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From the very beginning of "Man of Steel," in which we see a mother suffer through the agonies and processes of childbirth, the director, Zack Snyder, has declared war on our senses. He opens his picture with a series of clumsily staged and frequently out-of-focus shots while the Foley flares up to the point where the theater speakers sound as though they might explode. I never imagined I would see a superhero picture (let alone one starring the Man of Steel himself, Superman) that opened with a screaming woman and an infant dripping with amniotic fluid. But alas, this extremely discomforting and frankly weird sequence sets the mood for the entire 143 minutes that ensues. For this new Superman is one of the most visually aggressive and unpleasantly loud movies of the year.

There is some minimal comfort: we're not the only ones subjected to director Snyder's assault. Throughout the picture, anything and everything that can demolished or bruised or beaten in any sort of way receives a grueling fate. Entire rows of cars go up in flames; skyscrapers pummel to the ground; windows are popped into thousands of shards one after another; and the occasional human neck is snapped like a dry twig. Snyder not only directs every single sequence in a fast-moving, relentless manner (with the camera lenses pushed in much too far), but he does not allow for any breather space. As soon as one object (or person) has been obliterated, something else is sent off to join it. It is nonstop noise. Everything is noisy; even the tapping of a pencil on a desk brim rattles the soundtrack. Let's also take note that Superman no longer takes off and glides before picking up speed. Now he launches from the ground with all the earsplitting frequency and velocity of a space-bound rocket. And that's simply ignoring the trombone-heavy score by Hans Zimmer, which is excellent enough on its own terms, but pushed up in volume too high by the sound editors, so that it seems to bleed through all of the explosions and screaming and collisions that are already assailing our ears.

So, what is the point behind all this? Even though Snyder directed "Man of Steel," the dominant artist involved in terms of storytelling and mood is the producer, Christopher Nolan, who made the three recent Batman pictures. Those movies (two of which I hold with immense respect and admiration) successfully transformed the Caped Crusader from a dork in a bat suit into an interesting and oddly fascinating character…even with that silly and not-scary voice. Nolan's Batman went from silly to serious, and now he appears to be trying the same with Superman.

But here is the problem. Out of all of the superhero characters, Batman is the one you can afford to take dead-serious, because he's the one who is grounded closest to reality; he's flesh-and-blood; he's human and mortal in every way, except in his legacy and image. When dealing with a figure like Superman, who hails from an alien planet and can spew lobotomizing, crimson beams from his eyes, there needs to be some room for science-fiction wonder and spectacle.

You also, given his origins, need to evoke a human side. And here is where both Nolan and Snyder have utterly failed with their film. The alter-ego of Clark Kent is absolutely essential for the Superman character, because in that personae, he brings something credible to the table, something you can relate to and identify with. In "Man of Steel," we have to wait until the last half-dozen shots to see him don those awkward glasses and stuttering demeanor. Because of this, since he spends the rest of the movie in his impersonal, alien mode, this new Superman is nothing more than a brooding outsider. I usually refrain from comparing entries in a movie-franchise, but if I may say so, the alter-ego dynamic was what made the original "Superman: The Movie" from 1978 such a smashing success. As played by Christopher Reeve, the character spent most of his time in disguise, putting on an act, but still involving us in the story. And that's why there was such wonderful chemistry between Reeve (who in my mind, will always be Superman) and Margot Kidder as the feisty, go-getting reporter.

This is no condemnation of either Henry Cavill, as Superman, or Amy Adams, as the reporter, in "Man of Steel." Their biggest foes are not the alien invaders (whose ships resemble something out of the "Star Gate" television series), but the utterly bland characters thrown in their laps. With this script, Cavill is bland and impersonal. We never get any real chance to understand him as a character, because, again, the movie is constantly forcing him to go into muscle-man mode, saving people from exploding oil rigs and sinking school buses. The only time he shows any sign of a human side is during the film's one truly spell-binding scene where Superman discovers his ability to fly. When he first takes off, Cavill begins to laugh, tickled at his own ability, like a child. And it is only here that the movie allows any significant stretch of time for the material to develop and enhance and for the meanings to resonate with us. Before and after this point, it just goes on, banging away to no apparent end. And just when things seem to quiet down – lo and behold! – a satellite falls out of the sky, and the over-pumped Foley rattles our ears. No matter all the talent put before and behind the camera, "Man of Steel" is not much more than a big, impersonal bore.

Oh, and as for the love story. Forget about it. Not even Amy Adams, one of the most magnetic of actresses working today, can bring emotional life to this supposedly serious story.

