Steven Spielberg’s rendition of private attorney James Donovan’s (Tom Hanks) defense of a Cold War Russian spy (Mark Rylance) and then his negotiation of the swap of that spy for downed U2 flier Gary Powers and an American student detained in East Berlin is assured, workmanlike, forgettable, and plagued by the schmaltz that accompanies much of his work. Spielberg takes a can’t miss, gripping tale of espionage and burdens it with overwrought homilies to American civil liberties, repetitive scenes of bland conversation, and cheap comedy (Rylance is even given a catchphrase he repeats three times). I’m as patriotic as the next fella, but it’s not enough to show Hanks resisting the zeal of the Cold War simply because he’s Hanks. We never learn why Donovan holds his convictions. They apparently come with Hanks, no assembly required.

Worse, Spielberg juices up the action, probably because he sensed the movie was a bit of a slog. So, Donovan’s house is shot up because he is representing a Russian spy (never happened) and Donovan witnesses East Germans gunned down as they try and make it over the wall (also never happened).

It’s an okay film, it has some moments, and I’ve certainly seen worse, but it’s no great shakes, and as with much of Spielberg’s work, it stays safely in the lines.

The film is a flawless meander over a few days with an enigmatic and at times debilitatingly insecure novelist.  Jason Segal’s turn as author David Foster Wallace is soul-deep, a particularly impressive performance given that it is from a light comedian. As a film about a doomed man (Wallace hung himself 12 years after the events depicted), the picture is also refreshingly light on foreboding. We are not here to observe the clues that led to Wallace’s demise.  Rather, we are here to enjoy the mind of the author, while being made privy to some of the demons within him, as he is interviewed by a Rolling Stone writer, played by Jesse Eisenberg. We are allowed to hang out with two writers as they discuss their craft, their fears, and America; fence over their different viewpoints and goals through the interview process; and eventually, form a fleeting friendship. Thankfully, the movie is so self assured it doesn’t feel the need to provide the expected big reveal or the emotional paroxysm.

But perhaps what is best about this film – a film about a writer where we do not hear him recite his prose – is the fact that you’ll become affected enough to go read his work after the movie is over. I generally do not read fiction, I have never read Wallace (with the exception of a few magazine pieces), but on the strength of this very personal and intriguing film will read one of his novels.

A competent biopic that smartly alternates between the rise of Beach Boys impresario Brian Wilson (played as a young man by Paul Dano) and his later life (during which he is played by John Cusack), where the ravages of mental illness, substance abuse and the dubious oversight of Svengali psychiatrist Eugene Landy (Paul Giamatti) have taken their toll. We meet the older Wilson as he tries to buy a Cadillac from saleswoman Melinda Ledbetter (Elizabeth Banks), revealing the only peace he can find, alone with her in the car at the dealership, while Giamatti and his associates hover on the other side of the glass.

The film spaces nicely, and the early pressures on Dano (fear of flying, his abusive and controlling father, the stress of touring, an aversion to conflict) are manifested in Cusack’s caged, distrusting performance, one of many really nice touches in the film.  Near first time director Bill Pohlad delves into but doesn’t overplay Wilson’s demons, choosing to give equal access to his love of the art of pop music and visionary work in the studio.  Nothing in the picture feels hackneyed or stale, a difficult feat in the face of traditional musical biopics like Ray and Walk the Line.  Also, in the era where “Behind the Music” has left these stories vulnerable to the Dewey Cox treatment, the film feels fresh and immune to parody.

Banks and Cusack also radiate the wonder of first love, subordinating the “bio” aspect of the movie to a heartfelt romance.  They have a convincing chemistry, which bolsters the efforts she undertakes to wrest Wilson from Landy.

As Landy, Giamatti is the weakest link.  He is ferocious where he should be merely intrusive, maniacal instead of crafty.  Landy may well have been that excessive, but he didn’t just walk off the street; he was a pop psychologist to many stars, from Alice Cooper to Rod Steiger.  The performance is so over the top, you wonder how Wilson, even in his vulnerable state, could have succumbed to such a bully and how Landy could have had the smarts to set himself up so nicely.

Currently on Hulu.