In time, Caesar's divided soul becomes a metaphor for two families of sentient mammals angling for global dominance. Ape reflects man in these movies, and man ape. There's even a brazenly corny but effective bit of silent-film cross-cutting that draws correlations between characters that represent the diplomatic (or "accommodationist") attitude toward resolving conflict and the hardline approach. Caesar grapples with these conflicting impulses within himself even as they're externalized through his ape foil, Koba (Toby Kebbell), a scarred, bitter survivor of laboratory torture who once was loyal to Caesar but now thinks he's gone soft and is at risk of becoming a species traitor. Their conflict is mirrored in the struggle between Clarke's Malcolm (the human Caesar) and Oldman's Dreyfus (who seems reasonable at first, but reveals himself as Koba's counterpart).  

The direction, by Matt Reeves of the soulful vampire remake "Let Me In" and the half-magnificent, half-lame found footage monster flick "Cloverfield," strikes a marvelous early Spielberg vibe, alternating humor and terror with plot-motivated directorial flourishes (including a "Children of Men"-style tracking shot through an ape-infested warehouse and a hair-raising ride atop the turret of a tank). The script, credited to Mark Bomback, Rick Jaffa and Amanda Silver, makes for muddy allegory, perhaps purposefully so (though its attitude toward guns is less editorial-page modern than many have claimed), and it has major flaws, including a too-typical things-crashing-into-other-things summer movie climax, flat human characters (compared to the apes), and a dearth of notable females (this is biologically defensible on the apes' side of the story—maybe—but certainly not on the humans'). And yet the script satisfies because it's fair to every character. You understand Caesar's and Koba's and Malcolm's and Dreyfus's points-of-view even when they're making destructive choices. And when you trace the chain of events that leads to the third act's man/ape showdown, you realize it's impossible to say for sure which side "started it." 

Fans of the collaborative performance between Serkis and the special effects wizards of "Rise" might think it impossible that we could be drawn deeper into this character's heart. Amazingly, that's what happens. Serkis is a towering figure in screen acting who is to 21st century cinema what Lon Chaney, Sr., was to the early 20th. Chaney deformed his face and body with masochistic makeup effects, while the CGI artists distort Serkis'; otherwise the sorcery is similar. It would be wrong, though, to downplay Serkis' personal charisma and craft. He's made specific, clever choices here, and they help you see a unique person—or creature, or being—behind the digital facade. Caesar's energy is so 1960s samurai-picture that I wouldn't be surprised to learn that the actor had Toshiro Mifune's face tattooed on his back. You sense the character's tangled and volatile feelings even as he presents himself to his followers as a strong/silent warrior-statesman. The CGI gorilla-face on Serkis is one kind of mask. Caesar's tactical self-presentation is another. (Koba shows off a similar false front in scenes where he does a simian shuck-and-jive routine to throw stupid humans off-guard.) 

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