Not since the dismal "AVPR: Aliens vs. Predator – Requiem" back in 2007 has a movie's cinematography frustrated and angered me as much as the nonstop barrage of heavy shadows, scribble-like silhouettes, and runny blue tints to be found in "A Good Day to Die Hard." This is one of those movies where every scene, even those in broad daylight, appears to be dark and dreary, as though somebody had placed a fine strip of blue plastic wrap over the camera lenses. Now, granted, dark cinematography is rather commonplace in movies such as this—because it helps guise the faults and lapses in both special effects and stunt work—but the results here are absurdly amateurish. As I sat watching this movie for what seemed like a really long time (but in fact was a brisk 98 minutes), I couldn't help but wonder if the director of photography, Jonathan Sela, had never heard of three-point lighting or color correction.

Very frequently, characters disappear or blend in with their shadow-drenched surroundings; and, when night falls upon them, the brightest thing on the screen is the sweat gleaming to Bruce Willis's forehead. When it comes to evening-set sequences, Sela seems to have a fetish with backlighting and silhouettes and no concern at all with brightening up the part of the actors and sets that are nearest to us. Nothing, not even a uranium-enhanced grenade or a rising sun, can brighten this film's imagery.

I can safely theorize that the director of this film, John Moore, has a place in action-filmmaking. I really enjoyed his tactic of, for his opening, having us hear the sounds of a riot without seeing anything—the one time, I think, where we were intended not to see anything. As demonstrated in an early car chase scene (the one where we can adequately see what is happening), he demonstrates a wicked instinct for staging his camera and not relying on claustrophobic close- ups to the point where it becomes nauseating. When a car flips and tumbles around on the Moscow highways (and it happens numerous times in this particular scene), Moore's cameras toggle back and forth, showing us the event from multiple angles—maybe a little too much, as though Moore set up so many cameras for fearing of one missing the action, and then feeling obliged to show everybody's results—and it is quite exciting.

However, the fun stops right there. One of the key definitions to a strong action movie is the ability to absorb the audience in the narrative...even if the said narrative makes little to no sense. I probably don't need to mention this, but "A Good Day to Die Hard" is merely the latest in a long series of movies and, two sequels before, the movie "Die Hard: With a Vengeance" used a plot that also made little sense. But the screenplay wisely paced itself at a quick yet satisfying rhythm so the audience didn't have too much time to think about plausibility and just enjoy the spectacle and the mind games. For this fifth adventure, in which poor Bruce Willis once again winds up throwing himself around bullet-strewn architecture, the logic flies around with little redeeming entertainment value. Had the storytellers swamped me under their own terms, I wouldn't have minded if the hero and his high-strung CIA agent of a son could throw themselves through a high-rise window, knowing there was a pulpit for them to land on, knowing that the board they broke through would lead to a tunnel that would take them safely to ground level.

As much as I disliked "A Good Day to Die Hard," I cannot pass it off as meritless. For one thing, Willis still possesses a screen-commanding presence and style, even if his character has diminished into a soulless, impersonal fighting machine. As his son, Jai Courtney also displays a certain level of on-screen confidence. Mary Elizabeth Winstead is also in the picture, though only for the prologue and epilogue, and once again, did not fail to charm me. I've already talked about director Moore's prospects for future, better projects. And finally, I really do wish to grant credit to the composer for the music score. Veteran maestro Marco Beltrami's instruments and conduction do elevate some of the movie's lackluster scenes. So, at moments, I didn't mind so much that I couldn't see anything on the screen, for the music made for an excellent listening experience. He also plays it smart by only reusing a few moments of Michael Kamen's repeating score from the original 1988 film.

One footnote: those expecting to hear the Ode to Joy come into play again, prepare for yet another thunderously disappointing aspect.

I'd intended to see "A Good Day to Die Hard" on its debut last Valentine's Day. That night, however, a blizzard swept over and froze the engine of my car to a sputtering stop. I wound up holding off on seeing the picture, and now, in hindsight, I'm rather glad I did. Seeing a big disappointment on the big screen, having invested a fair few dollars into it, would have only made matters worse. As much as I would love to proclaim affection for this picture, I must glumly report that "A Good Day to Die Hard" has finally spun into the realms where I thought the Die Hard series would never go: immense boredom.

