You know someone is bad when news of their death, no matter how early or how gory, causes you to, if not actually rejoice (we’re too civilized for that) at least breathe lighter as if some evil force had finally been vanquished. Does this sound too melodramatic? Then it applies perfectly to Uday Hussein, son of infamous Iraqi dictator Saddam Hussein who was killed along with his brother Qusay at the beginning of the U.S.-led invasion, to most people’s relief.

We’ve reached a crisis point in the American comedy: why can’t Jason Bateman get promoted or laid?

This summer's comedies are stocked with middle-aged men who dream of having sex but never do. That’s a healthy sign for marriage, I suppose. But if you’re a married dad who secretly wishes he could spread the seed again, do you want to spend $10 to go watch a movie about another guy who can’t, either?

The Caller is a very cool indie film coming out on August 26 which should assuredly scare the pants off you. Finally a thriller which borders on the horror genre but with a plot which you can sink your teeth in (and almost nothing in the way of gore or blood). Mary, a recently divorced young woman (Rachelle Lefevre) moves into an apartment which still seems inhabited by its former

Director John Michael McDonagh borrows Gleeson from his brother Martin (director of In Bruges) and gets a whale of a comic performance from him. He has different shades and levels in a way that an American comedy character would never have. Outside of the winning performances, McDonagh also gives us something comedies are often too afraid to give – a unique look born of the village in which it is set.

I have a simple rule about the success of an onscreen romance. A good one feels like a movie is conspiring to keep the couple apart. A bad one feels like the movie is shoving them together against the movie’s will. Crazy, Stupid, Love shoves like a school lunch line on chocolate milk Friday. The marriage of Steve Carell and Julianne Moore is cemetery dead, probably in a way that didn’t play to the writers on the page. The worst marriages are those that don’t just die but drown the two people with them.

You sit up abruptly, sweat streaming down the side of your face. You crave brown crab claws with peanut paste, watermelon and muscovado sugar air.

I know that feeling. But unluckily, I never got to go to Spain's El Bulli, which is owned by Ferran Adrià (he started working there as a line cook in 1984). And now it’s closing.

You know El Bulli, it's that establishment where molecular gastronomy is on offer and where the superhuman abilities of its chef beckon fans from everywhere. El Bulli will be no more by month’s end and a documentary is being released, El Bulli: Cooking in Progress. Don’t expect a Food Channel documentary—those follow helpfully along a straightforward narrative and interviews with the protagonists help thicken the plot. They’re all-in-one packages and they’re usually very successful films.

This documentary is bare-bones in comparison, but you might still derive some pleasure from watching a group of young men belaboring over some seriously exotic-looking appetizers. Cooking In Progress is more the fly-on-the-wall approach: watch the studied intensity of a group of Adrià’s cooks being trained and the negotiations that ensue to establish the upcoming season’s menu (this documentary was shot a couple of years ago); nod, salivate and wonder.

Adrià’s legacy on what gastronomy can do to food is so unavoidable, missing this documentary would be a shame. But the lack of padding or subtext (testimonies; overall context) could make it unrewarding to some. Some research before watching (on cooking trends, Adrià, molecular foods) might be in order to get the most out of it.

Errol Morris' Tabloid (released on July 15), examines what is left, spiritually and mentally, of a once-respected, now-notorious figure, ruined by the unending scrutiny of trashy media. There is, however, one crucial difference. Mr. Death's title character, a builder of more “humane” electric chairs, essentially crucified himself when he became a rallying Holocaust denier; Morris never questions Fred Leuchter's guilt. In Tabloid, all of the subjects interviewed seem a little mad, yet they all possess hints of clarity and conviction; no one's quite smart or stupid enough to believe or disavow.