Phantom Thread briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
Only the eighth film for essentially the Stanley Kubrick of the age, Paul Thomas Anderson returns from the most complex breather of all time — the wildly underrated and profusely entertaining Inherent Vice — to more dramatic realms geared toward challenging the current form of film as we know it.
Daniel Day-Lewis is magnificent as fastidious fashion designer Reynolds Woodcock, overshadowed only by his own work with PTA a decade ago as the mythical Daniel Plainview in There Will Be Blood. Crafting tonally ambiguous films that are difficult to fully digest without repeat viewings is what Anderson is best at and Phantom Thread, while relatively straightforward, is still uniquely elusive given its lack of epic experimental conceits, something the director's pushed more heavily with each film. The film’s closest cousins to the rest of Anderson’s filmography are surely Punch-Drunk Love and The Master, taking the former's unorthodox romance as well as the dominant-recessive dynamic between its leads from the latter. Many an Anderson film feature troublesome, even toxic relationships, but Phantom Thread takes the cake as the easiest to identify and the most bewildering to comprehend.
Creating a montage of the finer emotions of attraction’s rough reciprocations and the celebration of one’s muse, Anderson purposely muddies the quixotic splendor by closely studying the role of repulsion and dissatisfaction in our most indispensable relationships. Phantom Thread brushes the line of psychological thriller in a few moments but is otherwise a somber tale of a perfectionist, his dearest partner and their joint quest for the sublimity of high fashion. Ironically, for studying a most persnickety man of patrician taste, this is one of the least meticulous of Anderson’s efforts, technically speaking — in shooting there was no mainstay director of photography for what was described as a group effort. Even the narratively dense psychedelic noir comedy adaptation of Thomas Pynchon's challenging novel felt more coherent.
But for as reticent and inscrutable as his new film is, subsequent viewings will likely reveal the breadth Anderson’s most divisive choices. I was not warmly receptive of The Master or Inherent Vice on first watch, but they've both become personal favorites of the decade; regardless, I don’t want to give Phantom Thread too much undue credit. The cold, black comic subtext lingering beneath this film, waiting to be unearthed and appreciated, doesn't dilute the immediate effect of this subdued, unconventional love story.
Only the eighth film for essentially the Stanley Kubrick of the age, Paul Thomas Anderson returns from the most complex breather of all time — the wildly underrated and profusely entertaining Inherent Vice — to more dramatic realms geared toward challenging the current form of film as we know it.
Daniel Day-Lewis is magnificent as fastidious fashion designer Reynolds Woodcock, overshadowed only by his own work with PTA a decade ago as the mythical Daniel Plainview in There Will Be Blood. Crafting tonally ambiguous films that are difficult to fully digest without repeat viewings is what Anderson is best at and Phantom Thread, while relatively straightforward, is still uniquely elusive given its lack of epic experimental conceits, something the director's pushed more heavily with each film. The film’s closest cousins to the rest of Anderson’s filmography are surely Punch-Drunk Love and The Master, taking the former's unorthodox romance as well as the dominant-recessive dynamic between its leads from the latter. Many an Anderson film feature troublesome, even toxic relationships, but Phantom Thread takes the cake as the easiest to identify and the most bewildering to comprehend.
Creating a montage of the finer emotions of attraction’s rough reciprocations and the celebration of one’s muse, Anderson purposely muddies the quixotic splendor by closely studying the role of repulsion and dissatisfaction in our most indispensable relationships. Phantom Thread brushes the line of psychological thriller in a few moments but is otherwise a somber tale of a perfectionist, his dearest partner and their joint quest for the sublimity of high fashion. Ironically, for studying a most persnickety man of patrician taste, this is one of the least meticulous of Anderson’s efforts, technically speaking — in shooting there was no mainstay director of photography for what was described as a group effort. Even the narratively dense psychedelic noir comedy adaptation of Thomas Pynchon's challenging novel felt more coherent.
But for as reticent and inscrutable as his new film is, subsequent viewings will likely reveal the breadth Anderson’s most divisive choices. I was not warmly receptive of The Master or Inherent Vice on first watch, but they've both become personal favorites of the decade; regardless, I don’t want to give Phantom Thread too much undue credit. The cold, black comic subtext lingering beneath this film, waiting to be unearthed and appreciated, doesn't dilute the immediate effect of this subdued, unconventional love story.
Molly's Game briefing
3 (out of 4)
After decades of penning dynamic scripts, Aaron Sorkin's directorial debut proves at least one thing: he’s still a damn good screenwriter.
I only tease — the direction behind Molly’s Game would be worth praising more if it felt like Sorkin had some manner of stylistic stamp. After first coming off like a weak Scorsese imitator, he lets his feverish pace of verbal information subside to eventually let the story speak for itself. Fortunately for Sorkin even the simplest parts of the tale of Molly Bloom, like life, are full of pauses, detours and confusion requiring a wordsmith of some capacity to navigate.
Within this true tale lies subject matter much to Sorkin’s liking, particularly political and legal intricacies and a recent bit of biographical intrigue too fascinating to pass up. The dual narrative between the crazy story and the messy, affluent aftermath doesn’t succeed quite as dazzlingly as The Social Network, but it functions perfectly for this film's pacing and comic timing.
Jessica Chastain clocks in a career-best performance as Bloom — her perfectly dictated narration is almost good enough to forgive Sorkin's heavy reliance on it. Idris Elba is rock solid as Bloom’s patient, straightedge lawyer Charlie Jaffey and Kevin Costner even appears faintly human in his small supporting role as Bloom’s hardheaded father. Stars like Leonardo DiCaprio and Ben Affleck attended Bloom's actual games and our basic stand-in for these undisclosed players is Michael Cera in a fitting role against type for an actor who has spent all his pubescent quirks. My guess is he's supposed to closely represent Macaulay Culkin.
Anchored by a knotty, complex story, Sorkin churns out his signature soliloquies and table tennis back-and-forths with ease. Another director may have realized Bloom's stranger than fiction story more fully, but Molly's Game is ably edited and shot even though Sorkin's strong suit is in obsessively crafted dialogue.
After decades of penning dynamic scripts, Aaron Sorkin's directorial debut proves at least one thing: he’s still a damn good screenwriter.
I only tease — the direction behind Molly’s Game would be worth praising more if it felt like Sorkin had some manner of stylistic stamp. After first coming off like a weak Scorsese imitator, he lets his feverish pace of verbal information subside to eventually let the story speak for itself. Fortunately for Sorkin even the simplest parts of the tale of Molly Bloom, like life, are full of pauses, detours and confusion requiring a wordsmith of some capacity to navigate.
Within this true tale lies subject matter much to Sorkin’s liking, particularly political and legal intricacies and a recent bit of biographical intrigue too fascinating to pass up. The dual narrative between the crazy story and the messy, affluent aftermath doesn’t succeed quite as dazzlingly as The Social Network, but it functions perfectly for this film's pacing and comic timing.
