In Stardust—a prankish meditation on the fairy tale dictum that true love never runs smooth—Claire Danes plays a shooting star with attitude in Gwyneth Paltrow hair, in a role that Gwyneth Paltrow must have rejected. Michelle Pfeiffer—as radiant as she was 20 years ago—works the parallel universe as an evil witch on a rant about eternal youth and beauty. (A talisman called the Babylon candle seems to have been substituted for Botox.) Meanwhile, Sienna Miller—who swaps her Factory Girl mini-skirts for a Victorian trophy girl’s corset-waisted gowns—suggests a Santa Barbara babe who’s pouting because Whole Foods ran out of her favorite pomegranates. Alas, the femme firepower in Stardust doesn’t conjure raves, wish as we might.

Could that be why we’re so entranced by the film’s girly wannabe: Robert De Niro playing the gay, flying pirate Capt. Shakespeare? NOTE: “Gay” and “flying” are not symbiotic adjectives here. The closeted captain is into cross-dressing (his macho crew mustn’t know!), and the swabbies’ vessel really does sail through the clouds like some weather-beaten space satellite propelled by a wonderworking hull and mast. For sure, De Niro’s a pip preening before the mirror in his private chambers, his hairy, potato-pale legs poking out from crinolines and a bustier laced over his un-Rambo pecs. As fashion statements for pirates in drag go, it beats Capt. Jack Sparrow’s ornate earbobs all to heck. Bobby D steals Stardust’s magic as soon as he shows up, then totes it off like a jewel thief with deep pockets when the fey storyline focuses on the usual suspects.
Nefarious schemers vs. long-odds dreamers is the mother’s milk of make-believe. Behold young Tristan Thorne (Charlie Cox, featured in Lasse Hallstrom’s Casanova) as Stardust’s innocent misfit, who vows to the village material girl (Miller) that he’ll bring her a shooting star if she’ll waylay her wedding to a high-born suitor. Big deal. What she really wants is bling the size of Westminster Abbey. For what’s known as narrative purposes, Tristan launches over the forbidden cobblestone wall anyway, to bag his bargaining chip in the supernatural cosmos.

Full-tilt whackos fracture the dreamlike mood—especially the conniving sons of a dying king (Peter O’Toole) and Pfeiffer’s shrill pair of partner witches who might be fun if they turned the volume down in their messy digs. Crikey, the Beale women of Grey Gardens have come to town, minus their cats! Directed by Matthew Vaughn (Layer Cake), Stardust is being positioned as a charming alternative for sequel-sick viewers, whose ranks could probably fill the Port Authority by now. The result resembles a fantasy fusion of The Princess Bride (1987) and Edward Scissorhands (1990), whose pieces don’t fit together particularly well—a spacey sorcerer’s version of a cobblestone wall, cinematically.

Hairspray is kitschy bliss. Set in Baltimore in 1962 and based on the hit Broadway musical, it’s proof that certain movies can be simultaneously awful and irresistible. Now, how many things in life can you say that about—besides sex with a stranger? Moving right along: If your main reason for catching this antic rock period piece is to get off on John Travolta in a female fat suit, bigger rewards exist. The guy who soared to fame in Grease looks like a pig in a wig and the frumpy plaid housedresses don’t do him proud. FYI: Travolta’s predecessors as laundress/mom Edna Turnblad were the flaming diva Divine in John Waters’ original comedy, and iconoclastic Harvey Fierstein on stage. Historically, the role has been played in flamboyant drag but Travolta resists camping it up.

Director Adam Shankman scores with his game ensemble cast who, instead of condescending to the material, lap it up as if it’s a fizzy, communal egg cream. The basic plot premise is, by now, behind the curve. The Corny Collins Show, a TV dance program for teens similar to American Bandstand, is holding auditions for cool new contestants whose skin better be the right color. Plus-sized Tracy Turnblad (Nikki Blonsky, this year’s Jennifer Hudson in terms of her powerhouse pipes) craves the spotlight. If she gets lucky, she’ll have a crack at Miss Teenage Hairspray, too, the mighty talent competition that manager Velma Von Tussle (Michelle Pfeiffer, again) has declared off-limits to blacks because jiving with white kids just doesn’t seem regular.

Of course, uptight Velma doesn’t use those exact words. Pfeiffer, decked out like an acid-dipped Barbie doll, sings a pageant ode called “Miss Baltimore Crabs,” repeating her youth-and-beauty yearnings from Stardust minus a wand. Maybe it’s self-satire but you wouldn’t catch Helen Mirren doing this stuff. The good news: The slew of second-banana characters (hello, new vacation homes!) spruce up Hairspray as if they were extra-hold, volumizing mist on parade. A gale-force Queen Latifah belts out gospel blues during a candlelit integration march. Christopher Walken works sublimely as nice-but-weird Wilbur Turnblad, and his croony duet with screen hubby Travolta among the outdoor clotheslines of their Bawl’mer tenement is an airy delight. Playing hood ornament Corny Collins, James Marsden suggests a cute Jim Carrey before Carrey got seedy and sorta bananas. Quick, look! The West Wing’s Allison Janney isn’t above taking a borderline cameo as the pious mom of Tracy’s best friend (Amanda Bynes)—and she’s a prune-faced hoot.

