The Guru didn't have a lot of legs during its theatrical release, and that's largely because it couldn't decide for itself what sort of movie it wanted to be, or what sort of audience it wanted to attract. Pretty much only those with an interest in Bollywood fare would've caught wind that stateside producers were putting out a comedy blending elements of both Indian and mainstream American cinemas, but the synthesis here is so timid that few will walk away feeling other than confused.

It's a good thing that at least a couple individuals involved in this project were of Indian descent; had the credits not listed names like Elizabeth's Shekhar Kapur (story author & executive producer) and legitimate Bollywood star Jimi Mistry in the title role, it would be too easy to lob accusations of gross racism at the production. A young dance instructor in Delhi named Ramu, whom we initially find teaching the Macarena to middle-aged ladies, emigrates to Manhattan with dreams of becoming a star (in what entertainment field, it's never made clear), only to find his old pals (who'd come over before him, and wrote letters saying they were enormously successful) driving cabs and waiting tables at Indian restaurants. He himself ends up impersonating a turbaned swami at a dinner party for the social elite, where he's expected to dispense wise aphorisms for everyone's amusement and edification. Not exactly the most imaginative story elements to explore subcontinental ethnic identity; throw in Apu at the convenience store and the checklist of stereotypes will be complete.

Indian audiences would be even more nonplussed, however, if they heard "Rammy"'s opening proclamation to the moneyed gathering: "God wants you to have sex!" You see, he mistakenly auditioned for a porn flick upon his arrival in the Big Apple, and for his day job he finds himself exchanging horrendous pre-coital dialogue with none other than Heather "Boogie Nights" Graham, who'd best stop accepting roles like this if she doesn't want to avoid being stereotyped herself. Rammy has difficulties nonverbally performing when it counts, though, and he begs Graham for advice on how to jump-start his mojo. That's why, at a loss for words in the guise of the swami, he falls back on the sex tips Graham had confided in him. Not exactly the sort of stuff you'll see in the average Bollywood musical.

Did I say musical? Yes, they subsequently break into song and dance, leading us to believe that director Daisy von Scherler Mayer is simply springing on us a Yankeefied version of Bollywood's bread and butter, with a significantly more sexualized plot made possible by its American production origins. We should be so lucky - there's only one other number in the whole movie, suggesting Mayer thought adding more would scare off most audiences. Having so few musical interludes only makes them more incongruous with the rest of the picture, though, and most viewers will wonder why they bothered including them at all.

Instead we're treated to Rammy's foibles with Graham, with whom he's becoming increasingly infatuated, and with Marisa Tomei, a shallow-but-searching Uptowner who continues to mistake him for a swami and who milks her high-power Manhattan connections to get him established as a spiritual sex therapist to the rich. ("Does he do privates?" "Does he ever.") Mistaken-identity hijinks abound, as Graham (who reads "Contemporary Bride" between takes at Ramrod Productions) has her firefighter fiance' believing she's a devoutly Catholic and chaste substitute schoolteacher, and Tomei becomes increasingly taken with Rammy (who's simply parroting the sex tips Graham regularly imparts to him).

The script has its moments, mostly the zingers Tomei exchanges with her deathly-rich mother (the ever-dependable Christine Baranski): "Can I see you in the kitchen?" "Do you know where it is?" (Later, Rammy asks Tomei how her mother is, and she answers "remarkably lifelike.") But as Rammy starts to profit off Graham's erotic wisdom beyond his wildest dreams and struggles with his conscience, it becomes clear that The Guru isn't trying to break any new ground. The one thing both Hollywood and Bollywood can't resist are tidy endings, and we get the ever-clichéd humbling confession of the truth before a large audience, the frenzied drive to the wedding to stop the love interest from marrying someone else, the amorous declaration as they burst in on the ceremony, and you can guess the rest. Here's where we get the second and final musical sequence, initially with a song lifted from an obscure late 60's Bollywood production (per my Indian pal), but then suddenly they're performing a brilliantly Hindified version of "You're the One That I Want" from Grease. It's only then that you recognize what could've been - The Guru stumbled onto a fusion of Eastern and Western musical elements that, had it been explored at length, could've catapulted the film to serious (and more profitable) cult status. One hopes other filmmakers pick up the baton and take such a risk in a future film, because the cheese factor would be irresistible. As it is, however, The Guru remains highly resistible.

