Tim Hecker
Ravedeath, 1972
Kranky

Tim Hecker’s Ravedeath, 1972 is supposed to be a rumination on the digital music era and a self-declared bit of “secular musical transcendentalism” (whatever that means). Somehow, this translates to tracks that consist primarily of heavily altered recordings of the songwriter playing pipe organ over one day in a church in Reykjavik, Iceland. It’s not exactly the party album of the year, but thankfully, the Montreal native manages to transcend the novelty (or schtick) of Ravedeath’s backstory by imbuing the album with raw musicality.

On “The Piano Drop,” organ tones distort into dense waves of static. At the track’s climax, Hecker tames and sculpts the chaos into vast, melancholic swaths of noise that might sound at home on a Sunn O))) record.

The sense of tension is matched on similarly dark “Hatred of Music.” Though not as immediately aggressive as the record’s opener, the two-part suite contains the sort of dramatic, menacing sheets of sound that have become Hecker’s trademark.

But Ravedeath truly shines when Hecker abandons ear-splitting violence for poignant contemplation. On the outstanding “In the Air I,” Hecker’s pipe organ drones have an orchestral quality, with wavering high notes dancing above clean bass.
The result evokes the sort of massive, frigid beauty one would expect of the album’s birth country.

Between the backstory and the tendencies toward drone and ambience, Ravedeath, 1972 is nothing if not intimidating.
But Tim Hecker’s ear for texture, as well as his ability to wield droning sonics with a keen sense of musicianship and composition, validates his effortless command over the mystifying genre. (7/10)

The early-Aughties show “Queer as Folk” nudged gay culture one ruby-red slipper closer to the mainstream. As Will and Grace exchanged their thousandth hackneyed pun, characters on the Showtime series dealt with laugh track-unfriendly issues ranging from coming out to adoption to HIV/AIDS.

They also, as it happens, spent a lot of time dancing in the club to here-and-queer anthems that sound an awful lot like Lady Gaga’s latest. “Born This Way” is a shock of throwbacks and cultural appropriations, co-opting both Madonna’s “Express Yourself” chin-up lyricism and the campy house style long associated with gay culture.

“Don’t be a drag, just be a queen,” Mother Monster speak-sings. Rhyming “Orient” with “Chola descent” might rub the touchier folks in the crowd the wrong way, but everybody else should just be happy to party like it’s 1989 (the year “Express Yourself” first hit the radio).

The single is, in some ways, the next logical move in Gaga’s quest for global domination. There’s no louder advocate of letting one’s freak flag hang high than Lady Gaga; in that way, this ode to outsiders might have been inevitable. And in its unabashed hijacking of Gaga’s influences, “Born This Way” is a trite, uninventive letdown. We’re dancing along anyway. (6/10)

A four-game sweep of San Francisco State this weekend gave the UCSD softball team its best start since 2002. The Tritons won 8-0 and 7-3 on Friday, and 7-3 and 2-0 on Saturday.

“Four wins are great,” head coach Patti Gerckens said in an interview with the UCSD Athletics Department. “San Francisco is actually a good club, and it was a good way to start our season. It really sets the tone going into next week against Monterey Bay.”

The Tritons only had four hits in the first game, but San Francisco committed five errors to allow the Tritons to score eight runs in the five-inning game. Kris Lesovsky, Caitlin Brown and Katrin Gabriel each had an RBI, as the Tritons capitalized on Gator errors, with only two of their runs earned.

Camille Gaito went the distance, giving up five hits and two walks to get the win.

In the second game on Friday, Tess Granath pitched a complete game and got the win, as the Tritons once again capitalized on Gator mistakes. Granath gave five hits and three runs, but the Tritons scored four runs in the bottom of the sixth to take the victory.

In the sixth, with the game tied at three, UCSD loaded the bases with two outs. Nicole Spangler hit a weak ground ball to the shortstop, but a wild throw allowed all three runners to score. Mya Romero drove Spangler in to add an extra run for the Tritons.

In the first game of Saturday’s doubleheader, UCSD put up six runs in the first three innings and held on for the win. The Tritons got two RBI from Jennifer De Fazio and Esther Storm. Granath pitched five 2/3 innings to pick up the win, giving up seven hits and two runs.

