I'm startled to report that one of the darkest Russian films I've seen in a career of watching dark Russian films, Sergei Loznitsa's black-comic backwoods odyssey "My Joy," will actually play American theaters (no doubt briefly) before moving on to a somewhat longer life as a home-video cult object. This mordant, slow-motion horror film about a truck driver's journey into hell -- the title is 100 percent sardonic, maybe more so -- was the most unexpected and arresting picture in the 2010 Cannes competition. Despite what you might believe about that festival, audiences there generally flock to lighter fare, and few seemed to appreciate that "My Joy" had a bleak, grotesque, near-perfect poetry in its soul.

In the wake of the extrajudicial killing of American citizen Anwar al-Awlaki and several other people in Yemen this week, we're faced (once again) with the realization that the United States Constitution has become a largely meaningless totem. It gets waved around enthusiastically by people on all sides of the political spectrum whenever it seems to serve their interests, but nobody pays much attention to what it actually says. Presumably President Obama, the military-intelligence establishment and the mainstream media are declaring Awlaki a special case. Thanks to the secret provisions of secret laws, he was deprived of all the rights of citizenship and not subject to the ordinary rule of law that extends back not merely to the Constitution but to the Magna Carta (at least).

You measure your success in five-year increments. Your doctors let you know if your blood counts are high or low. You bite your lip, not sure if you want to know if you're stage 1, 2, 3 or 4. Cancer -- it's a numbers game. So when I went to Sloan-Kettering last week to discuss a drug that's effective in 30 percent of patients for my melanoma that has a roughly 10-20 percent survival rate , it didn't come as much of a surprise when my doctor said, noting proudly that I've lasted almost 14 months already, "The odds have been against you from the start."

An intense psychological thriller that builds toward an explosive conclusion, indie writer-director Jeff Nichols' "Take Shelter" may be the most powerful American film I've seen this year. Having said that, I want to manage expectations a little bit. One can argue, and I will, that "Take Shelter" is a terrifically crafted little movie that bounces off current events and the nation's downbeat mood ingeniously, and that it variously suggests comparisons with the early work of Terrence Malick, Stanley Kubrick and the Coen brothers. Yeah, I think it's that good, but please note that I also said "little." This is a modestly scaled, character-based drama, shot quickly on a low budget in heartland locations. So don't go expecting big-screen spectacle, and don't complain to me about the limited production values or the imperfect CGI effects (although both are actually fine). I should add that I saw this movie while soaking wet, after walking through the residue of a recent tropical storm, and that given its obsessive depiction of extreme weather, that definitely heightened the firepower.

There is something about singing with Tony Bennett, celebrating his 85th birthday this year, that seems to inspire every performer to bring his or her artistry to its highest, most sincere level.

Onstage, Superchunk is in full cry as the four players churn through "Throwing Things," a song that dates back to 1991. Guitarist Mac McCaughan is at the center-stage mic with bassist Laura Ballance to his right, and they bounce straight up and down as they crank away on the song's riff (even though, as McCaughan notes later in the set, the stage is really too slippery for proper punk-rock pogoing). Ballance's graying hair flies as McCaughan hollers the vocal.

Kenneth Lonergan's film "Margaret" took so long to make that two of its producers died before it was finished. I'm not trying to be witty, just reporting the facts: In the opening credits, Anthony Minghella is listed as a producer of "Margaret" and Sydney Pollack as an executive producer. Both of those eminent filmmakers have been dead for more than three years. When a high school student complains, early in the film, that she doesn't think much of the current president, you're tempted to wonder whom she's thinking about. Jimmy Carter? Ike? William Howard Taft?

I love Massive Music Moments.

NBC's "Community" (Thursdays, 8 p.m./7 Central) is one of the most deceptively light shows on network television -- a seeming spoof of pop culture and pop obsessives that's as densely imagined as the world of "The Simpsons," and that has a lot more on its mind than movie and TV quotes and self-referential devices. 