Jessica Chastain clocks in a career-best performance as Bloom — her perfectly dictated narration is almost good enough to forgive Sorkin's heavy reliance on it. Idris Elba is rock solid as Bloom’s patient, straightedge lawyer Charlie Jaffey and Kevin Costner even appears faintly human in his small supporting role as Bloom’s hardheaded father. Stars like Leonardo DiCaprio and Ben Affleck attended Bloom's actual games and our basic stand-in for these undisclosed players is Michael Cera in a fitting role against type for an actor who has spent all his pubescent quirks. My guess is he's supposed to closely represent Macaulay Culkin.
Anchored by a knotty, complex story, Sorkin churns out his signature soliloquies and table tennis back-and-forths with ease. Another director may have realized Bloom's stranger than fiction story more fully, but Molly's Game is ably edited and shot even though Sorkin's strong suit is in obsessively crafted dialogue.
Call Me By Your Name briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
Call Me By Your Name is serene, delicate and very Italian — not unlike the trappings of director Luca Guadagnino's other romantic dramas I Am Love and last year's A Bigger Splash, this film forms the spiritual third entry in Guadagnino's self-declared Desire trilogy. It may not go on to be one of the defining LGBTQ+ love stories of the genre's most fruitful era like Brokeback Mountain and Blue is the Warmest Colour, but its lasting impression lends the film an easy spot among the year's finest films.
The greatest attribute of Call Me By Your Name is undoubtedly its collection of seriously superb performances. Timothée Chalamet, who just gained some further exposure in Lady Bird, wears his lanky adolescence most believably and Armie Hammer, though a bit old for his own character, is nonetheless an excellent foil to Chalamet's cool. Michael Stuhlbarg is the film's secret weapon though — playing the father of Chalamet's Elio and the professor of Hammer's Oliver, Stuhlbarg comes away with a more deserving turn for supporting actor nominations than his in-film protégé. His monologue in the penultimate scene is beautiful, blunt and probably the best moment in the film.
Like any good director should when tackling queer cinema, Guadagnino painstakingly creates a universal landscape of attraction and stubbornness. Featuring a more refined example of the laid back auteurism that Guadagnino has offered up beforehand, he makes an emotional saga of summer romance feel both carefree and monumentally weighty. The ending of Call Me By Your Name summarizes this best — after Elio casually chats with Oliver again months after the fact and upon learning he's getting married, the film leaves you with a long static shot of Elio weeping as he stares into a crackling fireplace. I swear if Gary Oldman weren't the man of the year, 22-year-old Chalamet would be winning Best Actor over the likes of Daniel Day-Lewis and company.
Anyway, just before credits roll we see Elio's naivity vanish and the scars of his bliss begin to take hold. It is a painful sendoff of release and acceptance that already feels like one of modern film's most raw epilogues.
Call Me By Your Name is serene, delicate and very Italian — not unlike the trappings of director Luca Guadagnino's other romantic dramas I Am Love and last year's A Bigger Splash, this film forms the spiritual third entry in Guadagnino's self-declared Desire trilogy. It may not go on to be one of the defining LGBTQ+ love stories of the genre's most fruitful era like Brokeback Mountain and Blue is the Warmest Colour, but its lasting impression lends the film an easy spot among the year's finest films.
The greatest attribute of Call Me By Your Name is undoubtedly its collection of seriously superb performances. Timothée Chalamet, who just gained some further exposure in Lady Bird, wears his lanky adolescence most believably and Armie Hammer, though a bit old for his own character, is nonetheless an excellent foil to Chalamet's cool. Michael Stuhlbarg is the film's secret weapon though — playing the father of Chalamet's Elio and the professor of Hammer's Oliver, Stuhlbarg comes away with a more deserving turn for supporting actor nominations than his in-film protégé. His monologue in the penultimate scene is beautiful, blunt and probably the best moment in the film.
Like any good director should when tackling queer cinema, Guadagnino painstakingly creates a universal landscape of attraction and stubbornness. Featuring a more refined example of the laid back auteurism that Guadagnino has offered up beforehand, he makes an emotional saga of summer romance feel both carefree and monumentally weighty. The ending of Call Me By Your Name summarizes this best — after Elio casually chats with Oliver again months after the fact and upon learning he's getting married, the film leaves you with a long static shot of Elio weeping as he stares into a crackling fireplace. I swear if Gary Oldman weren't the man of the year, 22-year-old Chalamet would be winning Best Actor over the likes of Daniel Day-Lewis and company.
Anyway, just before credits roll we see Elio's naivity vanish and the scars of his bliss begin to take hold. It is a painful sendoff of release and acceptance that already feels like one of modern film's most raw epilogues.
Darkest Hour briefing
2 ½ (out of 4)
If the Academy Award for Best Actor were chosen by merit alone Timothée Chalamat would be a sliver more deserving for his breakout starring role in Call Me By Your Name than the intimidating Gary Oldman. But there’s more riding on Oldman’s unbeatable streak of acting trophies than just his extraordinary work as Winston Churchill in the otherwise merely standard British biopic Darkest Hour.
As my eyes and ears have yet to be graced with Pan, Joe Wright’s filmography, and my knowledge of it, has been spotty. Pride and Prejudice and Hanna are unequivocally good films, whereas The Soloist and even Atonement are well crafted yet unworthy of emotional investment. Darkest Hour is somewhere in between, treading humdrum quality often and a few times grazing the borders of greatness thanks to Oldman’s tremendous conviction and the cinematic subtleties of Bruno Delbonnel’s startlingly sublime lighting and cinematography.
The DP behind the atmospheric heights of the Harry Potter series in Half-Blood Prince and the Coen's late-career classic Inside Llewyn Davis certainly elevates several wonderful moments of Darkest Hour. Churchill’s first address to the nation over radio, as well as the movie’s most sentimental scene — wherein Churchill rides the subway for the first time in his life and discusses Britain’s difficult wartime position with average citizens — are powerful and elegantly composed.
The formulaic script yearns for slightly less Hollywood dialogue, more prominence for its female characters (Lily James and Kristin Scott Thomas are all but unessential) and greater scope to the story. Given the destruction of war that lies on the horizon by the end of this film's month-long narrative in May 1940, can you really even call this Britain's darkest hour?
This and Dunkirk are like two peas in a pod, the most current iteration of the Armageddon/Deep Impact oddity. Wright's film is more traditional than Dunkirk yet half the film in importance. No matter how individually flawed, at least Christopher Nolan’s vision of history is for real — Darkest Hour is mostly just for show.
If the Academy Award for Best Actor were chosen by merit alone Timothée Chalamat would be a sliver more deserving for his breakout starring role in Call Me By Your Name than the intimidating Gary Oldman. But there’s more riding on Oldman’s unbeatable streak of acting trophies than just his extraordinary work as Winston Churchill in the otherwise merely standard British biopic Darkest Hour.