In the second game on Saturday, Gaito was perfect through five 2/3 innings before giving up a double. But she would stay in the game and go the distance, getting the two-hit shutout and sending her record to 5-0 on the season. Gaito has allowed just one earned run this season, striking out 27 batters in 35 1/3 innings of play.

With two on and two out in the fourth inning, Storm sent a fly ball to center field that should have been easily caught. But the Gators’ center fielder dropped the ball and allowed Mya Romero and Taylor Sepulveda to score, giving the Tritons all the offense they needed to take the win.

With the sweep, the Tritons moved to 9-1 on the year, their best start since 2002. The hot start has sent the Tritons into the Top 25 poll at No. 11. It’s the first time UCSD has been in the Top 25 since April 2008.

The Tritons will travel to Seaside, Calif. next weekend for a four-game series against Cal State Monterey Bay. CSUMB is the defending CCAA regular season champion.

Readers can contact Liam Rose at [email protected]

Let’s ignore that the premise (let alone title) of this film sounds like a non-sequitur coughed through a haze of marijuana smoke by a giggling teenager in his parents’ basement. There’s a rationale here somewhere. This is, after all, an animated movie for children, so we should be quick to forgive an incoherent plot for a little heart and imagination.

In case it wasn’t clear, “Gnomeo and Juliet” is the story of garden gnomes Gnomeo (James McAvoy) and Juliet (Emily Blunt) from opposite sides of rival, color-coded gardens, who must cope with their forbidden love and, in the process, try to convince their ceramic pals that war is not the answer. With mediocre animation and a cornucopia of stale ideas, the film promises all the stuff little kids are into — you know, Shakespeare, Sir Elton John and, um, lawn ornaments.

To no one’s surprise, little of the film actually resembles the classic tragedy. The few references that do surface are presented with such mindless obviousness (like two gardens are owned by a man and a woman named, hmm, Montague and Capulet) that it’s as if the writers are whispering, “Get it?” The result, and chief of the film’s many failures, is an audience divided between children who won’t pick up on it and parents who won’t care.

These gnomes don’t look so hot, either. With plain, undefined features, they come across as hollow shells. Meanwhile,
the breathtaking, meticulously detailed environments of Pixar animation are replaced with cheap-looking scenes of fences, shrubs and identical houses.

“Gnomeo” also suffers from unimaginative attempts at humanization that are consistently overwrought or incomprehensible. Gnomes love lawnmowers (in their world, they’re like cars). Gnomes hate dogs (and vice versa). Gnomes keep their gardens watered and perfectly manicured (makes it easy on the homeowners).

The all-important role of bumbling-but-lovable side- kick is squandered on Juliet’s aggressively annoying, sexually ambiguous frog (Ashley Jensen) and Gnomeo’s silent, featureless mushroom named Shroom. Peripheral characters are crippled by lifeless, left-field performances from a slew of superfluous cameos, each more baffling than the last: Jason Statham as Tybalt, a television commercial narrated by Hulk Hogan and a plastic deer voiced by the mumbling Prince of Darkness himself, Ozzy Osbourne.

Adding to the madness is executive producer Elton John’s out-of-place soundtrack, which includes plenty of his classics, as well as a tragically forgettable new original, “Hello, Hello,” featuring an awkward duet with fellow glamour queen Lady Gaga.

It’s difficult not to blame the extensive team of writers for this mess. The dull script half-assedly inserts Shakespeare quotes into idiotic monologues that sound unfinished. “Why must you wear a blue hat?” begs Juliet from her balcony. “Why couldn’t it be red like my father? Or green like, like a leprechaun? Or purple like, uh, like some weird guy?”

Even for a children’s film, it’s difficult to ignore some of the more major inconsistencies (are we just supposed to brush over the implied romance between Gnomeo’s mom and Juliet’s dad at the end?). In fact, these soulless trolls are so unfunny, so absolutely devoid of likable human characteristics or believable goals, that the biggest disappointment comes during the film’s conclusion, when (spoiler!) we are woefully deprived of the double-suicide bloodbath promised by Shakespeare’s original.