Something's amiss in the pilot for ABC's new comedy "Suburgatory" (Wednesdays 8:30/7:30 central). It's not just the grotesquely exaggerated "sick soul of the suburbs" imagery -- McMansions, immaculately trimmed hedges, giant swimming pools, soul-murdering malls. Nor is it the show's smiley-faced misanthropy, which pictures every character as somewhat trivial and pathetic. No, it's something else -- an elaborate, perhaps unintentional bait-and-switch that takes a few scenes to reveal itself.

When I hear people running down "60 Minutes" contributor Andy Rooney, who announced his retirement yesterday, I get as grouchy as Rooney did during his weekly pieces.

Jessica Chastain may not yet qualify as a movie star, but within seconds of meeting her you completely understand why every casting agent in Hollywood is convinced she will become one. To put it bluntly, she is dazzling -- and I'm talking more about her manner and presence than her beauty, although she's exceptionally pretty, with flaming red hair and pale, translucent skin. She's vivacious and charming, seemingly without effort, and has the kind of spectacular smile that uplifts everyone's spirits within a 50-foot radius.

Do not miss "Last Train Home."

Last week, the summer's surprise blockbuster, "Bridesmaids," was released on DVD, after a spectacular run both in the United States and abroad. The fortunes of the film, which starred a brace of funny women and dealt equally in fart jokes and friendship, were regarded as crucial to the future of women in entertainment.

It's been a banner week for Patti Stanger, Bravo's vaguely humanoid "Millionaire Matchmaker." In the course of just a few days, she's managed to offend Jews, gay men, straight men and women in general. Though it's hard to predict what she'll do next, I'd advise Dominicans and the blind to brace themselves.

When Wilco emerged from the ashes of Uncle Tupelo some 17 years ago with the sturdy, catchy roots-rock of "A.M." and "Being There," it would have taken a special imagination to see that Jeff Tweedy would become one of the most daring songwriters of his generation -- and that Wilco would become a vital, adventurous band breaking new stylistic ground with each ambitious and creatively restless album.

Steven Spielberg has been playing God ever since 1977's "Close Encounters," envisioning  scenarios in which individuals, groups, communities, civilizations, even whole species are figuratively or literally raised from the dead. The new Fox drama "Terra Nova"-- which is created by Kelly Marcel and Craig Silverstein but executive produced by Spielberg, and which fits comfortably within the Spielberg continuum -- could be the maestro's most audacious resurrection yet.  I'm not a fan of of tonight's two-hour pilot -- like most premieres, it's mostly exposition wrapped in spectacle, and it has other problems that I'll address in a second. But I can say that if you're a science fiction buff of any kind, you'll want to check it out just for the premise. The network's marketing campaign is trying to position "Terra Nova" as another "Lost," and the hype fits in one respect. Just as "Lost" fans were happy to spend hours debating the scientific, philosophical and theological aspects of the show even though individual episodes disappointed them, I can envision "Terra Nova" sparking a similarly devoted following -- one that gathers online every Monday night to bitch about new episodes after they've aired, then spends the next six days geeking out over implications that the show failed to explore.

Long ago, vaginas were barely acknowledged in prime time. Mary Richards and Laverne and Shirley never mentioned theirs. Even Carrie Bradshaw only gave hers a few passing nods. And while "Grey's Anatomy" turned "vajayjay" into a euphemism a few seasons ago, this year, there's very little pussyfooting around. Vagina! Cue laugh track!

[Note: This recap of "Breaking Bad," season four, episode 11, "Crawl Space," contains spoilers. Read at your own risk.]

Almost every time an episode of "Boardwalk Empire" ends, I feel slightly disappointed -- not because the hour wasn't entertaining, but because it failed to deliver the richness, depth and ambition of the great series that obviously influenced it, chiefly "The Sopranos" and "Deadwood." This is not the least bit fair, I realize, but feelings are feelings. But then the next episode comes on and I'm giddy with anticipation again. Why? Boundless naivete? An unreasonable faith in the creative powers of series creator Terence Winter, one of the secondary architects of "The Sopranos"?