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Known for directing films about death, drugs and dying, Marc Forster (Monster’s Ball, Finding Neverland) does right in adapting a novel about zombies, making World War Z starring Brad Pitt an involving mystery-thriller about what it takes to beat what beats the living down.

This purpose-driven movie, rumored to be troubled in production and stacked with more writers than is desirable for a quality picture, puts it plainly: kill the enemy with everything you’ve got – cars, guns, anything you can grab and we’re not limited to those weapons, so don’t let the United Nations part of the plot fool you. This is not a politically correct version of world war, so don’t look for a ‘just war’ or some such nonsense. Here, the living actually learn to annihilate the corpses (which are caused by some unknown worldwide plague) with total war if necessary. The best weapon comes courtesy of family man Pitt as Gerry, a reluctant U.N. detective with a track record for success, who personifies the film’s theme that, to borrow Leonard Peikoff’s signature phrase, to save the world, all one has to do is think.

By now, you probably know that I can’t stand horror movies, let alone zombie movies, which rank with vampire movies in my book. I take the interest in them as a sign of the worship of the nothing and, other than an occasional laugh while watching a chiller movie for grins, I avoid them as detrimental to one’s health and I think in general the genre is exactly that. But in a world full of what amounts to zombies – people standing obediently in line at airports for government inspection, clusters of government road crews standing around doing nothing, people shuffling along at the job, on the freeway, and sitting on couches staring blankly at nothing-celebrity babies, honey boo-boos and boobs or biceps – I figured World War Z might just have a point.

And happily, almost trigger-happily, it does. But unlike Man of Steel and other decent movies, its violence is moved by the plot. So what starts off slow and suspiciously, with everyone inexplicably watching CNN and scenes of dog-eat-dog madness that made me wonder where this was going, gradually unspools the story of one man who has removed himself from avenging the world for the U.N. to tend to his own life and he is pressed back into service only for his own sake. Zombies are quickly consuming the globe, in city after city, nation after nation, as Pitt’s Gerry and his family witness, without the apocalyptic glee of Roland Emmerich, Michael Bay or Steven Spielberg global destruction pics, and such parasitism is literally engulfing the entire world. Only a few outposts – at sea, on islands and, interestingly for what happens, Israel – remain free from the infestation and Gerry hasn’t much time to calculate why.

At every point, and this is why World War Z succeeds where other movies fail, Gerry chooses to think, listen, observe, re-think and act on his knowledge. Not unlike a brainier version of the John McClane character in Die Hard (1988), every step is part of a logical progression. Yet the repulsive subject matter, as against, say the godawful I Am Legend (and this is more like The Omega Man with Charlton Heston) doesn’t get in the way. No matter what disgusts, leaps or clings, it’s all about Gerry and his goal-driven journey to solve the mysteries and buy some time to avert the end of the world and that is what’s at stake. “Movement is life,” he instructs a fellow comrade early in the picture show, which is as gray as ash, and it must be thoughtful action, as a scientist discovers when he fails to grasp the difference between action and reaction. It falls to Gerry, who like Homer’s Odysseus travels the world seeking to return to his beloved wife, bonding with other individualists who don’t just follow orders from family, state or tribe, to show everyone how to think and act.

Intended or not, Forster and company seed other themes, too, such as people’s refusal to believe that evil is spreading around them as they tune out voices of dissent, soldiers losing limbs and body parts amid a mindless population that’s so busy chanting religious incantations that they’re oblivious to their own defense, and of course the idea that it’s going to get worse before it gets better and the worst is yet to come because, as Gerry intones at a crucial point, it’s not even close to the end. With his wife (Mireille Enos) and daughters under U.N. protection, which Gerry doesn’t trust, either, he at least has something to fight – which means to live – for and that’s more than many of his comrades (Matthew Fox, Pierfrancesco Favino, Fana Mokoena) can say. Those who choose to think fare best in a movie with the question are you a man or a zombie? as its fuse (much like Invasion of the Body Snatchers) and, if you don’t want to experience World War Z at that depth, that’ll work, too. But there you have what amounts to my first positive appraisal of a motion picture with zombies – and this epic horror film suits the times in which we live – that’s baldly about reason as man’s basic tool for survival, if only to buy time to dodge an endless onslaught of zombies.

The latest Superman movie, called Man of Steel, is an origin story and it’s an entertaining movie with some standout moments and minor problems, too.