There are plenty of movies whose formal achievements I admire but whose disturbing content dissuades me from ever recommending them to others, like Irreversible, Happiness, or Bully; in the case of Punch-Drunk Love, we have a whole new category, a film that's both utterly brilliant in its construction but so deliberately annoying as to be unwatchable. I can only hope you believe me when I say, it's a really good film; DON'T SEE IT.

Punch-Drunk Love achieved some initial notoriety for having won Best Screenplay at Cannes and for featuring Adam Sandler in his first stab at a "serious" role. The script's honors are well-earned, for exploring wholly common and scarred psychologies few films have heretofore addressed, and Sandler's portrayal of a classic case of arrested development is uncannily convincing, but initial audiences expecting an "Adam Sandler film" were so grievously disappointed that the backlash pretty much took the wind out of Punch-Drunk Love's sails. There is absolutely nothing out there in film history to which one can compare this; writer-director P.T. Anderson continues his legacy of utterly idiosyncratic filmmaking (he was responsible for Boogie Nights and Magnolia) and deliberately tests our notions of what constitutes a worthwhile cinematic experience.

For starters, there is not a single location in the film that isn't altogether depressing, from Sandler's warehouse workplace (he runs a tiny operation in southern California that manufactures novelty toilet plungers) to the sterile and unnaturally bright aisles of a supermarket where be buys mass amounts of Healthy Choice™ pudding, from his under-furnished cookie-cutter apartment (with a Clapper™!) to the tourism-kitsch Hawaiian resort to which his adventures lead him. I'd accuse Anderson of stumping for the overhead-fluorescent-lighting industry if they'd actually needed his help to disseminate their product into nearly every single public and private space in America; every setting is virtually bled of any colors that might give pleasure to the eye, but how different is that from where you or I work or shop? It's these bleak representations of urban sprawl that make all the more confusing Punch-Drunk Love's regular interludes whereby the entire screen shimmers with an inexplicable Aurora-Borealis-esque curtain of colors. (Maybe Anderson was mercifully trying to give our eyes a break from the plot's persistent visual monotony.) Also injecting a bold dose of color is Sandler's infamous blue suit worn from start to finish, which either means to provide insight into his character or is yet another throwaway oddity in a story already rife with baffling ingredients.

The plot, if you must know, enters the world of Barry Egan (Sandler), a grown man so clearly subject to any number of neuroses but keeping them all neatly in check under a veneer of restrained professionalism. He's probably been this way for a good decade, but this particular morning begins a chain of events that will unmoor his stolid reserve and offer him an unrestricted view over the edge. In a David Lynchian opening, Barry's imbibing his morning 64 oz coffee in the parking lot when he witnesses a sudden and shocking vehicle accident. (A stream of recent films have featured horrific car crashes with increasing frequency and visceral impact, from Identity to Adaptation to Matrix Reloaded; what, is there some well-connected special effects contractor out there who specializes in this, and is cashing in on favors?) It's weird enough that there were no other cars or objects in the street to have caused the SUV to roll into the air; doubly bizarre that immediately afterwards, a van pulls up by Barry's lot, dumps a harmonium (think miniature church organ) onto the pavement, and takes off. (Though Barry takes this charming musical instrument into his office and contemplates its significance throughout the tale, it should come as no surprise that we never do find out why it was abandoned there.)

