At the movies: Up in the Air.

It's a difficult endeavor, trying to find humanity in someone whose job it is to mass-fire a company's workforce. It isn't their fault per se; if anything, they indict the spineless higher-ups who seek outside help to keep their own hands from getting dirty.

But these people exist, and Ryan Bingham (George Clooney) is one of the best. A gifted salesman (who here sells the possibility of freedom rather than the despair of unemployment), Bingham spends most of his life on planes, in hotels, engaging with concierges, the future unemployed, and always the disembodied image and voice of whoever is the next level up. Imagine a luxury first-person shooter American version of Demonlover, and you’d not be too far off.

So his company, under the encouragement of up-and-comer Natalie (Anna Kendrick, better known as Bella's best friend from the Twilight movies), decides to start moving into the field of termination by videoconferencing. The lone wolf operative Ryan's come to represent nears obsolescence, and he finds himself having to show the new kid the ropes, knowing he is sealing his own end the whole time. But family drama has a way of intruding, and Mister Happy-On-His-Own finds himself trying to find something meaningful, while at the same time helping his sister get married and possibly building something with his occasional sex buddy (Vera Farmiga, with Meg Foster eyes and hair that speaks volumes as to ideology).

Already surfing in on a giant wave of awards and hype, Up in the Air is the kind of movie that could get by just on being well-made and entertaining; but it also manages to capture the prevailing emotional currents in this country and get at the major sea change in the way people are viewing their jobs and personal stability. Critics’ groups and the blogosphere are already awash with love for the film, and it’s hard to begrudge that- well-crafted films that deal with grownup issues are becoming rarer than unicorns.

Director/cowriter Jason Reitman avoids most of the foolishness that kept his last film Juno so at odds with itself, and in Clooney, he has a game persona to really explore some of the darker sides of the current recession. Add in a guest appearance by Young MC and a two-scene cameo by national treasure Danny McBride, and you've got an accessible, fairly deep film that serves up a few laughs and insights with its look into the state of the American individual. Awards will come in abundance, but it's the quality that matters, and certainly endures.

At the movies: Fantastic Mr. Fox.

Based on Roald Dahl’s classic children’s novel, Fantastic Mr. Fox gives us a Fox (voiced by George Clooney) in a bit of a midlife crisis. A renowned chicken-snatcher from back in the day, Mr. Fox has been biding his time as a little-read journalist and man-about-town. But in his heart is the pulse of a huntsman, and when confronted with three foul-tempered farmers, he sees an opportunity to make one last big score as well as scratch the itch that’s been plaguing him for the past twelve fox years.

Wes Anderson, acclaimed crafter of stylized domestic dramas (The Royal Tenenbaums, Rushmore), making a stop-motion animation film about foxes. With puppets? The whole announcement and advance word seemed a little off, but the end results are speaking for themselves, with Anderson’s gift for hermetic playset filmmaking flourishing in the confines of the frame and the physical limitations of the style of animation chosen.

It’s no wonder people are blown away by the technique and heartfelt storytelling on display here. So much effort, across the board, has gone into this majestic little jewel, that one can't help but be bowled over by its quirky and immersive charms. More love and care went into a one minute-long scene set in a science lab here than went into all 150 million dollars of effects in Transformers 2.

Fantastic Mr. Fox is precisely that, and more. It’s a great example of a gifted filmmaker stretching out and encompassing a new form of visual language, and it’s a remarkable achievement in creating anthropomorphized critters that feel completely of a piece with Anderson’s universe. Here’s a film for the whole family, but one to be enjoyed on many different levels.

It’s a masterful fake-out on behalf of Anderson and co-screenwriter Noah Baumbach (Margot at the Wedding, Kicking and Screaming (the good one, not the Will Ferrell one)), because you go in to Mr. Fox expecting pleasantry, and what you get is a kind of majesty. A wonderful film for all to enjoy.

At the movies: Burn After Reading.

It's no Lebowski, but it's a vicious little gem that has a remarkably consistent fake-out tone; a deadpan farce shot and scored like a tragic thriller. The pleasures are in Richard Jenkins' brokedown dog of a performance, the way John Malkovich wraps his remarkable face around the script's baroque profanities, Brad Pitt's numbnuts enthusiasm and personal trainer pep (he's certainly hearkening back to the Johnny Suede days here), and J.K. Simmons' pitch black-humored CIA chief.

The plot is a typical conspiracy yarn, but nobody's working with a complete sense of the big picture. There's a very real sense of melancholy to the proceedings, because nobody actually ends up being as important as they think they are, and that realization drives quite a few reveals that linger, like the film's more baroquely violent tendencies.

And oh, sleazy, sleazy George Clooney. He's doing something very interesting here, an emotionally complex and vain hedonist who nonetheless has a way of sneaking up on you as a viewer and stealing your sympathy in spite of one's better judgment.

I wish there'd been more for Tilda Swinton to do, but the entire enterprise is such a concise and vicious jewel of a film that I can't complain too terribly hard about any constituent elements.

O3. George Clooney