Getting Downey 

Given their general status as popcorn flicks heavier on the decadent calories than on the nutritional value, I'm always pleasantly surprised by how much care Hollywood studios take when it comes to casting their superheroes in franchise flicks. After all, audiences line up to see these movies for the spandexed heroes and their thrilling exploits, not for the pedigree of the actors involved -- otherwise, we'd have had to endure such box office draws as Adam Sandler as Superman, Will Ferrell as Spider-Man and Mike Myers as Wolverine. Instead, we've been lucky enough to have been privy to (for starters) Christopher Reeve as Superman, Tobey Maguire as Spider-Man and Hugh Jackman as Wolverine (George Clooney as Batman, not so much).

With Iron Man, Paramount Pictures settled on an actor who turned out to be both unexpected and just right. Robert Downey Jr. is hardly an unknown, yet any baggage he brings to the role -- namely, his past travails as a hard partier -- only serves to enhance the character, not diminish him. Downey's excellent in the film, and it owes much of its success to him.

Centering on the Marvel Comics character created back in 1963, Iron Man smoothly updates the action from the Vietnam War era to the Iraq War era without missing a beat. Swaggering, self-centered inventor and industrialist Tony Stark (Downey) has attained both fame and fortune by providing the U.S. military with its most reliable weapons of mass destruction. While in Afghanistan to show off his latest invention, Stark is captured and seriously injured by a group of insurgents who drag him off to their mountainside lair. There, a fellow prisoner (Shaun Toub) creates an electromagnetic device that prevents life-threatening shrapnel from reaching Stark's heart. Realizing that this is only a temporary fix, the two set about working from Stark's designs on how to build a special suit of armor. Once complete, Stark is able to don the protective gear and blast his way to freedom.

Back home, Stark re-evaluates his life and realizes that instead of continuing to build instruments of death, he wants to dedicate himself to fighting for peace (this is an even more liberal-minded superhero film than Batman Begins). This decision perplexes his faithful right-hand woman Pepper Potts (a game Gwyneth Paltrow), his best friend Rhodey (Terrence Howard, asked to coast until the next film) and his business partner Obadiah Stane (an imaginatively cast Jeff Bridges). Nevertheless, Stark won't be swayed, and to accomplish his goal, he sets about building a sleeker, more efficient and infinitely cooler outfit.

Stark's difficulties while creating his new duds provide the film with many of its most amusing moments, as do the interludes between Stark and Pepper (Downey and Paltrow work well together). Indeed, the expository material is so engaging that the climactic battle between Iron Man and a villain known as Iron Monger comes as a letdown: After adding such a personal touch to the proceedings -- even in earlier scenes involving CGI work -- director Jon Favreau turns in a chaotic action climax that could have been lifted from any soulless Jerry Bruckheimer endeavor.

Still, even this last-inning strike can't tarnish Iron Man's appeal. Just as Stark needs a device to keep his heart pumping, Iron Man requires Downey's presence to keep the heart of this franchise alive.

WHEN F. SCOTT Fitzgerald wrote, "There are no second acts in American lives," he couldn't possibly have predicted the career of Patrick Dempsey. Those of us reviewing films back in the late '80s/early '90s remember him as a talentless 20-something who regularly turned up in bombs like Run and Loverboy. He largely disappeared for a decade or so, popping up in minor TV projects and straight-to-DVD titles before rising Lazarus-like from the dead with a career-redefining turn on Grey's Anatomy.

It must be said that middle age agrees with the 42-year-old Dempsey. As witnessed in last year's Enchanted and now Made of Honor, Dempsey has settled into being a competent (if rather passive) romantic lead on the big screen. And for his first starring role since his rebirth (since Enchanted was all about Amy Adams), he's picked a project that will only further his standing as the country's resident "McDreamy."

Unfortunately, those of us hoping for entertainment value beyond mere eye candy will be sorely left hanging with Made of Honor, the sort of romantic comedy that Hollywood spits out of the formula factory on a tight schedule. The second underachieving rom-com of the year to headline a Grey's Anatomy player (the first was Katherine Heigl's 27 Dresses; see this issue's View From The Couch DVD column for a review), this cribs from the vastly superior My Best Friend's Wedding in its portrayal of two longtime pals -- one male (Dempsey's womanizing Tom), one female (Michelle Monaghan's brainy Hannah) -- who have always been afraid that intimacy would ruin their perfect camaraderie. But once Hannah goes to Scotland for six weeks, Tom realizes that she's been the right one all along; unfortunately, when she returns stateside, it's with a fiancé (Kevin McKidd) in tow.