Occasionally, “Gnomeo” even dares to mock its source material — and not just by virtue of being such a catastrophic adaptation. At the film’s climax, a suddenly and inexplicably self-aware Gnomeo chats up a statue of William Shakespeare, as the two literally compare and contrast the plot of “Romeo and Juliet” with what has happened in the film so far. “I think this ending is much better,” says Gnomeo in the final scene, just before the entire cast gears up for a hackneyed community dance-a-thon/curtain call.

Somehow, “Gnomeo and Juliet”’s defiant atrociousness feels like a swan song for the legendary bard. This tale of star-crossed lovers has been reworked to death — be it nimble-footed gangsters or Leonardo DiCaprio — and is finally buried here, under the lawn. (D-)

In “The Eagle” Kevin MacDonald (“The Last King of Scotland”), directs a narrative about Marcus Aquila Flavius, a morose, hard-nosed Roman soldier (pretty boy Channing Tatum) as he searches in vain for the golden eagle of Rome — and a viable plot.

Marcus is introduced as the son of the Roman military commander who led 5,000 men and a golden eagle totem into the backwoods of northern England, never to be seen again. The shame and notoriety of his father’s mistake — losing the prized eagle, the sign of Rome — constantly haunts him. Guilt-ridden, Marcus is driven to take a position as a commander in the shit-smelling bowels of southern England, where he’s injured trying to save his men.

The movie only begins after 30 minutes of meandering anguish, and this opening sets the tone. Marcus is featured as a capable warrior, a depressed patient and the eventual owner of an English slave named Esca (Jamie Bell), who Marcus saved from death in a gladiator ring. Tatum and Bell take off across gloomy Scotland, turning what could have been a fairly interesting bonding experience between two budding friends into a shameless display of testosterone-fueled passive-aggressive angst. The rest of the plot isn’t bad so much as overly familiar — there’s bonding, backstabbing and dramatic fight scenes (see also: “Mean Girls”) and eventual back-patting resolution.

For a movie that relies so much on the grit of its fight sequences, “The Eagle” displays a nauseating misunderstanding of combat style and canon — battles induce headaches, as if shot in the midst of an earthquake, making it difficult to focus on images of flashing swords and metal. The editing also mutes the film’s bloodshed, skirting around throat-slittings and stabbings, ultimately steering clear of the bloodlust that successful blockbusters “300” and “Gladiator” fed on.

The duration of “The Eagle” finds Tatum nailing his singular facial expression: the furrowed scowl, pioneered by emo kids worldwide. Bell carries the film, squinting, shivering and gasping from heavy blows, coolly assessing a grey countryside and barking insults at his superior — his Esca is remarkably resilient and scrappy.

But neither actor is helped by the clunky dialogue that limps along for the length of the film in a more affected gait than Marcus after his injury. Lines lacking spark are delivered with monotone, inspiring apathy toward the characters and their words.

While inoffensive, the movie’s uninspiring, boilerplate approach to period drama has us revisiting Russel Crowe’s infamous “Gladiator” question: “Are you not entertained?” The jury’s still out. (C-)

James Blake
James Blake
Atlas / A&M

You can usually pull off dubstep by sticking to a formula — bust out some syncopated beats and face-melting wobbly bass (you know, that distinct “wobwobwobwob” sound) — and you’re ready to invade dorm rooms everywhere.

But 22-year-old UK import James Blake is breaking away from the grimy pack. On last year’s Klavierwerke EP, the London-based producer tore up his roots to stretch the boundaries of what dubstep can be. The record’s four songs — primarily composed of sampled and distorted footage of Blake singing and playing piano at home — introduced elements of soul and outright silence to the mix, solidifying Blake’s position as one of the most forward-thinking artists in electronic music.

Now, on his self-titled, full-length debut, Blake exceeds the expectations set by his first three EPs (and his second-place finish on BBC’s “Sound of 2011” poll) by progressing even further. Blake isn’t just a beat-maker anymore. He’s doing the unthinkable: writing actual pop songs.

Good ones.

