Some great docs get by mostly on the heels of the captured on-screen magnetism of the subject, others on the clever way bits and pieces or the story are combined visually, and still others based purely on the story itself. In the case of the life of Lew Wasserman, the 100 minute film relies entirely on still pictures and interviews with friends and colleagues. “The Last Mogul” is Wasserman’s life story beginning with his childhood as a poor Jewish kid from Cleveland through his ascent to becoming one of the most influential men in the history of Hollywood.

“The Last Mogul” tells the story of a man who both was able to see and shape the future of the music, film and ultimately television. But unlike the celebrity CEOs of today, Wasserman believed that fame should be reserved for the stars and as such worked tirelessly in the background crafting the blueprint for how much of the packaging of creative assets still works today. Although far from a recluse, Wasserman didn’t do interviews, rarely gave speeches but instead reshaped Hollywood one deal at a time. It is hard to really get a sense at all for the man himself, but his legacy depicts a long long life of success so difficult to sustain in a town as cynical as LA you have to imagine it he was a moan to love and loath. Like “Easy Riders and Raging Bulls” this film is a history of one of one of most pervasive universally loved businesses in the world and of the man who helped create it.

This film could, and probably should have been dreadful. A college coming of age tale, set in England in the ’s with a soundtrack pulsing with The Cure, Psychedelic Furs and the Tears for Fears, the story focuses on a “bizarre love triangle” and a big quiz show final. But it is charming, a nostalgic dramedy that makes you yearn to be 20 again, drinking and dreaming too much.

Of course amidst the lightheartedness there are beautiful sketches of the kind of the kind kids you wish you still were. James McAvoy, fresh off his star making role in “The Last King of Scotland,” is perfect as the idealistic college kid looking for a sense of self. Surrounded by a cast of charming guys and girls, the film just rolls over you like a John Hughes film circa St. Elmo’s or The Breakfast Club. More like fast food than fine dining, everyone loves a burger here and then. This one is quite tasty.

Indie films, art films, or whatever they are rightly called these days, will always involve the smartest people. They would have to be in order to 1) convince other smart people to see them vs. the litany of other more slickly produced, star studded alternatives and 2) to find a few people philanthropic enough to finance such a low risk venture. With this bias on my mind, I kind of trudged through the first 20 minutes of “Flannel Pajamas” forcing myself to at least “appreciate” the clever and hyper-lucid dialogue between the two main characters if not totally enjoying it. These early scenes are also peppered with an odd amount of sex and nudity that feels almost too real, without the benefit of airbrushed magazine sleek post-production.

“Flannel Pajamas” spends its entirety holding a magnifying up to relationship between two people, a mildly dysfunctional Catholic girl from Montana, and a nice but somewhat stereotypical Jewish boy from NY. But unlike every other Meg Ryan oriented relationship movie, and weighing in at a lengthy 2 hours of largely dialogue, “Flannel Pajamas” manages to capture the ugly warts of adulthood, marriage and the often massively corrosive nature of compromise (or lack thereof) between two people impeccably. Weeks later the film is still lingering, this is easily one of the most authentic and potent films on the subject since “Carnal Knowledge.”

It has been a few weeks since I saw “The Bridge,” and not a day has passed without my thinking of it at least in passing. I live in San Francisco so the fact that I have driven over it a few times, and seen its glorious red gates from my home across the city, help keep the images fresh. I suspect that even if that wasn’t the case this incredibly moving and beautifully shot documentary would still be tugging at me.

Shot over the course of 2004, and inspired by a New Yorker article, “The Bridge” captures actual footage of jumpers hurling themselves over the shoulder high guardrail into the beautiful San Francisco Bay a quarter of mile below. This gripping footage is juxtaposed with breathtaking shots of the bridge captured throughout the year, bathed in fog and soaked in sun, its rusty red gates jutting into a deep blue sky, and sunk into the serene hillsides of Marin and SF’s Presidio. This physical beauty is critical and I think necessary as kind of an emotional breath as Steel diagnoses the bridge’s draw as the suicide capital of the country through a series of incredible moving and revealing conversations with friends and family members of many of the people who died during the year of the film’s shooting. Each of the interviews tends to thoughtfully anticipate most of the questions that I was trying to get my head around while watching.

I left the film not so much depressed, as fascinated and, in some ways, relieved for some of the victims. It is a rare documentary that combines both such sophisticated cinematic beauty with poignant human drama. This film pays sad but worthy tribute to the magnificent bridge that has inspired so much passion over the years.

By definition, a film that can loosely be described as a “romantic musical” should send shivers down my spine, conjuring images of outdated dance steps, and clichéd interpersonal emotional discovery. But “Once” is that rare jewel of a film, one that not only dares to reinvent a genre but does so using novice actors and music that, out of this context, probably wouldn’t seem so broadly appealing. “Once” is an instant classic, transforming the simple story of a scruffy street singer and beautiful Czech immigrant into a kind of kindred musical and spiritual collaboration whose narrative is told largely through lyrics and whose tone is set by Hansard’s guitar and Irglova’s piano. Watching this film made me somewhat envious of kind of language and relationship that music can foster between people, especially between a man and woman who learn to love through an unspoken musical chemistry, a kind of romantic groove.

As a decade old die-hard fan of Ireland’s greatest modern band, The Frames, is sent warm wonderful chills up my spine to see Frames leader and “Once” star Hansard finally have a chance to propel himself and his band into a limelight so long in coming. If there is any justice in this world, Hansard and Irglova, will be nominated for an Academy award and will win, vaulting The Frames into a much deserved wider audience, much like Elliott Smith did with “Good Will Hunting,” and “Once” will become 2007’s little indie that could, accumulating awards and more visible place in the history of independent film.

I am always going to be predisposed to small, talky, meandering and largely plotless films featuring men about my age struggling with the realities of adult life. “Old Joy” like films like “Naked,” “Kicking and Screaming,” and “High Fidelity” largely puts a microphone up to a few characters and lets them wax poetic, often in unchecked streams of consciousness. “Old Joy” drops two friends into the Oregon woods, with a bag of weed, and a mountain of distance that has grown between them over the years. This voyage, like all great voyages, mostly unfolds in their minds, with nothing but memories left to bond them anymore. Accompanied by the near perfect score from Yo La Tengo, this film is a short 76 minute journey that says an incredible amount in a short time.