Five Golden Reels

The Family Jewels (Eierdiebe) Martin Schwarz, doctoral student and dutiful son, wants his ball back--his testicle, that is, removed by doctors when it's discovered to be cancerous. Martin (played by Wotan Wilke Möhring) merely wants to give it a proper burial; it's still part of him, he insists, not something to be dissected and discarded by pathologists. But Martin's pursuit of his missing nut is only a small part of this sweetly comic and disarmingly angry movie, written and directed by German filmmaker Robert Schwentke. Set in a cancer ward populated by bald and pale chemo patients who resemble zombiefied Curlys, The Family Jewels is about the death of one family (Martin's mother, father and brother don't react well to their son's illness) and the creation of another. Martin rooms with two men who kill time watching horror movies; nearby is a dying woman (Julia Hummer) who sees in Martin a last chance for love. Schwentke would seem to have no love for doctors and nurses, but doesn't allow them to become villains; they're just doing jobs that cause them to hurt those they're just trying to heal, which creates a sort of guilt masked by bad jokes and bad behavior. Theirs becomes what Martin refers to as a "sense of tumor." October 26, 5:15 p.m., Angelika. Writer-director Robert Schwentke is scheduled to attend. (R.W.)

The Fog of War Errol Morris, maker of The Thin Blue Line, could have released this film at any time, and it would still resonate like a thousand church bells rung in a shoe box. Its lessons are timeless and universal; its regrets, also. When an architect of war comes to regret his creations, which is to say his destructions, it makes for riveting viewing--a look at someone who wishes he could undo his past, with the horrific knowledge there's no going back. But the words spoken by Robert McNamara, secretary of defense under Kennedy and Johnson, seem especially relevant today. When the man, 85 years old when interviewed by Morris for this film two years ago, says, "If we can't persuade nations with comparable values of the merit of our cause, we'd better re-examine our reasoning," you can't help but wince a little. He's talking about Vietnam, but of course could be referring to Iraq; the film is subtitled "Eleven Lessons of Robert S. McNamara," and you're reminded how tragic the consequences when others fail to learn from the past. McNamara comes close to admitting failure and regret but stops just short; he blames others for their shortsightedness and stubbornness, and condemns himself only by admitting complicity. Though he wants to take back the fire bombing of 100,000 civilians in Tokyo during World War II, he instead damns General Curtis Le May for ordering the use of incendiary weapons. He would prefer to be remembered as a do-gooder--his work as a maker of safety features at Ford is mentioned, as is his insistence that no rifles be loaded during peace mongers' march on the Pentagon in 1967--but knows he will be granted no such pardon. Instead, he will have to pay for decisions made in the fog of war. October 29, 9:45 p.m., Angelika. (R.W.)

In America It's ironic a movie about a man who refuses to cry makes you do nothing but, or perhaps it's merely unwise to see a film in which every scene's haunted by a dead young boy when you've just had your own. Writer-director Jim Sheridan (My Left Foot, The Boxer) turns a real-life dead brother, lost at 11 to a brain tumor, into the son of a fictional family moved from Ireland to New York City in the 1980s; they trade tragedy for poverty, moving into funky-junkie squalor sans air conditioning and medical insurance, in order to start over. Johnny (Paddy Considine) hustles for stage work, Sarah (Samantha Morton) gets a gig scooping ice cream, while their two girls, camcording Christy (Sara Bolger) and adorable Ariel (real-life sister Emma), attend school, assimilate our pop culture and befriend an AIDS-afflicted artist (Djimon Hounsou) whose bitterness and fear they initially mistake for madness. Frankie's the dead kid little seen but often talked about, but Johnny's the corpse seen on screen for two hours; unable to cry or even feel anything since Frankie's death, he's the hollow man whose own kids can no longer identify him during one crushing scene. But Sheridan, tossing out fairy dust, isn't out to deprive anyone of a happy ending--Christy and Ariel don't love E.T. for nothing, and Sarah doesn't work at a parlor called Heaven for grins. He just wants to dull the shiny a bit, to make the fantastic more ordinary and remind us that some people die while others barely survive, so say your prayers now. October 24, 7 p.m., Angelika. (R.W.)