That’s just the short list. Shankman, who also choreographs, expands the stage version with ingratiating chorus extravaganzas whose effect is akin to being stomped to death by pastel-colored ponies on steroids. If you liked Dirty Dancing, consider Hairspray less of a groove. This brings us to some pulse-taking on the state of the Tony Award-winning, movie musical. Sunset Boulevard got shelved because Rent tanked. But Rent was stellar. Blame its trenchant AIDS theme as behind the times. Hairspray, replete with bouffant ’dos and clueless racism, seems similarly dated. And it doesn’t contain a single memorable song. So how does this bode for on-deck Sweeney Todd, with its dynamic duo of director Tim Burton and super nova Johnny Depp starring as the demon barber of Fleet Street? The subject is very grisly. Dislikable types being sliced up and baked into pies for human consumption won’t be appetizing at holiday time, the film’s release slot. The operatic score’s not Sweeney’s strong suit, either. But Depp excels at hangdog lowlifes. With Burton as his fave morbid muse, a razor-sharp Sweeney Todd could cut through the competition.

When winter arrives, the top coat of ice is too slushy for young polar bears and walruses to walk on as they hunt for food. The ice returns, three months late. So begins Arctic Tale, a short, affecting documentary that wraps the cause celebre of global warming into the parallel lives of Seela, a nascent walrus, and Nanu, a polar bear cub, as they fight for survival amid the frozen wilderness toward what we call adolescence and adulthood. Produced by National Geographic Films (An Inconvenient Truth, March of the Penguins) and liltingly narrated by Queen Latifah, Arctic Tale provides the perfect escape, visually, from August heat. But the simple story transcends its ice floes. This is a heart-stopping glimpse of Darwinian deaths boosted by stray, uplifting triumphs among species that few people know beyond the indolent versions in zoos.

The colony of walruses—with their tiny heads, tusks and huge, lumbering bodies—aren’t exactly the beauty brigade. (No wonder ads feature a majestic polar bear mom nuzzling her babe.) Noble instincts prevail in the ugliest of creatures, though. SOLE SPOILER ALERT: Seela’s aunt attacks a predatory polar bear about to chomp on Seela, sacrificing her own existence instead. OH, ONE MORE, SINCE THAT’S A DOWNER: Nanu bonds late in life and produces adorable, chip-off-the-old-block polar bears, proving there’s hope for us all.

I could have done without Arctic Tale’s chirpy coda of schoolkids reciting handy tips on what YOU can do to prevent global warming. Enough, already! Seela and Nanu, who have voices only within their own kind, communicate our predicament precisely enough.

“Did you actually…were you naïve enough to think…that children stand a chance against us?” a Dark Arts henchman intones during the inevitable cosmic showdown with beleaguered Hogwarts hero you-know-who. Trouble is, the title actor in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix isn’t a stripling anymore. Hitting obvious puberty at age 17, Daniel Radcliffe is faced with the task of infusing brave Harry with a devil’s dose of teenage angst. Now in his fifth year at the wizards-in-training school, Harry has become a pariah partly because of his matured powers. Worse, the menacing thoughts of his nemesis, vile Lord Voldemort (Ralph Fiennes) invade Harry’s brain like a fever dream he can’t shake. But the news ain’t all bad. Like any normal, hormone-frisky lad, Harry likes a girl and he knows how to smooch.

British TV director David Yates assigns grim elements to Order of the Phoenix’s shadowy conspiracy. The result is more “adult” than any previous film. Pottermaniacs under 10 should sit this one out. Scratch Lord Voldemort as the film’s most bloodcurdling villain, though. This time, evil is a puppet in a fuzzy pink suit. Delores Umbridge, a neo-Fascist instructor at Hogwarts, metes out punishment with a perpetually frozen smile. Portrayed by Imelda Staunton—an Oscar nominee as abortionist Vera Drake—Delores is the nanny-from-hell who fools parents with subversive Orwellian tactics and unblinking efficiency.

Eighteen esteemed British actors appear in respective roles here. (Where’s Julie Christie?) The one newcomer: Evanna Lynch, a 15-year-old nonprofessional from Ireland who decided only she could capture ethereal Hogwarts witch Luna Lovegood. Spot on!

Finally, our apocryphal summer award for the best ensemble cast on two legs goes to the ailing individuals and Ground Zero rescue workers who have been betrayed by America’s HMOs and greedy insurance firms in Sicko. No acting coaches for this real-life gang; they’re scared and demoralized enough as it is. Sicko is Michael Moore’s greatest work as well as his most heartbreaking one. Required viewing.