The screenplay by Deborah Kaplan, Harry Elfont (the team behind Surviving Christmas and The Flintstones in Viva Rock Vegas) and newbie Adam Sztykiel doesn't completely destroy a workable premise -- the scribes are repeatedly bailed out by the likable cast -- but comic desperation can be seen at alarmingly frequent intervals. The fellating-female-bobblehead gag was handled far more wittily in Forgetting Sarah Marshall (is this 2008's unexpected movie trend?), while other dim comic bits include such Hail Mary desperation passes as Hannah's grandmother mistaking glow-in-the-dark anal beads for a necklace (and of course wearing them throughout the film) and a Scottish relative's name, Athol, being misunderstood by the Americans as -- well, take a guess.

Great. Meet the Parents was followed by Meet the Fockers, so it stands to reason that Made of Honor will be followed by Meet the Athols. I can hardly wait.

IF THERE'S ONE thing that Tom Cruise proved with his race-car lovefest Days of Thunder, it's that it can be dangerous for filmmakers to lovingly place their hobbies right up there on the big screen for all to see. The latest case in point is Redbelt, writer-director David Mamet's salute to jiu-jitsu.

Mamet, a real-life practitioner of the martial art, has cobbled together a samurai flick, a sports yarn and a con game (his specialty) in order to pay service to this noble undertaking. The result is as schizophrenic as any movie certain to open in 2008, as an interesting character study finally sinks under the weight of the plot's predictable twists as well as a climactic fight so absurd, it makes the matches between Rocky Balboa and Ivan Drago seem as realistic as the real-life Ali-Foreman championship bout.

The fine actor Chiwetel Ejiofor stars in the leading role of jiu-jitsu instructor Mike Terry, who teaches both cops and citizens alike in his Los Angeles studio. Presented as a cross between Jesus Christ, Mahatma Gandhi and Mr. Miyagi, Mike prizes honor above all else, and he refuses to enter martial arts competitions because he feels they're degrading. But his trusting nature proves to be a detriment to both himself and his friends, as he's duped by several shady characters (played by Mamet regulars Joe Mantegna and Ricky Jay, among others) and unwittingly dragged into a major sporting event riddled with corruption.

As a gruff movie star, Tim Allen lands the first interesting role of his 14-year screen career (the animated Buzz Lightyear obviously excepted), and the movie could have used more of him. Likewise, there's an interesting relationship that's tentatively explored between Mike and a skittish lawyer (Emily Mortimer) who's afraid of men, and further development would have been appreciated. Instead, everything potentially interesting comes to a grinding halt for a nonsensical conclusion in which Mike is determined to let the world know that -- now here's a shocker -- sports competitions are often rigged. (Say it ain't so, Joe!) This mission of morality naturally involves a climactic tussle between Mike and the evil, sneering champion, but the only thing that truly gets bloodied is Mamet's resume.

IN LAST WEEK'S Creative Loafing, I gave a positive, 3-star review to Deception. To clarify, that's the other Deception, the 1946 melodrama that's included in a recent Bette Davis DVD box set. This Deception (no relation) doesn't merit even half that rating.

It's hard to believe a movie starring Hugh Jackman and Ewan McGregor, two impossibly charismatic actors, could be so dull, but the evidence is right here. McGregor stars as Jonathan McQuarry, a meek accountant who has no fun until a lawyer named Wyatt Bose (Jackman) swoops down like a slumming deus ex machina and introduces his new pal to the pleasures of pot, nightclubs and mixed doubles tennis matches. Just before Wyatt leaves town for a lengthy business trip, he "accidentally" switches cell phones with Jonathan; soon, the virginal numbers cruncher is receiving phone calls during which sexy female voices merely whisper, "Are you free tonight?"

Passing himself off as Wyatt, Jonathan soon discovers an anonymous sex club in which the members all turn out to be Wall Street movers and shakers. Jonathan enjoys the loveless huffing and puffing until he meets and falls for a mysterious member known only as S (Michelle Williams). Before long, the hapless Jonathan discovers that he's the victim of a major -- wait, let me check the title again -- deception.

Since this is a costly studio project subject to MPAA approval (and we know what those prudes think about s-e-x), viewers looking for some steamy stimulation will soon discover they're not getting Shortbus as much as they're getting the short end of the stick. Indeed, the sex club eventually turns out to be so irrelevant to the plot that the characters might as well have belonged to the Wine of the Month Club or Oprah's Book Club instead. Ultimately, the movie packs less erotic heat than even Horton Hears a Who! or Young@Heart.

This wouldn't matter if the mystery was in any way compelling, but there are no surprises to be found anywhere along the way to its laughable finale. The only surprise arrives during the credits, where Jackman is listed as one of the producers. I can see an actor agreeing to this sort of turkey as a take-the-paycheck-and-run project, but to be involved enough in its creation to earn a behind-the-scenes credit is incomprehensible. It's best if Jackman sticks with the X-Men and leaves the XXX to others.

To see trailers of the reviewed films, go to www.theclogblog.com.