Even though it is not, in totality, a great film, Ishiro Honda's "The H-Man" (or "Beauty and the Liquid People" as it was named in its own country) has some remarkable things in it. The cast is a harvest of reliable acting talents; the movie features some tremendously effective special effects; and the photography is luscious and rich with color. What is most remarkable about "The H-Man," however, is the way it combines two radically different genres, and yet gives each genre its due and moments to shine. If the movie were just a horror story or just a yakuza melodrama, it still would have been an interesting picture. And once combined, they form one of Toho's most intriguing, if uneven, efforts to date.

We also get Honda's usual symbolism, once again on the atomic bomb. And once again, as in "Mothra," it is applied in a rather subtle manner. Honda opens the movie with an eye-popping, wholly unexpected nuclear explosion and then shies away from talking about his message for quite a spell. The eponymous H-Men, a race of liquid organisms that can take the shape of humans and dissolve any living thing they come into contact with, are supposedly an aftereffect from nuclear testing in the South Pacific. When they disintegrate a person, leaving nothing but their clothes behind, the area is teeming with radiation. But Honda does not take the cheap shot; he does not drag out his story with chatter and contemplation about man messing with the balance of the world. His only lapse is at the end, when he allows Takashi Kimura's screenplay to blabber, via an unimportant supporting character, about how man should stop tinkering with nuclear energy, else let the H-Men take over in the future. Here, the allegory comes on a bit thick, and the end monologue does not come across as hauntingly fresh as it was in "Godzilla," but instead, on the pretentious side.

For the most part, however, both Honda and Kimura allow the double-edged plot to take center-stage. It's a combination I very much enjoyed, particularly the half about the Japanese gangsters and the police department's attempts to drag them into the gutter. There are some terrific character actors in the film's police force, including Akihiko Hirata, Yoshio Tsuchiya and Eitaro Ozawa. Now granted, the policemen are not developed as really anything but policemen – straight-shooters who seldom smile and scoff at the suggestion that liquid-men are running amok in Tokyo – but the actors breathe such life into them, as to make them interesting. Take Yoshifumi Tajima, for instance. He plays the most skeptic cop you could ask for – no real depth of character – and yet when he winds up being killed by one of the monsters, I actually felt a bit down. I liked that character, or at least Tajima's interpretation of that character.

If only there was more life put into the love story. And this is what I think disqualifies "The H-Man" from being a truly great film. The movie would like us to care about the couple (a yakuza's moll and a daring young scientist trying to warn the cops of the impending danger), but the emotional involvements adds up to zero. This is not a reflection on the two performers. Kenji Sahara and Yumi Shirakawa are superb talents and even proved two years before, in Honda's better film "Rodan," that they can effectively play lovers on film. But "Rodan" gave them things to do together, moments to shine in each other's company. The screenplay of "The H-Man" asks us to believe in their chemistry after they meet very briefly, pass a few insignificant words, and when Shirakawa sobs into Sahara's shoulder. I really wanted more meaningful scenes between them.

Shirakawa, on the other hand, does run away with the show, and she does have the best-rounded character. From the get-go, we like this soft-eyed, confused girl, and we sympathize with her when both rival gangsters and skeptical detectives refuse to quit hounding her. And at the end, when a snarling gangster starts dragging her through the sewers of Tokyo, all the while getting themselves surrounded by liquid-men, I felt myself really worrying about what would become of her, and really hoping her captor would get his comeuppance.

But the horror story works well, too. Most of all, because how Kimura's screenplay depicts the H-Men as mostly a predatory substance, maintaining very little of what made them human to begin with. It's not at all like the cartoonish demeanor of the organism from "Space Amoeba." The H-Men attack like parasites ensuring their own survival. When one of them takes the form of a man, in which case they glow with a tremendous neon aura, they are dazzling. But I really like how most of the time, they melt down into a moving sludge that crawls up and down the walls. There are some laughable moments (such as a freeze-frame shot of a victim while animated sludge consumes her body, mercifully cut from the U.S. print of the picture), but the good moments far outnumber the bad ones. Part of the fun of these special effects is just wondering how, given 1950s technology, the staff could pull it off. Especially when sludge starts crawling out of a pool of water and we cannot see any signs of a reverse-speed shot. Aided by Masaru Sato's gentle yet ominous music, the monsters do have a presence of their own.

It is such a relief to finally have Ishiro Honda's "The H-Man" widely available in the United States. For the picture really is a delightful little experience. Even its U.S. print maintains the fun, making a few small edits for pacing and completely honoring the original premise. With some reservations, I would even go so far as to call this one of my more favorite Toho movies of the 50s.