As my eyes and ears have yet to be graced with Pan, Joe Wright’s filmography, and my knowledge of it, has been spotty. Pride and Prejudice and Hanna are unequivocally good films, whereas The Soloist and even Atonement are well crafted yet unworthy of emotional investment. Darkest Hour is somewhere in between, treading humdrum quality often and a few times grazing the borders of greatness thanks to Oldman’s tremendous conviction and the cinematic subtleties of Bruno Delbonnel’s startlingly sublime lighting and cinematography.
The DP behind the atmospheric heights of the Harry Potter series in Half-Blood Prince and the Coen's late-career classic Inside Llewyn Davis certainly elevates several wonderful moments of Darkest Hour. Churchill’s first address to the nation over radio, as well as the movie’s most sentimental scene — wherein Churchill rides the subway for the first time in his life and discusses Britain’s difficult wartime position with average citizens — are powerful and elegantly composed.
The formulaic script yearns for slightly less Hollywood dialogue, more prominence for its female characters (Lily James and Kristin Scott Thomas are all but unessential) and greater scope to the story. Given the destruction of war that lies on the horizon by the end of this film's month-long narrative in May 1940, can you really even call this Britain's darkest hour?
This and Dunkirk are like two peas in a pod, the most current iteration of the Armageddon/Deep Impact oddity. Wright's film is more traditional than Dunkirk yet half the film in importance. No matter how individually flawed, at least Christopher Nolan’s vision of history is for real — Darkest Hour is mostly just for show.
Downsizing briefing
2 (out of 4)
Pulled from some pile of premises for cheap 80s and 90s movies, Downsizing somehow became Alexander Payne’s newest exploration of the human condition at the expectedly microscopic scale. Silly and braced for comedy as its story might be, Payne turns a whimsical pitch into a reasonably serious and often rewarding satire — for at least an hour some elaborate and enlightening worldbuilding can be enjoyed.
But my God that second half takes a brutal and irredeemable left turn, especially when Ngoc Lan Tran (Hong Chau) — a crippled Vietnamese girl downsized against her will turned Matt Damon's forced, awkward love interest — enters frame. Chau gives a fine performance but the writing makes her broken English sound generic and a little racist, her screen presence eventually becoming a caricature.
Exploring the essence of cult, classism and especially the strains of marriage, divorce and isolation — as seen through the slow succumb of Kristen Wiig and Matt Damon's on-screen couple to the perks of downsizing — the film dearly wants to entertain as easily as it can say something meaningful. But Payne fumbles at both — the shift in focus, tone and overall quality by the midway point confuses and disassembles the honesty and originality of the film’s first act. Overreaching and absurd in all the wrong ways, Payne's latest attempt is a far cry from the sincerity of The Descendants or Nebraska, and it's not even worth comparing to Sideways.
Even though the script covers many angles of its spectacular concept as it might play out in the real world, the holes in the film’s explanation of its universe appear even before the most effective comedy and sharpest commentary have started to fade. Not long after, the laughable climax of the film is so completely different from Downsizing's point of origin that it might make you question your sanity — by the third act the ambitious hook has been all but ignored entirely. As much as I respect Payne's boldness, I can’t see the intended ends of his uncompromising efforts.
Pulled from some pile of premises for cheap 80s and 90s movies, Downsizing somehow became Alexander Payne’s newest exploration of the human condition at the expectedly microscopic scale. Silly and braced for comedy as its story might be, Payne turns a whimsical pitch into a reasonably serious and often rewarding satire — for at least an hour some elaborate and enlightening worldbuilding can be enjoyed.
But my God that second half takes a brutal and irredeemable left turn, especially when Ngoc Lan Tran (Hong Chau) — a crippled Vietnamese girl downsized against her will turned Matt Damon's forced, awkward love interest — enters frame. Chau gives a fine performance but the writing makes her broken English sound generic and a little racist, her screen presence eventually becoming a caricature.
Exploring the essence of cult, classism and especially the strains of marriage, divorce and isolation — as seen through the slow succumb of Kristen Wiig and Matt Damon's on-screen couple to the perks of downsizing — the film dearly wants to entertain as easily as it can say something meaningful. But Payne fumbles at both — the shift in focus, tone and overall quality by the midway point confuses and disassembles the honesty and originality of the film’s first act. Overreaching and absurd in all the wrong ways, Payne's latest attempt is a far cry from the sincerity of The Descendants or Nebraska, and it's not even worth comparing to Sideways.
Even though the script covers many angles of its spectacular concept as it might play out in the real world, the holes in the film’s explanation of its universe appear even before the most effective comedy and sharpest commentary have started to fade. Not long after, the laughable climax of the film is so completely different from Downsizing's point of origin that it might make you question your sanity — by the third act the ambitious hook has been all but ignored entirely. As much as I respect Payne's boldness, I can’t see the intended ends of his uncompromising efforts.
The Shape of Water briefing
3 (out of 4)
Guillermo Del Toro has no doubt assembled a gorgeous, kinetic work of visual craft with The Shape of Water, but I wish his concept of this adult fairy tale — a formula used to perfection in Pan’s Labyrinth — let reality properly seep in through the cracks of fantasy. Unlike a masterpiece doubling as both pure invention and an allegorical escape from the setting of despair into a child's imagination, this film is a formal fable, pure and simple. Without Richard Jenkins' unnecessary narration and such a whimsical conclusion, this Creature from the Black Lagoon homage would stand with the year's most elegant achievements.
Sally Hawkins is breathtaking, a hopeful shoo-in for a Best Actress trophy — she tops the tightest race of the year, delivering a performance to quietly outshine both Frances McDormand and Saoirse Ronan. Her performance as the meek, curious mute custodian is brimming with humanity, and the silence and sign language at the center of the film's unwieldy romance is the most lovely, cinematic aspect of Del Toro's vision.
Jenkins and Octavia Spencer are both fairly typecast in roles they’ve been deemed suited for many times over. Michael Shannon is the only supporting cast member not hindered by a new crack at a familiar role, rather the imposing actor reenters his expert plane of erecting despicable antagonists.
The film's genre concoctions aren't so carefully blended; there are grim jolts of violence and bizarre bestial sexuality set against a neat plot and easy stakes. There is a joy in The Shape of Water when its abnormalities are faced more fearlessly and its potential as an unconventionally warm, whimsical piece of holiday-friendly escapism is de-emphasized.
Guillermo Del Toro has no doubt assembled a gorgeous, kinetic work of visual craft with The Shape of Water, but I wish his concept of this adult fairy tale — a formula used to perfection in Pan’s Labyrinth — let reality properly seep in through the cracks of fantasy. Unlike a masterpiece doubling as both pure invention and an allegorical escape from the setting of despair into a child's imagination, this film is a formal fable, pure and simple. Without Richard Jenkins' unnecessary narration and such a whimsical conclusion, this Creature from the Black Lagoon homage would stand with the year's most elegant achievements.
