After I finish writing this review and go to bed, I will almost certainly have nightmares about Tony Kaye’s new film, the unrated documentary Lake of Fire. I hesitantly recommend this movie, with a warning: The worst thing about this film is not the footage itself, but the fact that none of it contains special effects or computer-generated animation.

The subject of Kaye’s almost unbearable film is abortion. Since that procedure is legal, one of Kaye’s first scenes shows it. A child—a real, living, unborn child—is murdered on screen by a doctor. It’s the single most eloquent pro-life argument possible: Kaye films every aspect of the late-term surgery without any regard for modesty or privacy, intercut with glib rationalizations from people in comfortable offices who explain the importance of a woman’s right to choose. After the explanation is finished, Kaye returns to the scene of the abortion, where the doctor sorts out pieces of the “pregnancy,” most of which are recognizably human and include a tiny, perfect foot.

Kaye, who spent a great deal of his own money making Lake of Fire, has said that he wants to give equal weight to both sides of the abortion debate, and to some degree he may have succeeded. He frames the film’s more hysterical arguments with reasonable figures on both sides: The pro-abortion camp gets the measured voice of Noam Chomsky, while pro-lifers have a wry Nat Hentoff to defend them. Kaye gets some fascinating, valuable interviews, including pro-lifer Norma McCorvey, the former Jane Roe of Roe v. Wade, and a pre-killing-spree Paul Hill. Kaye doesn’t let the ugly part of the debate end with the images of aborted children—Hill, Eric Rudolph, and others have given the pro-life movement an undeniable black eye. Ultimately, Kaye decides that no commentary is the best commentary, and the final 30 minutes of the film follow one woman through the entire process, from her decision outside the clinic to her tearful collapse afterwards. And I agree with Kaye—I think that says it all.

“Lately, I’ve been becoming a problem for myself,” admits Jesse James (Brad Pitt) to his friend Bob Ford (Casey Affleck). He’s understating the case considerably: Jesse has become a problem for everyone, least of all himself. The charismatic outlaw’s mean streak has come under the influence of paranoia, perhaps even insanity, but most of the time he’s still good cheer incarnate, attractive to everyone around him.

The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford is a beautifully shot film, with gorgeous vistas and constantly inventive visual metaphors. This is only Andrew Dominik’s second film, but already he’s discovered something about the perpetually boyish Pitt that nobody else has bothered to look for: he’s the perfect illustration for Hamlet’s caveat that “one may smile, and smile, and be a villain.” With the advent of CGI and ever-widening boundaries for disturbing content, filmmakers have come up with some fascinating portrayals of villainy, from Peter Jackson’s vision of Sauron in The Lord of the Rings to Alfonso Cuaron’s dementors in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.

None of them is quite as scary as Jesse, because none of them is nearly as attractive, or as pitiable. Dominik depicts scenes from Jesse’s violent life when he clearly understands the depths to which he’s sunk. It’s impossible not to want to reach out to him in those moments, even though he does plenty of shooting in this R-rated film, and the filmmakers pay careful attention to its effects on the human body.

Mostly, though, the film frightens us by obscuring Jesse’s motivations, telling the tale from the resentful, admiring perspective of Ford, who has grown up on fabricated tales of Jesse James, the gentleman bandit. Affleck has been quietly outperforming his older brother Ben for a while; here, his remarkably self-effacing performance is a real star turn. Bob is constantly ill at ease; ashamed of himself and of his odd, asexual love for a man who has no friends, only subordinates. The film’s prosaic title underscores the complexity of Bob’s motivations. When he shot Jesse, was he a coward? Was he jealous? Was he merely afraid?

The Jane Austen Book Club might be one of the sweetest, best-written movies this year. In many ways, Little Women screenwriter Robin Swicord’s directorial debut feels like the classy female counterpoint to the smart, unapologetically crass dude-centric comedies (think Knocked Up and Superbad) that dominated the summer.

Jocelyn (Maria Bello) is one of five deeply lonely women who decide to form a book club to discuss the merits of their favorite writer. Grigg (Hugh Dancy) rounds out the group as the token male and sole Austen amateur. Jocelyn has convinced herself that she’s doing fine alone, but her friend Sylvia (Amy Brenneman) has been thoroughly wrecked by the departure of her unfaithful husband (Jimmy Smits). Since Grigg is attractive, interesting, and eager to flirt with Jocelyn, she decides to set him up with her jilted buddy, Sylvia. Meanwhile, serial marrier Bernadette (Kathy Baker) wants to rescue Prudie (Emily Blunt) from unhappiness with her bonehead husband Dean (Marc Blucas) by whisking her away to a world of good manners and gents with names like Darcy, Bingley, and Knightley.

Grigg, whose frustrating lack of complex motivations is the source of a number of good jokes, is the only member of the group who knows what he wants. Swicord lets her characters hide behind their favorite literary heroines, and then subtly pits them against one another during book club debates, rewarding Austen fans and giving newcomers the feeling that they’re in on the joke. Swicord is an incurable, universal romantic and there are moments when her lack of experience as a director trips up her screenplay (rated PG-13 for mature thematic material, sexual content, brief strong language and some drug use), but she has a healthy respect for marriage, and a shrewd ear for character-driven dialogue.