Love adheres more to an emotional than a narrative logic, as subsequent incidents gradually reveal the reason why Barry seems so awkward. Seven reasons, actually - he grew up with that many older sisters, who all ganged up on him from day one and regularly disparaged his masculinity. Anderson coached some disturbingly acidic vocal performances out of these ladies, all of whom pester Barry over the phone that morning, insisting he attend their dinner party in the evening. Even while coaxing him to make an appearance, they're always subtly critical or accusatory, and the subtextual verbal assaults continue when he shows up. What follows is simply the only way he can think of fighting back - he shatters a sliding glass door. Anyone with an ounce of objectivity could see emotional abuse in action, but when you've grown up in this sort of environment, violently acting out your frustrations like a child is probably the best you can do.

Barry goes home and tries an equally under-socialized means to find some companionship: a phone sex line. It seems all he wants to do is talk to someone, but the lady on the other end (named "Georgia") needs credit card numbers first, and you prepare to watch his disposable income get sucked away. Anderson cuts to the following morning, though, where things get weirder - the lady calls him. Seems she needs rent money, and if Barry doesn't help, she'll tell his friends and family that he called her service; she calls him later at work, insisting she means business. Add to this already-demanding morning another female, in the form of Lena Leonard (Emily Watson), who works with one of Barry's sisters and came by to ask him out on a date, and it becomes clear that Barry is having some serious woman issues.

Georgia later sends a trio of hicks after him to extort additional funds just as things start going well with Lena, a bizarre intertwining of plot elements that do serve up a couple of compelling moments; in one scene the boys take him to an ATM to pump out all his remaining cash, but he runs away, and the choking sound Barry makes as he flees, a growl combining fear and anger, sounds just like what a child would utter when caught up in such a moment; letting the adrenaline get the best of him, he then tries leaping heroically over a hedge, with disastrous results. Sandler's childlike impersonation finds equally effective expression as he's leaving Lena's apartment building after a date, she calls down to him in the lobby to invite him back for a kiss, and he gets lost in an endless number of identically nondescript hallways trying to find her apartment again. There's an emotional truth to these moments I can't recall seeing in any other movie, perhaps rejected by most filmmakers as too mundane to bother with; but Anderson apparently sees value in hyperreality - the few times he steps back from Love's mostly obtuse storyline, that is.

Not once is it sufficiently explained why Lena would be so attracted to Barry, unless she's really a secret agent for Healthy Choice ™. In between these predicaments Barry waxes conspiratorial about a "marketing mistake" he discovered in a joint promotion between Healthy Choice™ and American Airlines, in which purchasing the former's pudding snack packs gets you an inordinate amount of the latter's frequent flier miles. Crateloads of pudding start piling up in his office (they're "a form of currency," he insists), but when Lena flies to Hawaii for a brief work trip and Barry resolves to distance himself from Georgia's henchmen, he pesters Healthy Choice™ headquarters on the phone to convert his proofs of purchase into flight miles immediately. (What, he can't just buy a ticket to get to Honolulu?) This is when Barry learns to start standing up for himself, a character development that feels natural but still can't offset an overarchingly irritating cinematic outing. Several other scenes are masterful in their execution, but don't you dare let any of my acclamations lure you to the video store even out of curiosity; the musical soundtrack is indescribably painful, the dialogue is too creepily authentic, and virtually none of Punch-Drunk Love makes any discernible sense. Anderson, Sandler, et al are to be commended for their remarkable creation, but I never want to see that godforsaken movie again.

The same goes for The Hours, sadly, unless it's just the parts featuring Nicole Kidman disguised as Virginia Woolf. And when I say disguised, I could not mean it more; though all they did was essentially stick a false nose on her, Kidman is utterly unrecognizable. The rest of the trick is a testament to Kidman's newly-recognized talent as an A-list dramatic actress, that she submerges herself so completely within her portrayal of the depressive and gifted British writer whose suicide in the film's opening scenes frames all that transpires afterwards.

