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Ah, late winter, that time of year when the offal not fit to be thrown to the masses during awards-vying season gets trotted out to the lately cinema-starved in the hopes we’ll dig into anything even remotely resembling the edible. Emblematic of the mediocrity of this most unpalatable of movie-watching spells is playwright Adam Rapp’s Winter Passing, which initially looks to be more promising than most of the uninspired dreck now on offer - Big Momma’s House 2, When a Stranger Calls, Firewall (need I go on?) – but quickly relegates itself to nearly as lowly quarters; some cheap thrills would’ve at least enlivened its stagnant 96-minute running time.

So unstintingly common is it from the first frame, you half-wonder whether Rapp isn’t setting his up as the anti-indie indie movie, citing the dominant clichés in order to later thwart them. Set in New York, it begins with a shaky cam focused on a disheveled Reese (an unusually charmless Zooey Deschanel) intoning somberly in voiceover, and you think, dammit no, not another one of these generic cut-and-paste affairs. But a quick transition soon reveals her to be auditioning for a play rather than ruminating pensively MTV-style and so, for a moment, you give the first-time director the benefit of the doubt, that his will be something surprising and different, not merely one more making its way down the same Sundance-y path of failed good intentions.

Unfortunately for the viewer, not long thereafter, such hopes are dashed, as the opening credits roll to self-serious indie rock accompanied by not an iota of awareness. Throw in an unearned “Hey, kiddo,” – seriously, is there anything more falsely poignant than a “Hey, kiddo”? - voiced to Reese by a theater friend upon the former’s sudden urge (read: quiet desperation) to hug her when the latter lends her cell phone, and you’ve got a classic DOA situation. Dark-haired, pale-faced, depressed, Reese bartends, aspires to act, does drugs, and engages in meaningless sex. Oh, and she doesn’t cut herself or anything as unoriginal as that – no, a far more unique conceit illustrates how she damages herself (physically and spiritually, of course) – a penchant for slamming her hand in drawers. Clearly she’s a fuck-up who needs to come to some sort of emotional recognition in order to turn her life around, and an opportunity to do so arrives in the form of a publisher’s offer to pay $100,000 if she can produce her literary parents’ love letters (bequeathed by her recently deceased mother). This means (surprise, surprise) returning home to Michigan to visit her father, Don (Ed Harris) and wrestling with the weighty decision of whether or not to sell out her parents. We can easily guess the belabored dramatics to follow. It’s but a countdown to the moment Reese’s healing begins, and she learns to embrace life again, is it not?

Making matters worse, Don allows a couple of strays to share his house, forming an idiosyncratic (read: endearing) family. But when even Will Ferrell is rendered unfunny as eyeliner-wearing, Karate-chopping Corbit, you know things are looking pretty grim. The willful quirkiness Rapp imposes so stifles any regard for these characters as real human beings, you never begin to care about them, and their overly-scripted attempts to ingratiate themselves at every turn doesn’t help matters. As par for the course, Reese starts out stodgily resistant to this makeshift family. Fine. But then, apropos of nothing, she lets down her guard. All of a sudden, she’s going for jogs with Shelly (Amelia Warner) and encouraging Corbit to give Open Mike Night at the local bar a try. I suppose we should be thankful Rapp doesn’t take us through the hackneyed motions of her mental shifting, but because he skips over so much of this trajectory, when the story eventually hits the big emotional upheavals, the dramatic outpourings feel sorely out of place.

Affected and aggravating, Winter Passing sadly doesn’t do a thing to help speed up the titular process.

To snag a phrase from a friend, “The Cloon” (as she lovingly refers to George Clooney, without a trace of self-consciousness, I might add) - who can now add three Academy Award nominations (in the well-rounded categories of Writing, Directing, and Acting) to his score card - has had a good year. With the recent releases Syriana and Good Night, and Good Luck, he has – almost literally – put his money where his mouth is, and shown himself committed to conscientious filmmaking rather than cashing in. Witnessing his self-effacing Golden Globe speech merely solidified my (granted, reluctant) coming around to his charms.

This highly appealing and very un-movie-star-like humility is abundantly in evidence in his role as a portly, bearded and bedraggled CIA operative on a quest to uncover certain truths about the larger implications of his life’s work. What exactly those truths are, I can’t really say, since I honestly have no idea what goes on for much of Syriana.

But before I get into that, let me just say, I didn’t worship Traffic the way everyone else did when it hit theaters to wall-to-wall acclaim, not to mention numerous Oscar nods (including a win for screenwriter Stephen Gaghan). That whole drug-czar-who-can’t-even-control-his-junkie-daughter storyline just seemed so annoyingly symbolic, and the final segment where the family sits together at the support group meeting too pat. But I needn’t have worried that Gaghan’s latest script and directorial effort would fall into the same overly-tidy trap. With Syriana, he gutsily goes off in exactly the opposite direction, crafting a movie so confounding and messy you sort of wonder – aside from its shining stars - how it found release.