Sally Hawkins is breathtaking, a hopeful shoo-in for a Best Actress trophy — she tops the tightest race of the year, delivering a performance to quietly outshine both Frances McDormand and Saoirse Ronan. Her performance as the meek, curious mute custodian is brimming with humanity, and the silence and sign language at the center of the film's unwieldy romance is the most lovely, cinematic aspect of Del Toro's vision.
Jenkins and Octavia Spencer are both fairly typecast in roles they’ve been deemed suited for many times over. Michael Shannon is the only supporting cast member not hindered by a new crack at a familiar role, rather the imposing actor reenters his expert plane of erecting despicable antagonists.
The film's genre concoctions aren't so carefully blended; there are grim jolts of violence and bizarre bestial sexuality set against a neat plot and easy stakes. There is a joy in The Shape of Water when its abnormalities are faced more fearlessly and its potential as an unconventionally warm, whimsical piece of holiday-friendly escapism is de-emphasized.
Star Wars: The Last Jedi briefing
1 ½ (out of 4)
Uprooting expectations for the sake of thumbing several noses at fanboys who drooled over every second of Episode VII, Disney's Rian Johnson’s The Last Jedi is nothing close to what anyone could have imagined going in. Despite a theoretically positive break from established formula for the most part, every new direction is a blind alley, every subplot is a furiously immobile hamster in the metaphorical wheel and Johnson's accomplishments with the characters, new and old, are next to none.
Touches like the milk monster inhabitants of Luke's island, Super Leia, Snoke’s embarrassing death and brushing off Rey’s origin all make for silly trivialities and smoke and mirrors. Disney has seemingly tossed aside the brand's obsessive fandom, almost as a passive aggressive response to the choir of criticisms declaring The Force Awakens a simulacrum of the original Star Wars – with the cliffhanger they ended on, many expected the second part of this new trilogy would also be similar to The Empire Strikes Back. "Bet they'll never see this coming!" executives surely speculated, desiring to pull multiple rugs out from under its massive audience without giving much thought to the saga's continuity or the power of nerd outrage.
But in a tentpole film this strangely flawed — though it's still at least a hair above the wearying pointlessness of Rogue One — it's easy to focus on the many fundamental issues and ignore all praiseworthy aspects entirely. Daisy Ridley's Rey and Adam Driver's Kylo Ren are the only character offerings worthy of any reasonable audience's investment. Their respective performances are admirable, the two making for a possibly romantic but nonetheless exciting duo to watch interact, especially as they carry out the film's center(set)piece. But even the strongest scene in The Last Jedi is terribly prefaced by the disposal of super-villain Supreme Leader Snoke, accordingly hindering the subsequent action scene that is still energetic and decently choreographed (if you're not looking too hard).
Along the lines of General Leia, Finn, Poe, and new characters like Admiral Holdo (Laura Dern), Rose (Kelly Marie Tran) and DJ (Benicio del Toro), all are wrapped up together in simultaneous chaos across multiple stories, coalescing for but a moment or two of proper cinematic escapism, let alone clarity. But damn near every scene still comes with a new batch of blemishes be it narrative confusion, poor character development, problematic context within the Star Wars legacy or cringe-inducing humor.
But even taken solely on its own terms Episode VIII is an absurd miscalculation. This film has already put diehards in a fit so don't be surprised if fan communities deem The Last Jedi as baffling as the prequels once its many flaws are highlighted and outlined in coming months. To the average viewer or critic though, it’s just another Star Wars movie covered from every marketing angle to appeal to anyone who may not already care. It’s an entertaining mess assuredly, but if some critics haven’t lost all their credulity, then they must be watching some different blockbuster that doesn't stray so close to parody.
Uprooting expectations for the sake of thumbing several noses at fanboys who drooled over every second of Episode VII, Disney's Rian Johnson’s The Last Jedi is nothing close to what anyone could have imagined going in. Despite a theoretically positive break from established formula for the most part, every new direction is a blind alley, every subplot is a furiously immobile hamster in the metaphorical wheel and Johnson's accomplishments with the characters, new and old, are next to none.
Touches like the milk monster inhabitants of Luke's island, Super Leia, Snoke’s embarrassing death and brushing off Rey’s origin all make for silly trivialities and smoke and mirrors. Disney has seemingly tossed aside the brand's obsessive fandom, almost as a passive aggressive response to the choir of criticisms declaring The Force Awakens a simulacrum of the original Star Wars – with the cliffhanger they ended on, many expected the second part of this new trilogy would also be similar to The Empire Strikes Back. "Bet they'll never see this coming!" executives surely speculated, desiring to pull multiple rugs out from under its massive audience without giving much thought to the saga's continuity or the power of nerd outrage.
But in a tentpole film this strangely flawed — though it's still at least a hair above the wearying pointlessness of Rogue One — it's easy to focus on the many fundamental issues and ignore all praiseworthy aspects entirely. Daisy Ridley's Rey and Adam Driver's Kylo Ren are the only character offerings worthy of any reasonable audience's investment. Their respective performances are admirable, the two making for a possibly romantic but nonetheless exciting duo to watch interact, especially as they carry out the film's center(set)piece. But even the strongest scene in The Last Jedi is terribly prefaced by the disposal of super-villain Supreme Leader Snoke, accordingly hindering the subsequent action scene that is still energetic and decently choreographed (if you're not looking too hard).
Along the lines of General Leia, Finn, Poe, and new characters like Admiral Holdo (Laura Dern), Rose (Kelly Marie Tran) and DJ (Benicio del Toro), all are wrapped up together in simultaneous chaos across multiple stories, coalescing for but a moment or two of proper cinematic escapism, let alone clarity. But damn near every scene still comes with a new batch of blemishes be it narrative confusion, poor character development, problematic context within the Star Wars legacy or cringe-inducing humor.
But even taken solely on its own terms Episode VIII is an absurd miscalculation. This film has already put diehards in a fit so don't be surprised if fan communities deem The Last Jedi as baffling as the prequels once its many flaws are highlighted and outlined in coming months. To the average viewer or critic though, it’s just another Star Wars movie covered from every marketing angle to appeal to anyone who may not already care. It’s an entertaining mess assuredly, but if some critics haven’t lost all their credulity, then they must be watching some different blockbuster that doesn't stray so close to parody.
Last Flag Flying briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
Richard Linklater broadens his already rich filmography with a blunt, emotional, dramatic sidestep to his typical output of red-cheeked, down-to-earth optimism.
Not that his indelible knack for concocting scripts with simple premises, identifiably realistic characters and textured, humanist dialogue doesn’t take hold as well in Last Flag Flying. Linklater’s touches of pleasant humor and revealing interplay between his major players are still very much intact — Bryan Cranston’s Sal Nealon makes for an adept vessel to channel the American filmmaker's most easygoing, buoyant subtextual wishes.
It's actually Steve Carell's meek leading role as "Doc" Shepherd affecting the senses so honestly and painfully. "Doc" recruits Sal and preacher Richard Mueller (Laurence Fishburne), buddies from his Marine days in Vietnam, to assist him as he travels to acquire and bury his fallen 21-year-old son of the same military class. Sal and Richard spar with one another about basic existentialism in typical Linklater fashion but it efficiently unlocks the all sides of the characters. Honorably examining contrasting ideologies, this is a clever way to show how these brothers and soldiers at heart have trod down very different paths in their adult life.