Based on Michael Cunningham's novel, adapted by David Hare, and directed by Billy Elliot's Stephen Daldry, The Hours takes on a triptych format involving women of three different eras who are all, basically, a mess. Kidman's scenes explore Woolf's final days before she fills her pockets with stones and drowns herself in a river; Julianne Moore plays a housewife in 1950's America who also toys with the idea of ending it all; and Meryl Streep, in present-day Manhattan, finds herself constantly trying to convince her closest friend not to take his own life. The three tales are more interconnected than you expect, but by the time the clever structure dawns on you the relentless lament that permeates the proceedings has made you just as miserable.

First there's the Mrs. Dalloway connection: we see Woolf in Sussex in 1923 committing perhaps her most brilliant novel to paper as she rankles under a sense of domestic incarceration. (She doesn't take her fatal dip until 1941; don't be fooled by The Hours that she simply wrote Dalloway and promptly dove in.) Cut to Moore a few decades later, doing her best to keep up appearances as a suburban California wife and mother, but often too melancholy to do more than stay in bed and read that same novel (published in 1925), detailing a day in the interior life of an ambitious London hostess. Then there's the contemporary Streep, so devoted to her rapidly-degenerating AIDS-afflicted poet friend (and former lover, played by Ed Harris) that her own personal life is a shambles. She's absolutely determined to put on a dinner party celebrating Harris' latest and biggest poetry award, and we learn that her Martha Stewart-esque flair for such events earned her the nickname "Mrs. Dalloway" from Harris decades before. (The occasional line from Dalloway, recited by Kidman in voice-over, often provides commentary on the inner states of the other two ladies.)

The second connecting theme is clearly female self-sacrifice, the innumerable compromises women have made throughout generations to conform to prevailing notions of social and domestic order. Though Woolf writes to her husband "I don't think two people have been happier than we have been," she loathes living in the country (to where they moved when doctors declared her nerves too frayed by urban environments), and fails to appreciate her husband's constant concessions to her career. "I think I'm only staying on to satisfy you," she confesses to her spouse, and somehow her finally giving in to the voices wishing for oblivion is to be recognized as a brave act of female autonomy.

Moore hears those same voices on the other side of the globe, and though pregnant and already the mother of a young boy who adores her, she checks herself into a posh hotel with a purseful of sedatives. At one point she explains that in abdicating her parental responsibilities she "chose life"; sometimes "you have no choice" but to take the unpopular route, and despite one's maternal obligations, you have to "damn the consequences" to find peace.

Streep's mistake is in trying to hold it all together, in refusing to let go of her selfish need that Harris stick around for her, and her lessons are perhaps the hardest. Whereas many women make great sacrifices without complaint, others will risk greater losses in the pursuit of self-determination. "My life has been stolen from me" complains Woolf, and thus she does "what seems to be the best thing to do."

For all these somber themes we probably have Cunningham's novel to thank, and it's likely his ideas are presented cogently on the page. Hare and Daldry transform his source material into an insufferably precious and heavy-handed film, however, as if they had little confidence in the stories alone to move an audience. The opening scenes alternate among three time periods with painfully obvious matches on action, where one character picks up a vase of flowers, another carries her own vase to another table, and the third places hers upon another surface. (Do you suppose Daldry is trying to suggest visually that these stories are linked somehow?) Hare also provides his characters with a healthy distribution of forced dramatic soliloquies that do little more than identify the moment as a blatant stab at an Oscar®. (That only Kidman's deliveries fail to grate shows her statuette last March was well-earned.) Whereas Moore also received an Oscar® nomination for her oratorical attempts, Streep did not, and for good reason: in The Hours she merely whimpers and whines her way around some of the worst lines anyone has ever been handed. Toni Colette, as a sexpot friend of Moore's facing a scary illness, belies her own reputation as a quality actress by creating a horrific caricature. Daldry also can't seem to help sprinkling all this woe with more than one lesbian kiss, for what reason even I can't imagine - if he's trying to throw in some sort of gay-rights statement, he chose absolutely the wrong venue.