Never have I come out of an American movie so flummoxed as I did from this multi-leveled political thriller, and I’m not referring to the poetic kind of confusion inspired by the elliptical ambiguity of, say, Claire Denis’ The Intruder - I mean that I couldn’t understand Syriana on even the most basic level of plot mechanics. Though this degree of bafflement an hour into a film feels incredibly disorienting, I also left strangely exhilarated. After all, any movie that could boil down the vast corruptions and complications of the global oil industry into just over two hours would have to be incredibly reductive. But Syriana gives you an idea of the scope without distilling it, and sidesteps the pitfalls common to prestige films with big names attached, namely a penchant for histrionic displays of heroism which typically gives the audience at least a semblance of comfort by lending the impression some superman somewhere can exert control over pernicious worldwide – hmm, maybe conspiracy is too strong a word? – coordination. But here, an ensemble cast ensures no running, leading man will come to the rescue, not Clooney, nor Jeffrey Wright, not even Matt Damon. And the nagging lack of closure feels eminently appropriate for such thoroughly insidious dealings.

Yeah, yeah, I thought Reese and Joaquin were great, too, but since they’re already receiving their share of the accolades, and what with the Academy Awards nominations being announced this past Tuesday, I thought I’d throw some roses at the best performances of 2005 not recognized by Oscar.

Best Actress

Valeria Bruni Tedeschi, 5 x 2
From defeated divorcee to shy ingénue (in that order), Valeria Bruni Tedeschi movingly limns in reverse order a romantic evolution undergone, from first stirrings of love to the end of the marriage, with a seamlessness that defies 5 x 2’s intermittent maneuvering. Given the year-end scramble to scrounge up enough female lead performances to nominate for the big awards - due to the long-bemoaned dearth of good roles for actresses in American cinema - you’d think the Academy would occasionally look outside English-language films for deserving contenders. Alas, instead another nomination goes to Charlize Theron.

Q’orianka Kilcher, The New World
She may have been only 14 years old when filming The New World, but Kilcher’s poise far surpasses her age. Displaying both the sprightliness of a wood nymph and the self-possession befitting a princess, her introductory attempts to communicate with John Smith – beginning with the words for “sun,” “stars,” “wind” – could’ve come across as cringingly fey, overly romanticized. Instead, she captivates so immediately with her artless effervescence we’re left as spellbound as Farrell’s Smith, and as haunted when out of her company.

Dina Korzun, Forty Shades of Blue
As Laura, a woman used to moving blithely through life thanks to her good looks, Dina Korzun heartbreakingly essays a shattering internal reckoning with a graceful sublimity far too nuanced for Oscar to notice.

Zhang Ziyi, 2046
I’ve always found Zhang Ziyi’s fashionableness with American audiences somewhat perplexing. Sure, she’s daintily pretty, but she strikes me as plain next to the sultry presence of Gong Li or the effortless elegance of Maggie Cheung – both of whom she stars alongside in Wong Kar-wai’s ethereal and lovely latest and neither of whom has ever enjoyed the same sort of pop appeal as the younger (evidenced by Zhang’s stint in Rush Hour 2). But as Tony Leung’s broken-hearted lover Bai Ling in 2046, she finally demonstrates herself worthy of the international adulation: Witnessing her transform from coquettish to crushed makes you vibrate with sympathy-anguish. And post-breakup, her carefully-calibrated facial expressions evince perfect amounts of steely reserve and pride – almost enough to mask the rending despair.

Best Actor

Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Mysterious Skin
Who knew the kid from 3rd Rock from the Sun had it in him? As a hustler marked by childhood molestation, the actor carries himself with the cockiness of one wildly aware of his own physical beauty even as his eyes betray youthful naivete and uncertainty. Subconsciously struggling with the past damage inflicted on him, Gordon-Levitt slowly unwraps his character, thrillingly revealing him in all his beautiful, fucked-up confusion.

Colin Farrell, The New World
‘Cause he’s such a Hollywood hound dog, Farrell doesn’t get anywhere near the respect he deserves as an actor. From subtly sleazy New Yorker in Phone Booth to child-like man in A Home at the End of the World to sensitive explorer John Smith in The New World, you sense the Irish actor bodily commits himself to every chosen role. He unselfconsciously inhabits Smith with the heavy heart of an individual conflicted in his desires, his soulful eyes giving voice to more than his actions and words allow. That he makes you forget his hard-partying playboy persona for the duration of Malick’s meandering says much about his talent.

Cillian Murphy, Breakfast on Pluto
With nary a wink, Cillian Murphy portrays cross-dressing Patrick “Kitten” Braden with equal parts guilelessness and moxie in a performance that should’ve made him a shoo-in this awards season. All but skipping through Neil Jordan’s fairy-tale - set in politically-charged 60’s and 70’s Ireland – Murphy exudes confidence and charm aplenty (as he should – most biological females can only dream of being as gorgeous), armed with a willfully stubborn innocence which acts as protective shield, and a witty quip always at the ready.

Peter Sarsgaard, The Dying Gaul
I was never part of the Peter Sarsgaard fan club – that is, until his brilliant turn as a lover-in-mourning in The Dying Gaul. Without being at all obvious, we know from his first scene – through certain gestures, a manner of speaking – that his character, Robert, is gay. And that his tortured screenwriter runs the emotional gamut from exhilarated (check out his thrillingly complex orgiastic reaction) to humiliated with such fluidity makes me mildly embarrassed to admit it’s taken this long to jump on his bandwagon.