I don't know about anyone else, but I thought that was a pretty exceptional summer, as far as good, entertaining movies went. I've seen summers in which almost every movie seemed mediocre and not one standout ever emerged (2000 and 2006, for example). But this year, there were at least five standouts and at least five more really good movies. Call me crazy, but I caught up with Speed Racer on DVD this week, and even that one didn't seem so bad. (Sure, it's no Iron Man. I think it probably plays better on the small screen, although I did have trouble with the length and with the annoying Spritle character.) And, of course, we saw a lot of stars at their best this summer: Robert Downey Jr., Heath Ledger, Will Smith, Charlize Theron, Ben Stiller, James Franco, Meryl Streep, Penelope Cruz, etc. Good times! It was all so exciting that I nearly forgot about some of my other favorite stars.

It's weird. You can get caught up in the ebb and flow of this business and it may not occur to you that, say, Neve Campbell hasn't been around lately. I miss her. I interviewed her in early 2004, just after Robert Altman's The Company came out. That was a masterful film, a great piece of work, on which Neve had writing and producing credits. It looked like she was really going places: from there, she was poised to play the great silent film star Louise Brooks in a biopic. I saw her again in James Toback's twisted When Will I Be Loved, which I liked more than just about anyone else.

As a kid I fell in love with movies mainly for the stories and characters, and every once in a while, maybe some special effects. As I got older, my love affair was renewed when I discovered the Cult of the Director. The Cult of the Director allows one to look at movies in a far more personal way. It's an ongoing game; one can discover long-forgotten works, or piece together old puzzles, but one can also look ahead and guess how a director's career arc will come together. Basically, there are roughly four kinds of directors. The most common is the kind with no personality, and perhaps very little skill, someone like Brian Robbins, the director of Meet Dave (58 screens). Many of these folks eventually disappear without ever making much of a mark. After that, we get the craftsman, someone with lots of skill and talent but still no personality. These guys are the most interesting to talk to; they're unpretentious and tell the best stories. Brad Anderson, the director of Transsiberian (81 screens), is a good example.

Then there's a weird category of directors who have somehow come to popular attention, despite a lack of skill and/or a lack of personality. These can range from moneymakers like Brett Ratner to Oscar winners like Ron Howard. But of course, since we're talking about live human beings here, there's a lot of wiggle room in these categories, and I could probably establish several sub-categories. Not to mention that any director's career can suddenly change course at any point. Yes, even Brett Ratner could suddenly make a good film. (I'm not saying he will, just that he could.) These people manage to stay on top through a lucky combination of subject matter and promotion. Even though films like Brick Lane (31 screens) and Mongol (16 screens) have no skill or personality, they seem like great films because of their stories and packaging.

Isabel Coixet's Elegy (92 screens) is a "disease-of-the-week" movie. I hate "disease-of-the-week" movies, but I really liked Elegy. I also liked Coixet's previous film, My Life Without Me, which was also a "disease-of-the-week" movie. Sarah Polley's beautiful Away from Her from last year was another excellent example. This begs three questions: What is a "disease-of-the-week" movie? Why do I hate them? And what makes Elegy so good? The phrase "disease-of-the-week" was coined to describe a certain type of TV movie some decades ago, which had addicted housewives sniveling and crumbling up tissues at their TV tubes for two hours every seven days. But filmmakers quickly snatched upon the formula as a quick and easy way to weasel their way into film critics' hearts, and probably win an Oscar or two.

Disease is an unfortunate part of life, but it's a part of life that no one likes to think about. What usually happens when we get sick? We avoid going to the doctor! We hope it'll go away. So why do people like these kinds of movies, movies that acknowledge our own mortality and frailty? I think the secret is that the most successful of these movies play up the disease angle, but the real subject is the heroism of the others, the people who are not sick. That way, the disease gets center stage, and some "courageous" actor gets to show off, while the audience gets to identify with the other characters, the ones who stand by their friends and family. The ones who don't give up.

A couple of weeks ago I was in Safeway and I spotted a cheap DVD, a double-bill of The Fugitive (1993) and U.S. Marshals (1998), and I impulsively bought it. I already owned The Fugitive on laserdisc (that old thing) and had seen it many times, but I hadn't ever seen U.S. Marshals. I know it's supposed to be awful, but the cast of Tommy Lee Jones, Robert Downey Jr. and Wesley Snipes suddenly appealed to me. I decided to re-watch The Fugitive before I settled down to the sequel. I liked it as much as ever; it's a rare example of everything in the Hollywood machine coming together in the right way at the right time and working perfectly. But this time, something new struck me.