Written by the same team that created the 2005 – 2012 Batman trilogy (including Christopher Nolan), the basic plot is sound and it is compelling, though not as compelling as their other comics-based hero films. That may be due to the direction of Zack Snyder, who also directed the atrocious Watchmen (one of the worst movies ever made) and the dumbed down, fetishized dramatization of history that caught on with conservatives and libertarians, 300, which was really more of a horror movie. Man of Steel begins with Kal-el’s birth in the midst of a great battle, touched off by ecological disaster – and the movie plays off environmentalist premises and other faith-based notions – and, adding a twist to the Lois Lane (Amy Adams) character, proceeds along a well-traveled path, with the Christ-like 33-year-old Clark Kent (Henry Cavill) taking his place in the world only after strong fathering by both wise, serious Russell Crowe and wise, serious Kevin Costner, both of whom are excellent in their roles as usual.

Of course, his place involves helping others and realizing his father’s vision of achieving a universal good. He literally carries the genetics of everyone on Krypton, so there is that burden, which makes him a target of the evil General Zod and his fellow baddies, who might be described as an Islamo-Nazi-Soviet troika combining faith, duty and collectivism into a single mission of mass extermination intended to make a version of hell on earth. Add visual touches with flying gargoyle-like creatures on Krypton, a nod to Jules Verne classic science fiction – refreshingly, a scientist saves the day for a change – and prolonged stretches of scenes evoking H.G. Wells’ War of the Worlds with mass destruction and Man of Steel is less about the individual and more about everyone coming to grips with what he represents.

Superman, who’s not known by that name here for the most part, represents goodness as a mixed proposition. He’s all for taking a leap of faith, as it’s put, in order to earn a trust that comes later, and he reads Plato, favors dogs, church and science fairs but through no fault of Cavill’s he is more defined by contrast of what he’s not by villain Zod (Michael Shannon), who proclaims allegiance to the tribe and speaks about “the greater good” of the collective. It’s not nearly as abstract as I’m making it sound and long pieces of this two and a half hour film are dominated by loud pummeling of people, places and things, with placement featured for Sears, IHOP and other brands, and there are moving moments amid the comic book action, such as when Costner’s character exhibits his own heroism.

Supporting players are generally fine, from Christopher Meloni as a colonel and Diane Lane as midwestern Mother Kent, though she’s a bit too plain even for Kansas, to Richard Schiff as the scientist and Laurence Fishburne as Lane’s newspaper editor Perry White. One of the more interesting aspects of Man of Steel is the film’s total distrust of government managers – politicians – as against its heroes, who happen in reality to be among those currently maligned by the United States government; the press, the sciences and the military. I loved that Superman gets the first mention of his name from a young soldier, that the men of the armed forces welcome him in camaraderie after he earns their respect and this is appropos of a character originally created to express truth, justice and the American way, though here, too, as in Warner Bros. last attempt to reboot the series, the iconic phrase is never heard.

The Lois Lane character, who is mature, bold and modern and gamely played by Amy Adams, is miscast and slightly off. It is not an easy role as written, with her reporter alternating between a coarse challenge and a chirp about what she might do if she has to “tinkle”. It’s hard to see the chemistry if any between Kent and Lane here and the pair, battling evil all at once in scenes that are too large, loud and long, falls short of an exciting and engaging launch as a couple. Man of Steel could have been mainly about the titular hero, clearly defined and dominating the plot with Lois as an equal partner. Instead, we have a movie about a solid defender of the good, hedging on what’s good, lacking the passion of a perfect match but pulling off a summer treat just the same.

If you’ve ever had a feeling of anticipation prior to attending what you hope and have reason to believe will be a grand and exciting party, where the guest is immersed in celebration of something worth celebrating and eventually reaches an elevated sense of lightness, only to attend and be let down and disappointed, feeling dejected or aghast at the smallness of everything around you, you know what it means to experience The Great Gatsby.

Leonardo DiCaprio stars as Jay Gatsby, who throws lavish parties in order to get closer to his true love, Daisy Buchanan (Carey Mulligan), who long ago married the cad Tom (Joel Edgerton, the best thing about the movie), who’s cheating on Daisy with Myrtle, who figures prominently into the story’s climax, which occurs with narrative commentary by Nick (Tobey Maguire), who is related to Daisy and in awe of Gatsby. The more Nick learns about Gatsby, and there is presumably much to learn, the more he admires him. The reasons amount to the idea of having and then renouncing wealth for what passes for love. As portrayed here, Gatsby is unsophisticated and unmasculine, with no trace of boyishness or manliness and unconvincing as a man of character, ability and wealth.

