Cloverfield

Let's clear up one nagging question: Why do movies insist on destroying New York with an endless barrage of floods, aliens, and rom-coms? Because when L.A. gets destroyed (à la Transformers), NO ONE GIVES A SHIT. You want your disaster film to matter? You head to Manhattan and cash in that "get 9/11 subtext free" card. Anyway, Cloverfield, produced by Lost creator J.J. Abrams, is the latest movie to stomp along Midtown; and, admittedly, it's pretty damn good (if you have the stomach for it). Not that it's gruesome, it's just that watching camcorder footage of people running for their lives will have you strapping the popcorn bucket to your chin—imagine if The Bourne Supremacy director Paul Greengrass had Parkinson's and you'll get the idea. Once you settle in, though, the idea of a Godzilla-level monster attack captured intimately from ground level by people right in the thick of it results in a heart-pounding experience that starts slowly, but refuses to slow down after that. No long-winded speeches from presidents or back-room military consultations—these are normal kids running for their damn lives with only a passing interest in just what the hell is going on. Quick, occasionally funny (courtesy of the character Hud, the guy filming everything and offering his own commentary track), and frequently "oh shit"-eliciting, Cloverfield isn't the staggering work of genius the prerelease hype makes it out to be, but it is a solid thrill ride.