There is a misperception that Clint Eastwood has been on a directorial streak as of late. The truth of the matter is that he hit a slump in 2008. It started with the muddled and overblown Changeling; a film that while it featured an intensely emotional performance from Angelina Jolie and an oppressively bleak tone, felt oddly flat and impassive. And although Gran Torino was a definite fan-favorite, it was another step backwards, undoing all the work that Unforgiven had done to rebuke Eastwood’s action-hero image. The performances of the Hmong kids in particular were embarrassingly amateurish. Unfortunately, Eastwood’s slump continues with Invictus. Based on the book, Playing the Enemy}, by John Carlin, Invictus has all the earmarks of a classic crowd pleaser. It’s a no-brainer. Disappointingly, so is the filmmaking.

Nelson Mandela (Morgan Freeman) has just been elected president of South Africa. His first order of business is to repair the huge rift between the newly empowered black majority and the now deposed white minority. The National Sports Council has voted to dismantle the national rugby team, the Springboks, and to do away with their much hated green and gold colors once and for all. But in a surprising move, Mandela rescues the team and bucks popular opinion. He recognizes that while blacks view the Springboks as a symbol of apartheid, they are still an important source of pride for whites. To the dismay of his staff, he champions the team, making them the core of his “Rainbow Nation” movement. As host of the upcoming World Cup, South Africa has the world’s stage, and Mandela realizes that the Springboks must play the central role in healing a damaged country. Mandela recruits the team’s Afrikaner leader Francois Pienaar (Matt Damon) for his cause, inspiring Pienaar to turn around the team’s losing ways.

If there is anyone who was born to play Nelson Mandela, it’s Morgan Freeman. The man has the market cornered on dignified wisdom, usually cast in films as the narrator, an authority figure, or even God. As Mandela, Freeman manages to channel his folksy and fatherly charm through a thick South African accent.  His Mandela is a prophet who sees things we mere mortals can’t. Just as this man has greatness written all over him, so does this role. Unfortunately, Freeman’s role of a lifetime is woefully underwritten. He is just too saintly. So much so that there is a scene where one of his bodyguards has to literally remind us that he’s human. Mandela’s service to his people has come at a cost to his family. They hate him, but we never have a clue as to why because it’s treated so superficially. We never even see his wife Winnie, just his angry daughter.

Matt Damon packs on the muscle for the role of Pienaar. He’s completely believable as a rugby player. He has to be since most of his scenes are on the field or the gym or the locker room. Pienaar is pretty much a cipher. We never know what his political or moral beliefs are. This weakens his transformational arc. When his moments of inspiration come – mostly in the form of a Victorian poem “Invictus” which kept Mandela going through his 27 year imprisonment – they fall flat. It doesn’t help matters that the relationship between Mandela and Pienaar is purely ceremonial, consisting of only a few official meetings.

It’s also unclear how Pienaar’s moments of inspiration translate on the field. We rarely see him lead. Most of the rugby scenes are shot in montage and are confusing. It’s doubly confusing in America where rugby is an obscure sport. If you want to learn more about rugby, look elsewhere. There is no sense of strategy, technique, or gamesmanship until the final scene. And that scene is so clichéd, sappy, and redundant that it overrides everything (There should be a referendum against slow-motion shots of game winning plays).

However, the film isn’t really about the characters or the sport of rugby.  On one level, Invictus is about the state of a nation and an event that pushed it forward to another stage. The film is at its strongest when it’s setting up the stakes of the World Cup. It’s fascinating to see Mandela’s political maneuvering and how something as seemingly trivial as a losing rugby team can be instrumental to a torn nation’s reconciliation. At the time of this writing, much is being made of South Africa being the host nation to the FIFA World Cup in 2010, so it’s definitely timely. And America can surely relate to a newly elected president trying to change a country.

More than anything, the film is about healing and resilience. Unfortunately, a film cannot rise above mediocrity on the strength of theme alone. It needs execution. And it’s here that Eastwood drops the ball. His direction is predictable, obvious, and contrived. Some might say that District 9 is a better film about apartheid. As artists age, they become in danger of self-parody. Eastwood is in no danger here, because it doesn’t feel as if he directed the film at all.

I tend to avoid movie theater popcorn for different reasons.  It’s too noisy and distracts from the movie.  It’s overpriced and I’m cheap as hell.  I’m the kind of guy that goes to matinees and uses a student discount even though I haven’t been a full time student in years.  Hey, a regular movie ticket is about $11.  A regular popcorn and soda is easily another $12.  But the main reason I avoid popcorn is because it’s so damn unhealthy.  And popcorn looks so harmless that it’s so easy to fool yourself.  How much can a few kernels of popcorn hurt?