Last week I wrote a defense of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (184 screens), which I determined has been judged more by its hype than by the actual content of the film. But I didn't get much of a chance to talk about the film's star, Harrison Ford, who is an integral part of the film's success. I'll be the first to admit that Ford is an exceedingly limited actor. One of his failings is his seeming lack of humor and spontaneity in certain roles, exacerbated by the fact that, in person, he comes across just as humorless (though it could be that he merely mistrusts journalists). But ironically, one of his best attributes he shares with the comic actor Jackie Chan: a reluctance to enter into the action.

If you believe what you read on the message boards, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (262 screens) is just about the worst movie ever made. There are a few recurring comments, which I will hopefully address one at a time. But first I just want to say three things. One, I loved the film. I saw it twice, and it made me very happy both times. Secondly, I'm not working for George Lucas or Steven Spielberg, and they're not paying me to write this. (If they were, I'd probably be vacationing right now.) Thirdly, I want to argue that most of the disappointed reactions to the film had to do with two elements that are not actually in the film. (More on this later.)

Released in 1981, 1984 and 1989 respectively, the first three films are high on my list of the greatest summer movies of all time. I love them dearly; I yield to no one in my love for them. Raiders of the Lost Ark is certainly the best of the series, but truthfully, beyond an unmatched level of craftsmanship and enthusiasm, it's not exactly a work of art. It doesn't have much to say about the human condition except possibly for something about the juvenile repression of grown men -- but even that much is indirect and unintended.

The second and third movies lost the serious, professional edge of the first, and concentrated a little bit more on cartoonish non-reality. Pauline Kael made a passionate defense of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom in her 1984 New Yorker review, arguing that Spielberg opened himself up more and directed it with more unbridled, infectious fun. But whereas Indy's relationship with Marion Ravenwood in the first felt grounded, Indy's relationship with Willie Scott in the second is straight out of bad screwball. The Last Crusade makes improvements with the additions of the "Young Indy" character (River Phoenix) and Indy's father (Sean Connery) but adds an even worse female lead (Alison Doody) and even more bad jokes; it feels even less "realistic" than the second entry.

It's all about The Dark Knight this week. Part of the hype is the twin performances by Christian Bale and Heath Ledger, which is not undeserved. But both Bale and Ledger belong to a certain school of acting, and it's worth discussing the other schools, especially since one type tends to overshadow the other. When it comes time for acting awards to be doled out, I'm afraid that these two performances will blot out others, especially Robert Downey Jr.'s in Iron Man (375 screens). Actors use many different methods in their craft. One is what I'll call the "Brando" school. When Marlon Brando exploded onto the movie screen in the early 1950s, he brought a new style that was dubbed "raw" and "sensual." He used his entire being in his performances; his study of the "Method" taught him to reach deep into his own experiences to find real emotions to adapt to his characters.

The other school is the "always plays himself" school, of which John Wayne was probably the most pre-eminent member. Wayne had a very limited range and couldn't play all the various characters that Brando could, but he had a very specific onscreen personality that was emotionally satisfying all on its own. Moreover, within his small range, not even Brando could beat him. No one could have been better in The Searchers (1956), for example. Robert Downey Jr. belongs in this second school. Although he happens to possess the skill to play a wide range of parts, he remains chiefly true to his own personality. When you see him, it feels like you're visiting him again, rather than seeing a whole new person. His hijinks in Iron Man are wonderfully energetic and hilarious, but they bear a resemblance to his similar, wiry performances in Home for the Holidays, Two Girls and a Guy and other films.

A little over a year ago, I was assigned a "Cinematical Seven" on the most overrated actors in Hollywood. I stand by five of my choices, but things have changed for two of the others. Heath Ledger (#4) was one, and his amazing performances in both I'm Not There and The Dark Knight proved me wrong, not to mention that he's no longer alive to be overrated, underrated or any kind of rated. The other was Ben Kingsley (#1). For some reason I have seen five Ben Kingsley movies in the past three months. Seeing such a wide range of performance in such a short time has caused me to re-think my opinion on him. The first Kingsley film I saw this year was The Wackness (31 screens), as part of the San Francisco International Film Festival. I didn't much like the film; I found it to be a rather bland, tame coming-of-age picture disguised as a daring snapshot-of-an-era movie. And Kingsley's performance as a pot-smoking shrink struck me as yet another piece of overacting, with lots of weird pauses and run-on sentences in his dialogue.