Single “The Wilhelm Scream” has Blake breaking out his best Marvin Gaye imitation, expressing uncertainty and remorse with a kind of emotional impact rarely achieved by traditional singer-songwriters, let alone avant-garde dubstep producers.

Even on more dance-oriented tracks like “I Mind” and “To Care (Like You),” Blake imbues his digital compositions with vulnerable vocal performances that impart a strong sense of presence.

On the outstanding “I Never Learnt To Share,” Blake manipulates layers of vocal tracks and surrounds them with beds of chilly synthesizers. The slow build-up takes some patience, but the restraint makes the final dub-dissonance all the more dramatic.

Even when the album doesn’t engage in sonic trickery, the songs impress with their emotional impact alone. With that kind of ingenuity, James Blake is as promising an electronic debut as there’s been in a while. (8/10)

By Tanner Cook

Cut Copy
Zonoscope
Modular Recordings

These days, every country seems to have its banner synth-rock band: America has LCD Soundsystem, France has Phoenix and Australia has Cut Copy, the project of DJ/ songwriter Dan Whitford (think James Murphy with an Aussie accent).

Cut Copy’s newest release, Zonoscope, is the band’s most ambitious work yet, taking the usual ’80s influences (Duran Duran, New Order) and blending them seamlessly with modern pop sensibilities.

The band has always taken cues from the Reagan era — as evidenced on previous releases, such as 2008’s In Ghost Colours — but they’ve never been this cohesive.

Cut Copy are relentless with the time-warping track after track. “Take Me Over” unabashedly cops a few hooks from Men At Work’s 1981 jam “Down Under” (just not the signature flute) — though with the addition of extra “oohs” and percussion, they avoid the expected pastiche.

The deep vocals of “Blink And You’ll Miss A Revolution” sound sort of like Oingo Boingo, but synth glockenspiel, of all things, adds a modern, creative touch. Plus, the songs, filledwith more melodic back- ground harmonies and a rollicking drum loop, are pure fun.

Many songs rely on hypnotic build-ups and breakdowns. “Need You Now” kicks off the album with the perfect climb: Atmospheric hums give way to drum loops and cowbell, while some synthesizer shimmers into the introduction of Whitford’s wistful vocals. All this means that by the time the track reaches its chorus, you’re already in dance-floor heaven.

As Zonoscope’s ’80s dream comes to a close, Cut Copy deviates the most from the throwback formula. Fifteen-minute album ender “Sun God” starts off like your standard dance pop, but suddenly switches gears to psychedelia. Drifting away into a long instrumental, atmospheric outro, it’s the group’s most expansive work to date.

At the core of nearly every track on Zonoscope is a deep reverence for past musical heroes. Cut Copy take hooks (sometimes literally) from their icons, but pile on enough instruments and sing-along verses to break from the synth-rock pack. (8/10)

By Tanner Cook

Cut Copy
Zonoscope
Modular Recordings

These days, every country seems to have its banner synth-rock band: America has LCD Soundsystem, France has Phoenix and Australia has Cut Copy, the project of DJ/ songwriter Dan Whitford (think James Murphy with an Aussie accent).

Cut Copy’s newest release, Zonoscope, is the band’s most ambitious work yet, taking the usual ’80s influences (Duran Duran, New Order) and blending them seamlessly with modern pop sensibilities.

The band has always taken cues from the Reagan era — as evidenced on previous releases, such as 2008’s In Ghost Colours — but they’ve never been this cohesive.

Cut Copy are relentless with the time-warping track after track. “Take Me Over” unabashedly cops a few hooks from Men At Work’s 1981 jam “Down Under” (just not the signature flute) — though with the addition of extra “oohs” and percussion, they avoid the expected pastiche.

The deep vocals of “Blink And You’ll Miss A Revolution” sound sort of like Oingo Boingo, but synth glockenspiel, of all things, adds a modern, creative touch. Plus, the songs, filled with more melodic background harmonies and a rollicking drum loop, are pure fun.

Many songs rely on hypnotic build-ups and breakdowns. “Need You Now” kicks off the album with the perfect climb: Atmospheric hums give way to drum loops and cowbell, while some synthesizer shimmers into the introduction of Whitford’s wistful vocals. All this means that by the time the track reaches its chorus, you’re already in dance-floor heaven.