So in The Hours we've got women at their wits' end, all delivering master classes in mood swings, bubbles always ready to burst, and a pioneering example of a new subcategory within your video store's Drama section, the Dirge Film. An awe-inspiring cast, including Miranda Richardson, Jeff Daniels, Allison Janney, John C. Reilly, and Claire Danes is squandered on dialogue that is sometimes hyper-literary and sometimes just plain unnatural. Ed Harris turns in the most stereotypical performance of an AIDS victim you're likely to see, and it's perhaps by dint of his and others' unsubtle thespian missteps that Kidman ends up looking even more amazing. It's also possible that this film is the ultimate "chick flick," a cinematic catalyst to help trigger a good cry among a particular gender, which makes The Hours clearly a matter of taste. However maudlin the delivery of its message that women gotta do what they gotta do, we'll at least always have Kidman's invaluable contribution to compensate.

I took a break from from my pen-light note-taking the night I saw About Schmidt, but its message remains crystal-clear months later: it's tough being a heterosexual. Jack Nicholson inhabits the titular role as an exemplar of the American Dream: go to college, get a job, support your family, and when you retire you will reap the endless rewards of having played by the rules, right? All your hard work for the company will produce a lasting professional legacy and the unending esteem of your former colleagues; your wife will wait on you hand and foot during your sunset years; your children will validate the values you instilled in them by leading wholly admirable adult lives, fill you with pride, and justify all your sacrifices. Right?

If Warren Schmidt didn't already have a vague sense of emptiness at his retirement dinner, where new turks in his American-heartland insurance firm offer insincere toasts and longtime associates reprise for one last time the shallow small-talk that even decades of professional coexistence never transcended, subsequent upheavals will certainly drive the point home that there are never any guarantees. His steadfast wife immediately drops dead, any traces of his contributions to his former employer are promptly erased, he discovers in the closet love letters documenting a long-finished affair between his late wife and his best friend, and his only child announces her engagement to a mattress-salesman with a mullet and an interest in pyramid schemes. Such is the sum total of Schmidt's life's work, a dispiriting fate we hope never to see in our own futures.

Most of Schmidt's surprises are pretty much set in stone, but one can still possibly be headed off: hitting the road in the brand new and monstrous Winnebago purchased by his wife for their impending life as retirees, Schmidt hopes to dissuade his daughter (Hope Davis) from tying the knot with a man he clearly regards as beneath them. Only by preventing this distasteful dilution of his gene pool will his life avoid complete failure, as he explains in a series of letters to his new pen-pal abroad, a save-the-children pennies-a-day adoptee in Africa named "Ndugu" who at least, at such a distance, will never let him down.

What follows is ostensibly a road trip across America in which Schmidt both becomes even more aware of how insignificant our lives can be, and tries to make peace with that insight, but writer and director Alexander Payne (Election) has a slightly less heartwarming subtextual agenda: skewer the innumerable crimes of taste that pollute the majority of American homes and institutions. Chintz and kitsch dominate every interior, vulgar Americana overwhelm exteriors, and hairstyles and wardrobes provide plenty of opportunities for condescension; Payne indulges a barely-subtle misanthropy as Schmidt searches for his dignity, and audiences will have to decide for themselves if the film is merely highlighting life's absurdities or dishing out uncharitable contempt.

Poor Schmidt: he can't even get a break in his own movie, surrounded by such aesthetic affronts. Here's the male version of The Hours, where the guys have to realize that in the pursuit of happiness, you have to focus on yourself and not some abstract cultural value system with its narrow gender roles. Maybe here's where some lesbian smooching would've fit in, for contrast - if anything, homosexuals have the benefit of automatically disqualifying themselves from traditional notions of the nuclear family, and are forced to figure out what they really want. Such a development might've killed Schmidt, though, if his daughter had instead introduced him to a mullet-sporting female partner. Or maybe not - it isn't as though parents don't get plenty of practice at being disappointed. Pity the words of Kahlil Gibran go ignored all too often, over a hundred years after they were written:

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you,
For life goes not backwards nor tarries with yesterday.

[About Schmidt and The Guru were issued on video June 3. The Hours and Punch-Drunk Love were released June 24.]