Given the whimper of praise when the film was quietly released several months ago in limited distribution, I didn’t count on Last Flag Flying to be so utterly heartbreaking or so properly free of any pro-war propaganda. Depicting the wells of silence that come with new mourning and the scrappy yet sacred support old friends can offer, Linklater somehow makes the rare military film that doesn't confuse patriotism with jingoism.
Zeroing in on the oft-ignored after-effects of deadly conflicts for families back home — in this case Iraq in 2003 — American Sniper this is not. Linklater sticks to his relatively liberal, anti-nationalist agenda, creating a devastating portrait of loss in the process that is identifiable beyond the empathy of fellow serviceman.
Richard Linklater broadens his already rich filmography with a blunt, emotional, dramatic sidestep to his typical output of red-cheeked, down-to-earth optimism.
Not that his indelible knack for concocting scripts with simple premises, identifiably realistic characters and textured, humanist dialogue doesn’t take hold as well in Last Flag Flying. Linklater’s touches of pleasant humor and revealing interplay between his major players are still very much intact — Bryan Cranston’s Sal Nealon makes for an adept vessel to channel the American filmmaker's most easygoing, buoyant subtextual wishes.
It's actually Steve Carell's meek leading role as "Doc" Shepherd affecting the senses so honestly and painfully. "Doc" recruits Sal and preacher Richard Mueller (Laurence Fishburne), buddies from his Marine days in Vietnam, to assist him as he travels to acquire and bury his fallen 21-year-old son of the same military class. Sal and Richard spar with one another about basic existentialism in typical Linklater fashion but it efficiently unlocks the all sides of the characters. Honorably examining contrasting ideologies, this is a clever way to show how these brothers and soldiers at heart have trod down very different paths in their adult life.
Given the whimper of praise when the film was quietly released several months ago in limited distribution, I didn’t count on Last Flag Flying to be so utterly heartbreaking or so properly free of any pro-war propaganda. Depicting the wells of silence that come with new mourning and the scrappy yet sacred support old friends can offer, Linklater somehow makes the rare military film that doesn't confuse patriotism with jingoism.
Zeroing in on the oft-ignored after-effects of deadly conflicts for families back home — in this case Iraq in 2003 — American Sniper this is not. Linklater sticks to his relatively liberal, anti-nationalist agenda, creating a devastating portrait of loss in the process that is identifiable beyond the empathy of fellow serviceman.
Three Billboards
Outside Ebbing, Missouri briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
A triumph in artistic coherence, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri makes a case that Martin McDonagh may be the most talented writer-director to emerge this last decade.
The opposite of the writer’s block-themed meta mayhem of Seven Psychopaths five years ago, Three Billboards is a daringly uncharacteristic original screenplay with so many stranger-than-fiction plot turns that conjure a peculiar, studied realism. Though not nearly as quotable or hysterical as In Bruges, McDonagh's third film doesn't need to be, as it lands squarely in dramatic territory despite the black comic trimmings.
McDonagh covers so much thematic ground — within his tangle of finely fleshed out characters, we glimpse the irony within the slow grinding wheels of justice, the cyclical nature of violence and the paradoxical connection between misery and mirth. Unpredictability and dry wit help the small-town politics and morality of vengeance feel both madcap and rather plausible from moment to moment.
McDonagh's figures are believably drawn, evolving from Midwest stereotypes to real people by their respective ends. Frances McDormand is at her best, though I wish the script didn't offer her so many opportunities to dish out venomous zingers to lesser characters. Sam Rockwell puts up one of his best performances ever, while Woody Harrelson (as himself) makes the most of his complex police chief character. Three Billboards may paint an unhealthy picture of grief, but as a triptych character study the film meshes a rich plot and terse, honest dialogue into a most entertaining and ethically insightful film.
Tonally, McDonagh's penchant for swift, brutal violence and foul-mouthed main characters shouldn't sync with all the unapologetic brutishness and bleakness of an unhinged mother attempting to impossibly right the wrong of her long dead daughter's rape and murder. Somehow the stabs to the gut from the script's emotional wallops or precise comic timing arrive exactly when needed.
A triumph in artistic coherence, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri makes a case that Martin McDonagh may be the most talented writer-director to emerge this last decade.
The opposite of the writer’s block-themed meta mayhem of Seven Psychopaths five years ago, Three Billboards is a daringly uncharacteristic original screenplay with so many stranger-than-fiction plot turns that conjure a peculiar, studied realism. Though not nearly as quotable or hysterical as In Bruges, McDonagh's third film doesn't need to be, as it lands squarely in dramatic territory despite the black comic trimmings.
McDonagh covers so much thematic ground — within his tangle of finely fleshed out characters, we glimpse the irony within the slow grinding wheels of justice, the cyclical nature of violence and the paradoxical connection between misery and mirth. Unpredictability and dry wit help the small-town politics and morality of vengeance feel both madcap and rather plausible from moment to moment.
McDonagh's figures are believably drawn, evolving from Midwest stereotypes to real people by their respective ends. Frances McDormand is at her best, though I wish the script didn't offer her so many opportunities to dish out venomous zingers to lesser characters. Sam Rockwell puts up one of his best performances ever, while Woody Harrelson (as himself) makes the most of his complex police chief character. Three Billboards may paint an unhealthy picture of grief, but as a triptych character study the film meshes a rich plot and terse, honest dialogue into a most entertaining and ethically insightful film.
Tonally, McDonagh's penchant for swift, brutal violence and foul-mouthed main characters shouldn't sync with all the unapologetic brutishness and bleakness of an unhinged mother attempting to impossibly right the wrong of her long dead daughter's rape and murder. Somehow the stabs to the gut from the script's emotional wallops or precise comic timing arrive exactly when needed.
Justice League briefing
2 (out of 4)
The pieces mostly fit — Ben Affleck’s wearied Batman, Gal Gadot’s warrior princess, Ezra Miller’s rookie Flash and Jason Mamoa’s easy disappearance into the silliness of Aquaman all feel like a natural batch of partners in justice. It's just that Cyborg's lazy, loathsome CGI design and character is more than a little jarring against the rest, not to mention the inevitable arrival of Henry Cavill's resurrected Superman and his digitally removed mustache.
Clocking in at less than two hours, Justice League's culmination of the DCEU five entries in – just about as many as Marvel took before The Avengers became a blockbusting phenomenon — is an unwieldy final product, at once extremely basic and a heaping, campy, complicated mess. As a story the movie is as complex as a 20-minute episode of Teen Titans; Justice League doesn’t even require higher functioning to process. It’s all just scaffolding to watch these DC characters stand aside one another and exist mostly as properties rather than remotely relatable figures. Miller is in his natural place as comic relief, while side characters like Amy Adams' Lois Lane and even less essential company have thankless appearances bordering on cameos.