As Zonoscope’s ’80s dream comes to a close, Cut Copy deviates the most from the throwback formula. Fifteen-minute album ender “Sun God” starts off like your standard dance pop, but suddenly switches gears to psychedelia. Drifting away into a long instrumental, atmospheric outro, it’s the group’s most expansive work to date.

At the core of nearly every track on Zonoscope is a deep reverence for past musical heroes. Cut Copy take hooks (sometimes literally) from their icons, but pile on enough instruments and sing-along verses to break from the synth-rock pack. (8/10)

The Strokes
'Under Cover Of Darkness'
RCA

It’s been 10 years since the Strokes released their critically acclaimed debut Is This It? and another five since their last record, First Impressions Of Earth. Now lead single “Under Cover of Darkness” offers a glimpse at the band’s long-awaited comeback Angles, slated for release this March.

The track manages to sound like classic Strokes material and their more recent experiments all at once. From the caustic guitar battle introduction between Nick Valensi and Albert Hammond Jr. to singer Julian Casablanca’s climactic pleas, the song is an exhibition of all the Strokes’ sonic ambitions over the past decade.

It may not be the Strokes’ most memorable or original effort, but “Under Cover of Darkness” does deliver promising hooks that will draw fans back for repeated listens. As lyrical punctuation, Casablanca asks over and over, “Will you wait for me?” If the past week’s online frenzy over the track’s release is any indication, it seems the man’s got his answer. (8/10)

—Taylor Hogshead

The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart
'Belong'
Slumberland

The Pains of Being Pure at Heart refuse to grow up. They want to be teens of the ’80s forever, packing cutesy, New Wave nostalgia into each release.

So the second single and title track from their upcoming LP Belong is no detour from the trend. Like the band’s past work has done so well, the track brings a pop sensibility to emo-kid influences a la My Bloody Valentine and the Jesus and Mary Chain.

With an abundance of distorted guitars and hazy production, “Belong” may be the biggest anthem they’ve released yet. At certain points, the band breaches ’90s alt-rock territory, especially on the chorus (think Smashing Pumpkins meets the Cranberries).

While they’re broadening their sound, the Pains of Being Pure at Heart stick to what they know best, holding on to their trademark sugary sound, even when they’re playing musical dress-up. “Belong” is not the catchiest song in the band’s repertoire, but as far as charming indie pop goes, it’s still worth a listen. (7/10)

—Taylor Hogshead

Stupidity often seems directly proportional to how famous someone is (or, as Kanye puts it, “The ego is overdone ... it’s like hoodies”). Most seem to think public celebrity mishaps are a rare thing (false) or that most are unintentional (also false). For your amusement, here’s my roundup of the stupidest celebrity headlines over the past two weeks:

Lady Gaga is working on a perfume — which smells of blood and semen.
First off, celebrities should not pioneer their own perfume lines. Spending 40 hours a week singing on stage, churning out addictive pop songs and sporting a sweat-soaked crotch doesn’t make some- one an expert on the art of perfumery (go away already, Fergie). Second, exactly what demographic is Lady Gaga’s perfume (which one can only hope will be called “men’s locker room”) appealing to? Serial killers? The cast of “True Blood”? Megan Fox? Hold on — no one. Even Foxy wipes that mess up before she steps out.

Kobe Bryant wants Pau Gasol to be a “black swan.”
Just when the Hollywood frenzy over Lamar Odom and Shrek Kardashian’s nuptials died down, Kobe Bryant — like the visionary team captain he is — came out with this movie analogy gem in an interview with ESPN:

“When I’m out there being aggressive and doing my thing, [Gasol] needs to follow suit and just be just as aggressive which is hard for him because it’s kind of against his nature ... Even when he was in Memphis and he was the go-to guy, he was always very nice. Very white swan. I need him to be black swan.”

No word (yet) on whether Bryant plans to incorporate homoerotica as a regular part of the Lakers’ pre-game rituals — fingers crossed that tutus become a part of their uniforms.

