"Emo" is a stupid blanket term for the sensitive white college rock practiced by Death Cab for Cutie and other bands you hear on the WB and The O.C. Whether it comes across as whiny or sincere depends on the listener. But its reliable qualities — intelligent gloom, lovelorn romanticism, underdog charm — have never been captured so perfectly in a movie as in Zach Braff's impressive debut ...

Garden State (Fox Searchlight Pictures and Miramax Films)

Eventually, during its soggy third act, the first-time writer-director's shortcomings overtake his enthusiasm and talent. Before then, though, this is a thoroughly endearing, openhearted coming-of-age story that I thought no sitcom actor could achieve during his free time. Without trying too hard, Zach Braff seeks to create a sort-of generational statement: about Hollywood, about the no-man's-land hometown you left behind, about families, about Zoloft. But if it creeps into preciousness on occasion, it never feels pretentious or proud of itself. Likewise, the terrific wall-to-wall indie music sharpens every moment without pulling focus. And to watch Natalie Portman here is to remember that, yes, we did once think she was going to be a great actress, and, yes, maybe she still might be after all.

Before Sunset (Warner Independent Pictures)

What was unclear nine years ago seems painfully obvious now. Richard Linklater has merged the arthouse's two most intriguing concepts — the smart chatter of My Dinner with Andre and the time-goes-by fascination of the 7 Up series — and then topped it off with a painfully poignant romantic drama. Don't worry about not remembering the first film — part of this sequel's sly surprise is how it digs into the corners of your memory and reminds you of the original's essence: callow but sincere, arty but emphatically emotional. Linklater doesn't improve on his concept as much as he and his actors give it one more graceful go-round. This is inherently a talkfest, but it's beautiful talk. Like a veteran band fully at the height of their powers, confident enough to make the provocative feel casual and off-the-cuff, he and his leads have dared to mess with a tiny little gem of a film and found ways to deepen and complicate its message. May they not be tempted to push their luck again in 2013.

The Manchurian Candidate (Paramount Pictures)

The original is a great movie that certainly isn't flawless and is by no means just a product of its own time. So, yes, it's a worthy possibility for a remake. I just wish Jonathan Demme hadn't done it. Even at his worst, the man is competent, classy, stylish. But his analytical approach doesn't always help a pulp paranoid thriller which boasts stellar acting and production credits. The film jangles the nerves and makes broad comparisons to our distrustful era, but it never quite sinks into your soul, never quite leaves you shaken to the core. Emblematic of all this is Meryl Streep's performance: mannered, self-conscious, sorta fun, but not nearly as diabolical, cold-blooded, and twisted as it should be.

She Hate Me (Sony Pictures Classics)

Maybe we can tell how impressive our best filmmakers are when they deliver their biggest misfires. Spike Lee's had a few, but this mess doesn't quite deserve its drubbing. Few American directors so willfully (and skillfully) keep tackling issues of racism, corruption, sexual politics, and family as he does. But this satire of everything he can think of doesn't work mostly because he hasn't thought through his story. If impregnating lesbians has something to do with whistle blowing or big business, Lee hasn't made it clear on the screen. Still, Terence Blanchard's scores continue to amaze, Matthew Libatique's cinematography shines, and Lee remains one of the few unique voices out there in the wilderness. Even his duds are volatile and assured.

Kanye West, The College Dropout (Roc-A-Fella Records)

For a hotshot in-demand producer, Kanye West sounds decently modest on his solo joint. Not modest like you and me, mind you. After all, he's friends with Jay-Z, Talib Kweli, and Common. But in a world where "reality" is determined by imaginary gun murders and nonstop sexual fantasy, the chip on West's shoulder is downright charming. He dropped out of college and struggled to pay his dues in the rap game, and now he's made it. Fortunately, at the same time he developed a sense of humor, grew a personality that outshines his skills on the mic, and composed a terrific song about Jesus. This rags-to-riches breakthrough tells you everything you need to know about a seemingly nice-enough guy, and he's a bud you'll want to revisit. We should savor this moment before he gets big enough to become the conceited jerk his deserved success will make him.

The Silent League, The Orchestra, Sadly, Has Refused (File Thirteen Records)

Justin Russo's posse could be considered a cooler, tougher cult than the hippies in the Polyphonic Spree, but, really, the trick is songs. Specifically, Russo has them — sweet, pretty, comforting ones that often mention movies, music, and magazines. This makes him about as universal as any songwriter I can name, and while he doesn't go for deep, he's not smarmy about it, either. Unhurried, his melodies calm you. I just hope these damn things don't cause cancer — I find them so soothing that I no longer need any of my other comfort music anymore.

PJ Harvey, Uh Huh Her (Island Records)

As someone who considers Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea her only album worth worshiping, I expected to put this one in the same category as all her other work: impressive but intimidating. Instead, this is no tactical retreat to her raw beginnings. She has been hurt by love all over again, but Stories must have taught her the value of generosity. This puts her ahead of fellow-sufferer Lucinda Williams whose man problems always stem from the fact that she's a self-obsessed, self-destructive, redundant failure. Not PJ. She'll enhance her atmospheric surroundings, making them more hypnotizing and yet also more concrete. She'll find devastating ways to get back at a lover with instruments other than loud guitars. She'll keep trying new things. No one's saying her new work boldly departs from where she's been thematically or musically. But you might find yourself willing to love it just a little.

Jon Langford, All the Fame of Lofty Deeds (Bloodshot Records)

He's not my favorite voice in the Mekons. In fact, it reminds me of Billy Bragg in a cranky mood. But on an album that's barely 29 minutes long, his country dabblings and doom harbingers keep my interest and get me thinking. A few of these songs eviscerate you the way any old punk should. "The Country Is Young" will be the song of choice for any MoveOn supporter who can find it, and "Last Fair Deal Gone Down" and "The Fame of Lofty Deeds" will be gold for the hipsters at the local used record store. The music critics I love all love this album, and I wish I felt the same. But, instead, I'll just say that I'm glad someone like Jon Langford exists out there in the world, speaking his mind in conjunction with sometimes memorable music. But I do believe strongly that he works better in a group setting.

Beastie Boys, To the 5 Boroughs (Capitol Records)

See, here's the deal. It's not as great as you were hoping, see? But, like, it's not as bad as what you might have heard, OK? They're old now, and when they try to be old-school, it works about half the time. And, yeah, that's disappointing, but it's hardly, you know, cataclysmic. Their New York song is pretty cool, and that "Shazam!" song rocks hard. But, like, they're just not as cool as they used to be. Their references aren't as sweet and their samples are sorta just OK. You'll probably like it, ya know, but just don't, like, get your hopes up.