His turn as the villain in War, Inc. (20 screens) didn't fare much better. I liked the film, but strapped to a wheelchair, his immobile body only increased his tendency to overdo it in his line readings. The third movie, Transsiberian (opening this week on 2 screens), proved somewhat more interesting. He played a Russian narcotics detective, complete with an accent, but somehow his performance perfectly clicked with that sturdy suspense film. The fourth film, The Love Guru (over 400 screens), was by far the worst of the lot but also proved the most revealing.

Here's one of my dirty little secrets: I love lists and I keep track of my year's ten best movies all year long. Most other critics hastily assemble their lists at the last second, which is partly why so many December movies dominate; critics can't remember what they've seen earlier in the year. My list shows that 2008 has had a pretty poor first half, but I do have some contenders for listhood. Two movies are currently competing for the top spot, though I need to see them both again to be sure. Hou Hsiao-hsien's Flight of the Red Balloon (6 screens) is one; it has a lovely, laid-back, observant quality and feels less severe than some of Hou's other recent films. But I haven't yet decided if the film is a comedy or a tragedy. It all feels pretty light and insignificant, except for the saddest thing: no one seems to notice the red balloon of the title, drifting around Paris, unable to find a boy like Pascal to love it. The film also contains the year's most vibrant performance: Juliette Binoche playing a frenzied single mom working with a puppet troupe.

It's pretty easy to pick out Christmas movies and Halloween movies, and it's not too hard to find a New Year's movie, or even Arbor Day or Memorial Day movies. But how do you select a Fourth of July movie? Steven Spielberg's Jaws (1975) takes place during the Fourth of July, when the sheriff (the late, great Roy Scheider) tries to close the beach to protect the people from the killer shark and the greedy mayor wants to keep the beaches open to make lots of money. And who can forget Martin Scorsese's Cape Fear (1991), with its image of a cackling, cigar-smoking Robert De Niro looming over the helpless, passive family, while fireworks explode overhead? These movies may not be entirely appropriate, or they may be all-too-appropriate symbols of America in 2008, but either way, they're both terrific movies.

The road movie is a uniquely American genre; unlike other parts of the world, Americans have the freedom to drive across 3000 miles of open land without getting hassled. It also involves cars, for which Americans have a singular passion. There are dozens of great road movies (not surprisingly), but let's go with three of the most unique examples. Tim Burton's cult classic Pee-wee's Big Adventure (1985) brings the title hero on the road to find his stolen bicycle; the film also has the best hitch-hiking sequences since It Happened One Night. Monte Hellman's Two-Lane Blacktop (1971) is the ultimate existential car movie, and David Lynch's The Straight Story (1999) is the road movie transplanted to a power lawnmower (which is pretty American, too, when you think about it).

In describing today's best directors, three terms are generally used (and overused): Maverick, Genius and Auteur. A "maverick" is now used to describe virtually anyone who makes a movie without using Hollywood money. An "auteur" is used to describe anyone who writes as well as directs. And "genius" is used to describe anyone who makes a halfway decent film. I'm taking these words back. In reality, a "maverick" should be a button-pusher. It's a filmmaker who is so radical and daring that even high-minded, forward-thinking critics sneer at their work, people like Vincent Gallo or Catherine Breillat. These people are so dangerous that they have trouble making and distributing films. Harmony Korine, director of Mister Lonely (5 screens) is very much a maverick. Korine has pushed many buttons and many envelopes over the years and though I love his work, he's someone I wouldn't want to invite to my house. (He scares me.)

Werner Herzog, director of Encounters at the End of the World (1 screen), is also a maverick (and, incidentally, a buddy of Korine's). His physically dangerous films have probably had insurance companies slamming the door in his face, and his co-workers have included people who might not be fit for polite society. (At the very least, most of them would turn heads.) Some of his actors have reportedly threatened to kill him. It cracks me up that, because Herzog's documentary Grizzly Man was such a hit, Herzog was allowed to make his new film for the Discovery Channel. I'd really love to have been in on that board meeting. Did they really know who they were dealing with? At the same time, Herzog is also an auteur: all of his films have the same roaming curiosity, fearlessly exploring man's tenuous connection to nature, from Aguirre navigating the Amazon looking for El Dorado, to Timothy Treadwell seeking to befriend the bears.