James Franco teaches James Franco about James Franco.
When Movieline recently announced that Columbia College Hollywood would be offering a Masters course taught by James Franco, UCLA film students heaved a collective sigh of relief. The course, called “Editing James Franco ... with James Franco” (seriously — even the college’s course registrar is laughing at this shit) will have 12 students create a 30-minute documentary using footage from the actor’s career. Franco plans on occasionally attending the class and Skyping in to lecture, too.

Franco’s overexposed self-love affair is sort of like Speidi 2.0. Maybe it’ll be “irreconcilable differences” for Franco and Franco, too.

They Tried to Make Him go to Rehab
As Egypt tears itself inside-out, the press has latched onto a greater tragedy — Charlie Sheen of “Two and a Half Men” took a break from starring in the world’s worst sitcom to check into a rehab center after being rushed to an LA hospital, complaining of severe abdominal pain. According to TMZ, Lindsay Lohan recently spoke out on the crisis, saying Sheen was in a “life or death situation” and was “thrilled” that the actor is seeking help.

You know you have a problem when was-that-a-stop-sign-where’s-my-fucking- coke Lohan is offering you her dearest condolences. Here’s hoping (knowing) CBS can find some other crap to fill their 9 p.m. slot. Or, to quote the good man Kanye once more: “Hangovers ain’t good man... hangovers ain’t good.”

Starting a new decade is always a drag. When I turned the big two-oh last week, I couldn’t help but feel remorse at leaving teenagedom behind.

For a long time I held on to the precocious idea that, before my twenties, I would write my magnum opus or discover my hidden talent for the didgeridoo, perform at Carnegie Hall and become world famous overnight. But forever gone is that window of opportunity to stake my claim at being a child prodigy and, in its place, I’ve been ringing in the new decade with wake-up calls from reality. Please, life, leave a message.

Ironically, one of the calls that I haven’t deferred to voicemail has me realizing how difficult the life of a child prodigy actually is. And, given the present hubbub of movie awards season, it’s only fair to pick on child actors.

Instead of trekking up an incline in their stardom, child actors work to resist the inertia of a downhill career. The roles that put them on the map bank millions, making for records hard to trump and characters hard to erase from collective memory. Even those who defy the trend struggle at times. Case in point (despite the zeitgeist that would beg otherwise): Natalie Portman.

She’s beautiful even when she goes bald and she’s versatile in her acting repertoire, too. Chicken-poxed guisha Queen Amidala scared me shitless as a kid, only to be outdone 11 years later by the spindly feathers that Nina sprouts from her back in “Black Swan.”

But despite Portman’s beauty and the accolades that she’s accrued as one of our generation’s most brilliant star- lets, I still feel underwhelmed and not wholly convinced by her more serious performances. Her expression of permanent constipation in “Black Swan” is a disappointing excuse for acting (and the Best Actress nomination), and those histrionic face contortions may very well be an effort at one-upping the dramatic performances she’s been churning out her entire career.

Since her breakout role in 1994’s “The Professional,” Portman has largely remained in the dramatic film circuit, and, as her recent forays into comedy imply, Nina may be an extension of her very self.

In other words, Portman has a “Black Swan” complex in reverse. Instead of going from the light to dark, she’s leaving dramatic chops behind for light-hearted humor in the just-released rom-com “No Strings Attached” and upcoming medieval stoner flick “Your Highness.”

Although it’s certainly a departure from the norm she established in childhood, comedy agrees with Portman. Her rap on “SNL” in 2006 was ballsy but brilliant in playing off our expectations (“When I was at Harvard / I smoked weed every day / I cheated every test / and snorted all the yay”). In 2009, she effortlessly kept pace with Zach Galifianakis’ awkward character (and his greatest punch line) on his Funny or Die interview series, “Between Two Ferns.”

Portman’s string of comedic movies isn’t the only thing in discord with the straight-laced image she spent her childhood building as a vegan, faithful Jew and Ivy League graduate. Quite to the contrary, she’s soon to enjoy a shotgun wedding, after being knocked up by her choreographer, Benjamin Millipied (yes, you’re supposed to pronounce it with French flair—“MEEL- pee-yeh”—but I’m still thinking of the thousand-legged arthropod).