The tragedy unfolds in 1922 New York society with no credibility, chemistry or sex appeal. All the close-ups, voiceovers and transitions can’t infuse a sense of mood, place and progression. Performances are flat, dull and painful to watch, especially the one by DiCaprio, whose accent comes, goes and changes. The Great Gatsby, based on the novel by F. Scott Fitzgerald and adapted for movies in the past, starts off with a murky visual, glitters with color in rich period detail and expensive sets, costumes and pictures, and drones on and on like a hip hop recording. Appropos of this grandiose picture show, music is supplied by a bestselling hip hop record maker who made headlines for traveling to a dictatorship powered by slave labor, though the soundtrack eventually settles into jazz age songs. These are the stylings of director Baz Luhrmann.

I suspect that our dumbed down culture has caught up to his trademark style over substance. I don’t mean to pick on Baz Luhrmann, whose Strictly Ballroom is enjoyable and whose Moulin Rouge! and Romeo + Juliet (also with Mr. DiCaprio) are not without merit. Hollywood is attracted to similar pictorial stylists, including Joe Wright (Anna Karenina) and Tim Burton (Dark Shadows) when they’re not producing convoluted, pretentious films about nothing, poverty porn or the latest exercise in Tarantino torture porn. The Great Gatsby caters to the perceptual-bound mentality, without regard to a coherent or compelling character or plot, resulting in a complete failure at conveying a theme. Don’t look for concepts played in motion pictures. To rephrase the cliche, a picture like this is worth a thousand vacant stares among a population that obediently lines up for permission to travel on airplanes. Yes, it is that bad, which is why movies about wisecracking comic book heroes, superpowered aliens and dark knights substitute for realistic human tales of grandeur. The Great Gatsby confirms with glitz that glamour is gone and Hollywood’s brain drain goes far beyond Hollywood.

Lacking the courage of its conviction to trump nihilism with idealism and never achieving anything close to incredible, The Incredible Burt Wonderstone performs in fits and starts. That’s too bad, because its theme that magic should evoke the feeling that “anything in the universe is possible” – as against the notion that one can never be sure of anything – offers some classic magic tricks and tales of wonder.

The central conflict is between Carell’s pompous magician and Jim Carrey’s braided, self-mutilating Jesus Christ impersonator, a characterization that nearly perfectly expresses today’s culturally predominant death premise. Carell’s Burt Wonderstone, a nerdy, unloved kid at heart whom we see from the beginning’s flashback is moved to magic because he wants to be loved, has become a crude, boorish narcissist. He treats his lifelong show partner (Steve Buscemi) like dirt and their Las Vegas act is getting stale; they’re losing market share with well done but familiar tricks and becoming their own disappearing act. Meanwhile, Carrey’s repulsive street performer offers the promise of something different.

But it’s something sinister, too, with shock and disgust at its core – like today’s comedians – not the wonder and joy that’s achieved by the fluttering of a bird’s wings at the end of one of the tricks that Burt Wonderstone learned to practice from an old master (Alan Arkin, reuniting with his Little Miss Sunshine co-star Carell) when he was a boy. As Wonderstone descends, losing his gig and winding up in an old people’s home where he rediscovers Arkin’s geriatric magician, he slowly and unconvincingly begins to restore the magic. All this happens with multiple plot points and characters – an assistant, a casino owner, a trip to Cambodia – that don’t fit. Olivia Wilde portrays an aspiring magician and love interest but she never really gets fleshed out. Only Carrey’s grotesque, Christ-like torture porn star makes a consistent impression, leaving audiences repulsed and feeling as though the world is unknowable.

That should have made it easy for The Incredible Burt Wonderstone, reenergized by an elderly audience, to reconnect with what he does best and create and perform illusions that make people feel alive and in good company, rewarded for having used their minds. But the movie never evokes a childlike sense of purpose or wonder, and the final big act makes the crucial error of revealing the magician’s secrets before the trick is performed, so the only genuine satisfaction comes from literally watching Jim Carrey’s thoroughly modern street preacher/performer come to his logical finale and wipe his mind out.

There is another problem, too. The humor is too dark and I mean dark. For example, the wonder of the picture’s best magical moment – when one magician makes something beautiful out of something ordinary – is stolen a moment later when the illusionist’s beautiful creature slams into something. How can a movie that makes a point of showing us that ours is a world of wonder – and it is, even now as the lights go out – hope to pull off that demanding trick if it’s snickering at its own magic? While I wanted to like it and I enjoy Steve Carell in almost anything, The Incredible Burt Wonderstone has too many fingerprints and not enough heart and soul.