Zach Snyder, though without final control this go-round, has an eye for epic mythos even if every script he’s directed for DC has been shoddy and overly serious. Joss Whedon’s inserted quips and Superman’s abominable, digitally inserted upper lip — both done in reshoots — render a botched superhero tentpole even sloppier if more digestibly silly.
Hamstrung by a childish plot, a terribly generic villain, indelicate editing and screenwriting that comes off rushed and audience-tested, Justice League at least has enough nonsense happening fast enough to enjoy on the most purely superficial level.
The pieces mostly fit — Ben Affleck’s wearied Batman, Gal Gadot’s warrior princess, Ezra Miller’s rookie Flash and Jason Mamoa’s easy disappearance into the silliness of Aquaman all feel like a natural batch of partners in justice. It's just that Cyborg's lazy, loathsome CGI design and character is more than a little jarring against the rest, not to mention the inevitable arrival of Henry Cavill's resurrected Superman and his digitally removed mustache.
Clocking in at less than two hours, Justice League's culmination of the DCEU five entries in – just about as many as Marvel took before The Avengers became a blockbusting phenomenon — is an unwieldy final product, at once extremely basic and a heaping, campy, complicated mess. As a story the movie is as complex as a 20-minute episode of Teen Titans; Justice League doesn’t even require higher functioning to process. It’s all just scaffolding to watch these DC characters stand aside one another and exist mostly as properties rather than remotely relatable figures. Miller is in his natural place as comic relief, while side characters like Amy Adams' Lois Lane and even less essential company have thankless appearances bordering on cameos.
Zach Snyder, though without final control this go-round, has an eye for epic mythos even if every script he’s directed for DC has been shoddy and overly serious. Joss Whedon’s inserted quips and Superman’s abominable, digitally inserted upper lip — both done in reshoots — render a botched superhero tentpole even sloppier if more digestibly silly.
Hamstrung by a childish plot, a terribly generic villain, indelicate editing and screenwriting that comes off rushed and audience-tested, Justice League at least has enough nonsense happening fast enough to enjoy on the most purely superficial level.
Lady Bird briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
Greta Gerwig's previous screenwriting credits include co-writing her boyfriend and accomplished independent filmmaker Noah Baumbach’s best films Frances Ha and Mistress America, the titular roles of which she also magnetically assumed. The spiritual succession of those efforts leads us to a rich, piquant writer-director debut for Gerwig. Lady Bird is a mirror to Gerwig's past, a director's youth reassessed — and ironically the reflected image is not of herself, as the lead role is finally out of her delicate and charmingly clumsy hands.
Saoirse Ronan isn't exactly what you would call a stand-in though. Both Baumbach/Gerwig features drew warts-and-all portraits of two young women — Frances' likeness was loving and poignant while Brooke's was a near-condemnation of a complex character designed to epitomize the pitfalls of idolizing our near-elders. Lady Bird finds Gerwig at her most self-aware and yet most removed from her work after 15 years of adult experience to contemplate the transformative times of senior year at a Catholic high school.
The aura of autobiography here is elevated to universality by her easy alignment of the milestones of the average 18-year-old with a three-act narrative. There may be a tad too many affected jokes within the script that could have been dialed back in order to make Lady Bird’s lovely, frank tone that much more true to life, but Gerwig’s way with humor is just as subtly stinging as her partner's and far more marketable.
Labeling Lady Bird as a contemporary coming-of-age film does not properly credit Gerwig for all the revelations she invokes in her script without trying hard at all. The hopeless passive aggression between passionate children and their insecure parents, the indelicacy of young lust, the comfort of best friendship, the dread at the notion of failing to unlock your potential — it's all here.
Gerwig has poetically rewarded herself and cineastes by realizing her own abilities and turning her time of greatest uncertainty into a film of soft sublimity. She spares neither the bliss nor the heartbreak in recreating the yearning for self-actualization.
Greta Gerwig's previous screenwriting credits include co-writing her boyfriend and accomplished independent filmmaker Noah Baumbach’s best films Frances Ha and Mistress America, the titular roles of which she also magnetically assumed. The spiritual succession of those efforts leads us to a rich, piquant writer-director debut for Gerwig. Lady Bird is a mirror to Gerwig's past, a director's youth reassessed — and ironically the reflected image is not of herself, as the lead role is finally out of her delicate and charmingly clumsy hands.
Saoirse Ronan isn't exactly what you would call a stand-in though. Both Baumbach/Gerwig features drew warts-and-all portraits of two young women — Frances' likeness was loving and poignant while Brooke's was a near-condemnation of a complex character designed to epitomize the pitfalls of idolizing our near-elders. Lady Bird finds Gerwig at her most self-aware and yet most removed from her work after 15 years of adult experience to contemplate the transformative times of senior year at a Catholic high school.
The aura of autobiography here is elevated to universality by her easy alignment of the milestones of the average 18-year-old with a three-act narrative. There may be a tad too many affected jokes within the script that could have been dialed back in order to make Lady Bird’s lovely, frank tone that much more true to life, but Gerwig’s way with humor is just as subtly stinging as her partner's and far more marketable.
Labeling Lady Bird as a contemporary coming-of-age film does not properly credit Gerwig for all the revelations she invokes in her script without trying hard at all. The hopeless passive aggression between passionate children and their insecure parents, the indelicacy of young lust, the comfort of best friendship, the dread at the notion of failing to unlock your potential — it's all here.
Gerwig has poetically rewarded herself and cineastes by realizing her own abilities and turning her time of greatest uncertainty into a film of soft sublimity. She spares neither the bliss nor the heartbreak in recreating the yearning for self-actualization.
Thor: Ragnarok briefing
3 (out of 4)
In a year where Disney/Marvel has branded their films with an unflagging lightheartedness, Thor: Ragnarok, unlike Guardians Vol. 2 and Spider-Man: Homecoming, actually benefits from its generous helping of comedy.
And with a low bar to clear with the first two forgettable Thor installments, Ragnarok goes grander for the better in establishing its own mini-Avenger collection in the Hulk/Thor duo, plus some Loki and a new face in Tessa Thompson's Valkyrie. The best part of the 17th entry in the Marvel Cinematic Universe is that it still has time for a deliriously lengthy second act employing weirder sci-fi elements, amusing secondary characters and an enamoring sense of discovery we so infrequently get to enjoy due to MCU’s own escalating exhaustion.
While these capeflicks dish out more and more tongue-in-cheek and endless quipping in a let's-see-what-sticks mentality, I can honestly say this third Thor was quite fun, credit due to New Zealand director Taika Waititi (What We Do in the Shadows, Hunt for the Wilderpeople) and his euphoric energy. Aligning with the restrained boldness of the seriously underrated Doctor Strange, Ragnarok has inspired worldbuilding that Guardians, with its juvenile-aimed mischief and childish heroes that function better as cartoons than characters, dearly lacks.