Well, according to the CSPI Newsroom, a medium popcorn and soda combo at Regal theaters is 1,610 calories and three days worth – 60 grams – of saturated fat.  That’s the equivalent of three Quarter Pounders with 12 pats of butter!  I mean, it’s no surprise that the chemical sludge we put on our popcorn isn’t doing us any favors, but the numbers really put things into perspective.  You can read more here.

It would be easy to dismiss Sword of Doom as just another violent Samurai movie. It is definitely not without its flaws. Just the same, the film’s strengths beg for a second look. During the 60s, there was a break in the tradition of classic heroism and a trend towards the cynical antihero. Sergio Leone’s the Man with No Name is a perfect example. Sword of Doom does those films one better. The protagonist isn’t just an anti-hero. He is unrepentantly evil, a demon warrior in human form. Sword of Doom’s hyper-stylized violence is a precursor to the suicidal glory of such blood ballets as The Wild Bunch and Taxi Driver and the heroic bloodshed of Hong Kong cinema. The bloodletting functions as something more than just violence for violence’s sake, but as an outward expression of character.

The film opens atop a mountain pass, at a Buddhist shrine, where an old pilgrim prays for death so he will no longer be a burden to his young granddaughter.  Ryunosuke Tsukue (Tatsuya Nakadai), a mysterious figure whose face hides under a conical hat, happens upon the meek old man, and kills him mercilessly. Tsukue has an upcoming tournament match against a student from his former school, the hopelessly overmatched Bunnojo Utsuki (Ichiro Nakaya ). Bunnojo’s wife, Ohama (Michiyo Aratama), pleads with Tsukue to let her husband win so he will not lose his position at the school. Since Tsukue has already been expelled from the school for his cruel fencing style, he has nothing at stake. Still, he toys with Ohama, and asks for her chastity.  Bunnojo finds out Tsukue has slept with his wife, and during the match, in a jealous rage, launches an illegal attack. Tsukue defends himself and kills Bunnojo with a blow to the head.

Tsukue is forced to take care of Ohama and they soon have a child. As a disgraced samurai, he can only find employment with a gang of outlaws that are attempting to overthrow the Shogunate. With each ambush he participates in, Tsukue’s thirst for blood grows stronger and stronger. Meanwhile, Bunnojo’s brother, Hyoma Utsugi (Yuzo Kayama), vows revenge and has become the disciple of the best swordsman in the land, the honorable Toranosuke Shimada (Toshiro Mifune) who teaches him the one countermove that could defeat Tsukue.

If the plot sounds choppy and episodic, it is. Sword of Doom was based on Daibosatsu Tog, a 1913 newspaper serial written by Kaizen Nakazoto that ran for 30 years and 43 volumes. The unresolved plotlines and huge narrative gaps in the film would have made sense to someone familiar to the serial. And the film’s abrupt and perplexing freeze frame ending is not really an ending at all, but an intermission to the other planned films in the series that were never shot. Sword of Doom is not too concerned with plot. In a sense, it is just the glue that holds its intricately staged set-pieces together. What matters most is form. As Shimada says, “Study the sword to know the soul. An evil sword is an evil soul.”

Tsukue’s sword is swift and efficient, that of a master who spends every waking hour honing his craft. His is a peculiar style of swordsmanship. He lowers his sword and his body slackens as if he is surrendering. As he draws his opponent in, Tsukue attacks suddenly, ruthlessly cutting him down. It is easy to understand why others are disturbed by his style. His passive demeanor makes it seem as though he is possessed by a greater force. He is just as much a spectator to the violence as the audience.  The heavy lidded Tatsuya Nakadai, with his glassy stare, sullen disposition and slow, monotone voice, perfectly embodies Tsukue. He seems lost in a dream, only awakening for moments of violence. After each kill, he grins sickly like an addict getting a fix.

Shimada as played by Toshiro Mifune stands in stark contrast to Tsukue. He stands upright and dignified, his every move strong and purposeful. He keeps his sword sheathed until he is forced to use it. When he is ambushed, he chastises his assailants for making him kill them. Unlike Tsukue, he is outraged by the loss of life. He spares the leader, forcing him to look at what he has done. Shimada’s righteousness unnerves Tsukue because it makes him look into his own corrupt soul.

The carefully crafted direction of Kihachi Okamoto (Kill!, Samurai Assassin) echoes the disciplined swordsmanship of the characters. The pictorial, balanced compositions make full use of the cinemascope frame. Hiroshi Murai’s high contrast black and white cinematography makes fine details like the blood on the snow all the more stunning. Each fight sequence is expertly executed and visually inventive.

In one amazing sequence that obviously influenced Park Chan Wook’s Oldboy, the camera slowly dollies in an uninterrupted take as Tsukue strikes down a series of opponents. It ends with the iconic shot of Tsukue standing in the mist leaving behind a trail of carnage. The film culminates in the blood soaked finale, where Tsukue is forced to confront his conscience. Wounded, he becomes a force of nature, slashing blindly at all his opponents, real and imagined, as if trying to destroy the evil in himself.