Her interest in the risque? (now so obvious that no flick of a Hollywood designer’s wand can cover her scarlet “A”) traces back to films as early as 2004’s Academy-Award nominated “Closer,” where Portman played a stripper who told Clive Owen that her lady parts taste like heaven.

What Portman has gone on record saying in the past about gratuitous nudity and sex in film has come back to bite her in the ass. “It’s horrible to be a sex object at any age, but at least when you’re an adult you can make the decision if you want to degrade yourself,” she said a decade ago.

So, either she’s being hypocritical or her Oscar acceptance speech this February will indirectly be an extension of thanks to Aronofsky for the opportunity to “degrade” herself in lesbian sex scenes with Mila Kunis. Or maybe it just wasn’t up to par with her extended nude scene in “Hotel Chevalier” or stripping down to a skimpy bikini in “Your Highness” before the glued eyes of James Franco and Danny McBride.

Those accusations of hypocrisy and selling out are the inevitable price a child actor has to pay for her growing pains. The comparisons made between the current Portman and her inge?nue past may be unfair, since she’s just breaking out of her childhood mold, but that’s what an adolescence spent in the limelight entails.

So, until I get my own big break, here’s to a new decade of screw-ups that won’t go publicly chastised (and hopefully a job when I graduate, too).

Go ahead and add underwater thriller “Sanctum” to a list of reasons never to go cave diving. The flick is based on the true story of an expert spelunker/diver who gets trapped with his team (and teenage son) in a mysterious cave that’s slowly filling with water. The team believes that somewhere below its feet, the cave water leads to the ocean, but they don’t have a map — or actual proof that the path exists. And with their entrance completely blocked, the only way out, as the tagline reads, is down.

“Sanctum” is another one of producer James Cameron’s epic explorations of picturesque natural landscapes: dwarfing, sparkling and utterly devoid of nuanced characters. There’s the gruff leading man Frank (Richard Roxburgh) and his rebellious son, Josh (Rhys Wakefield), cocksure Carl (Ioan Gruffudd of “The Fantastic Four”) and his bubblegum Barbie girlfriend, Victoria (Alice Parkinson). Each is written as a cartoonish caricature of a person and the effect is as stifling as the waterlogged cave they’re trapped in. Though some make admirable attempts at breaking through the movie’s entrapping screenplay (most notably the youngest cast member, Wakefield), others, like Gruffudd, resign themselves to cookie-cutter kitsch — Carl speaks with a forced, gum-bearing smile and calls his girlfriend “babe” in a mocking monotone. Like we haven’t heard that before.

Luckily, in true Cameron fashion, paint-stripping dialogue takes a backseat to visual thrills. Director Alister Grierson keeps the audience in a state of near pitch-black suffocation as divers scramble to stay alive — avoiding jagged falling rocks, drowning or starvation. The striking scenery is doused with a shipload of visceral, teeth-grinding gore — actors hang precariously by their scalp-hair, scrape limbs against gritty stone and claw through wet, air-tight cavities.

In most films, 3-D effects are added afterward for the sake of charging an extra $3 at the box office. The practice usually results in a series of awkward close-ups — stills of golf balls rolling toward the audience, or Nic Cage’s CGI mug peering menacingly out of the screen (“The Green Hornet” is inexplicably playing in 3-D right now).

“Sanctum,” however, was actually conceived with 3-D technology in mind. Cameron has been developing and perfecting his own 3-D technology for years — his Fusion Camera System is being used to glorify lengthy, uninterrupted shots of the cave, rather than mimic the frivolous 3-D craze of the ’80s. The expansion of space allows the audience to experience the cave in all its spacious grandeur — sharpening layers of glistening rock, a corroding cathedral’s dilapidated walls and gushing bursts of unimpeded water.

It’s likely that “Sanctum” will draw parallels to big-brother “Avatar,” though it also hamstrings itself with a shriller cast of characters than the latter’s sag-faced ensemble. And unfortunately for Cameron, it’s also bound to have a harder time keeping its head above water. (C+)