It does no good to praise Disney's doings more than necessary, so all I can say is Thor: Ragnarok taps into the episodic qualities of the franchise for the best, even if it requires a routine villain like the goddess of death Hela, nevertheless played with wondrous hamminess by Cate Blanchett. The formula is going nowhere, but at least they're tweaking the flavor enough to keep us coming back for further helpings.
In a year where Disney/Marvel has branded their films with an unflagging lightheartedness, Thor: Ragnarok, unlike Guardians Vol. 2 and Spider-Man: Homecoming, actually benefits from its generous helping of comedy.
And with a low bar to clear with the first two forgettable Thor installments, Ragnarok goes grander for the better in establishing its own mini-Avenger collection in the Hulk/Thor duo, plus some Loki and a new face in Tessa Thompson's Valkyrie. The best part of the 17th entry in the Marvel Cinematic Universe is that it still has time for a deliriously lengthy second act employing weirder sci-fi elements, amusing secondary characters and an enamoring sense of discovery we so infrequently get to enjoy due to MCU’s own escalating exhaustion.
While these capeflicks dish out more and more tongue-in-cheek and endless quipping in a let's-see-what-sticks mentality, I can honestly say this third Thor was quite fun, credit due to New Zealand director Taika Waititi (What We Do in the Shadows, Hunt for the Wilderpeople) and his euphoric energy. Aligning with the restrained boldness of the seriously underrated Doctor Strange, Ragnarok has inspired worldbuilding that Guardians, with its juvenile-aimed mischief and childish heroes that function better as cartoons than characters, dearly lacks.
It does no good to praise Disney's doings more than necessary, so all I can say is Thor: Ragnarok taps into the episodic qualities of the franchise for the best, even if it requires a routine villain like the goddess of death Hela, nevertheless played with wondrous hamminess by Cate Blanchett. The formula is going nowhere, but at least they're tweaking the flavor enough to keep us coming back for further helpings.
Blade Runner 2049 briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
For fans of sci-fi, or really genre fare of any kind, Blade Runner 2049 should be the film equivalent of ecstasy even if you consider Ridley Scott’s original 1982 film a standard that will never be topped or, possibly and contrarily, a classic yet to earn your adornment. As someone who thinks Scott peaked with Alien, I believe Blade Runner has so much more going for it in genre-tuning and digital age speculation.
The staggering visual reunion of Denis Villeneuve’s solemnly sound directorial capacities and all time great, 13-time Oscar nominated cinematographer Roger Deakins coalesces into heavenly epic cinema for the senses. But by reworking the near future sci-fi noir elements of Philip K. Dick’s Do Android’s Dream of Electric Sheep? in relatively sharp contrast to the first film 35 years ago, 2049 manages to distinctly remove itself from the former film’s shadow by realizing its own compositions, thrills, revelations independent of Blade Runner 2019.
At a mammoth 164 minutes, the final outcome of this overdue sequel is an exhausting blow to the noggin. It's virtually pornography for the part of the mind that relishes the expertly cinematographic; 2049's shape is even more calculated and intoxicating than Ana de Armas's holographic companion Joi is for Ryan Gosling’s K, an advanced replicant Blade Runner programmed to willfully hunt and eliminate rogue, earlier models of his kind.
Harrison Ford's return as Deckard doesn’t make the film better exactly — his entrance over 100 minutes in isn't a moment too soon — but he makes more of this performance than he’s done in revisiting Star Wars or Indiana Jones decades after the fact. Gosling, in his prime, measures ahead of Ford anytime if you ask me. Maybe Ford, Jared Leto’s villain and Robin Wright’s LAPD captain don’t live up to de Armas’ simulated role or the sparring circuited souls of Gosling’s K and Sylvia Hoek’s Luv, but the cast is well-selected, supporting the film's lofty purposes.
Benjamin Wallfisch and Hans Zimmer's eardrum-rumbling score is fairly minimalist and ambient for the best, embellishing every expansive, breathtaking establishing shot and emotional spike with alien, futurist verve often courtesy of moaning, pulsing synths. The elegant, experimental electronics augment the cyber-noir atmosphere, which is steeped in the most lived-in dystopia you've seen since Children of Men. We are in fact watching not just a de-tech-tive story but also a seismic sci-fi spectacle.
A thorny plot, thematic heft, surefire performative work, superb sound design and godly cinematography all enhance an elemental, earthy story succeeding even apart from recurring spells of mind-shattering beauty. The synthesis of the sublime and the sobering is a remarkable balancing act and Blade Runner 2049 justifies every minute of its sprawling length in the even exchange of these two elements. Villeneuve's latest is contemplative and spacious, the kind of chancy blockbuster event where you’d be surprised if it didn’t flop, a farm-fresh nerd favor glossed up with the sprawling, vehement passion of a new cult favorite.
For fans of sci-fi, or really genre fare of any kind, Blade Runner 2049 should be the film equivalent of ecstasy even if you consider Ridley Scott’s original 1982 film a standard that will never be topped or, possibly and contrarily, a classic yet to earn your adornment. As someone who thinks Scott peaked with Alien, I believe Blade Runner has so much more going for it in genre-tuning and digital age speculation.
The staggering visual reunion of Denis Villeneuve’s solemnly sound directorial capacities and all time great, 13-time Oscar nominated cinematographer Roger Deakins coalesces into heavenly epic cinema for the senses. But by reworking the near future sci-fi noir elements of Philip K. Dick’s Do Android’s Dream of Electric Sheep? in relatively sharp contrast to the first film 35 years ago, 2049 manages to distinctly remove itself from the former film’s shadow by realizing its own compositions, thrills, revelations independent of Blade Runner 2019.
At a mammoth 164 minutes, the final outcome of this overdue sequel is an exhausting blow to the noggin. It's virtually pornography for the part of the mind that relishes the expertly cinematographic; 2049's shape is even more calculated and intoxicating than Ana de Armas's holographic companion Joi is for Ryan Gosling’s K, an advanced replicant Blade Runner programmed to willfully hunt and eliminate rogue, earlier models of his kind.
Harrison Ford's return as Deckard doesn’t make the film better exactly — his entrance over 100 minutes in isn't a moment too soon — but he makes more of this performance than he’s done in revisiting Star Wars or Indiana Jones decades after the fact. Gosling, in his prime, measures ahead of Ford anytime if you ask me. Maybe Ford, Jared Leto’s villain and Robin Wright’s LAPD captain don’t live up to de Armas’ simulated role or the sparring circuited souls of Gosling’s K and Sylvia Hoek’s Luv, but the cast is well-selected, supporting the film's lofty purposes.
Benjamin Wallfisch and Hans Zimmer's eardrum-rumbling score is fairly minimalist and ambient for the best, embellishing every expansive, breathtaking establishing shot and emotional spike with alien, futurist verve often courtesy of moaning, pulsing synths. The elegant, experimental electronics augment the cyber-noir atmosphere, which is steeped in the most lived-in dystopia you've seen since Children of Men. We are in fact watching not just a de-tech-tive story but also a seismic sci-fi spectacle.
