rental if not a theatrical viewing. A devotee of Eugene Levy since his days on “SCTV,” it was gratifying to see him finally land a starring role. While five minutes of Bobby Bittman is funnier than anything on display here, Levy’s ever-shifting eyebrows, oversized spectacles and pallor-deadening make-up reminded me of a silent clown: Harold Lloyd with enormous caterpillars perched atop his eyes. Admittedly, some of the biggest laughs come from Samuel L. Jackson’s nappy toupee and long shots of stunt doubles that look nothing like the stars, a nuance sure to be lost on the small screen.

Rating System

Oxygen

A Film of Films

Solid Popcorn Picture

A Missed Opportunity

Barely Sticks to the Screen

0 Worse than TV