A thorny plot, thematic heft, surefire performative work, superb sound design and godly cinematography all enhance an elemental, earthy story succeeding even apart from recurring spells of mind-shattering beauty. The synthesis of the sublime and the sobering is a remarkable balancing act and Blade Runner 2049 justifies every minute of its sprawling length in the even exchange of these two elements. Villeneuve's latest is contemplative and spacious, the kind of chancy blockbuster event where you’d be surprised if it didn’t flop, a farm-fresh nerd favor glossed up with the sprawling, vehement passion of a new cult favorite.
Kingsman: The Golden Circle briefing
3 (out of 4)
Delivering just about everything you could want from a sequel of its ilk, The Golden Circle manages not to trip itself up with excessive seriousness and universe expansion, or get too caught up trying to top the original Kingsman's adrenaline-injected action.
To my great surprise, most of the 141 minute runtime is devoted to developing the key characters of Eggsy, (Taron Egerton) Harry (Colin Firth) and Merlin (Mark Strong) all while keeping an even pace of gadgetry, action spectacle and more than expected self-indulgence. If you didn’t care for The Secret Service, I can only imagine how sincerely you will loathe this film. But for those who rode high on Matthew Vaughn’s cheeky Bond-lite remix — bloodied and foulmouthed for our desensitized, meta-minded zeitgeist — The Golden Circle is a nourishing follow-up.
What ultimately makes the new Kingsman great fun is Matthew Vaughn has intention behind his craft even when his focus is terribly silly — he relishes in absurdity, meticulous stunt work and coy winks to the audience. But Vaughn's style churns with purpose, weaving an ambitious plot of end of the world crises and topical politics through seamless match cuts and transitions. Even when Elton John's grating extended cameo — the movie's obvious weak spot — repeatedly threatens to derail Kingsman's momentum, the brazen auteur smooths out many of the film's cracks and leaves you with a sense that the ridiculousness has been thoroughly mapped out.
That said, I wish the script had a little more time for Champ (Jeff Bridges) and Tequila (Channing Tatum) of Statesman, as well as a few other fine expansions to the cast. But centering on our established heroes is a safe and well-played bet — crossing the border to Kentucky is more a footnote than a detour. Instead we get more of Julianne Moore's Poppy Adams, a marked improvement from the cartoonish lisp of Samuel L. Jackson's villain, and a larger role for Hanna Alström as Swedish Princess turned Eggsy's girlfriend.
Contrary to the repulsed reactions I was aware of before seeing it, this Kingsman really isn't too over the top or ambitiously lengthy — had it gone for a few more gross outs beyond human burgers or gone numb with set pieces before the climax kicked in, I would understand the hate. But as it stands, Kingsman: The Golden Circle is fervently entertaining, richly populated and makes the idea of a third entry seem reasonable, if not entirely necessary.
Delivering just about everything you could want from a sequel of its ilk, The Golden Circle manages not to trip itself up with excessive seriousness and universe expansion, or get too caught up trying to top the original Kingsman's adrenaline-injected action.
To my great surprise, most of the 141 minute runtime is devoted to developing the key characters of Eggsy, (Taron Egerton) Harry (Colin Firth) and Merlin (Mark Strong) all while keeping an even pace of gadgetry, action spectacle and more than expected self-indulgence. If you didn’t care for The Secret Service, I can only imagine how sincerely you will loathe this film. But for those who rode high on Matthew Vaughn’s cheeky Bond-lite remix — bloodied and foulmouthed for our desensitized, meta-minded zeitgeist — The Golden Circle is a nourishing follow-up.
What ultimately makes the new Kingsman great fun is Matthew Vaughn has intention behind his craft even when his focus is terribly silly — he relishes in absurdity, meticulous stunt work and coy winks to the audience. But Vaughn's style churns with purpose, weaving an ambitious plot of end of the world crises and topical politics through seamless match cuts and transitions. Even when Elton John's grating extended cameo — the movie's obvious weak spot — repeatedly threatens to derail Kingsman's momentum, the brazen auteur smooths out many of the film's cracks and leaves you with a sense that the ridiculousness has been thoroughly mapped out.
That said, I wish the script had a little more time for Champ (Jeff Bridges) and Tequila (Channing Tatum) of Statesman, as well as a few other fine expansions to the cast. But centering on our established heroes is a safe and well-played bet — crossing the border to Kentucky is more a footnote than a detour. Instead we get more of Julianne Moore's Poppy Adams, a marked improvement from the cartoonish lisp of Samuel L. Jackson's villain, and a larger role for Hanna Alström as Swedish Princess turned Eggsy's girlfriend.
Contrary to the repulsed reactions I was aware of before seeing it, this Kingsman really isn't too over the top or ambitiously lengthy — had it gone for a few more gross outs beyond human burgers or gone numb with set pieces before the climax kicked in, I would understand the hate. But as it stands, Kingsman: The Golden Circle is fervently entertaining, richly populated and makes the idea of a third entry seem reasonable, if not entirely necessary.
mother! briefing
2 ½ (out of 4)
Boasting a well crafted, sickly tuned ambiance functioning far better than the cumbersome narrative, mother! succeeds as raw nightmarish energy but less so as a potent film.
Its shocks are minimal since the film is more divisive in its allegorical touches, symbolism and pointed abstraction that all go skin deep as far as thematic measure is concerned. mother! only truly works as a visceral calling card to Jennifer Lawrence’s emotive skills, though she’s not perfect here or in general. The young Oscar-winner locates the borders of her abilities as a thespian and expands on them in this brutally draining role as, for all intents and purposes, Mother Nature herself. The camera constantly sweeps past J Law, gliding around her every move through toils and snares. It's all so far out of left field that it could almost be read as a pitch black comedy — mother! would earn points outside of boldness and stylistic atmosphere if only there was something tangible to care about.
Your brain will want to evaluate mother! at face value for the first hour — which plays fairly straight — but this soon becomes impossible as logic eventually falls to the wayside. The excessive finale makes way for Darren Aronofsky's adeptness at the essence of the horrendous, defining films like Requiem for a Dream and Black Swan, but his inconsistency in cryptic and obvious biblical references are too removed from actual meaning. For all its experimentation and bracing challenges to our conditioned expectations, mother! could never touch the powerful austerity of The Wrestler, the director's best to date.
Boasting a well crafted, sickly tuned ambiance functioning far better than the cumbersome narrative, mother! succeeds as raw nightmarish energy but less so as a potent film.
Its shocks are minimal since the film is more divisive in its allegorical touches, symbolism and pointed abstraction that all go skin deep as far as thematic measure is concerned. mother! only truly works as a visceral calling card to Jennifer Lawrence’s emotive skills, though she’s not perfect here or in general. The young Oscar-winner locates the borders of her abilities as a thespian and expands on them in this brutally draining role as, for all intents and purposes, Mother Nature herself. The camera constantly sweeps past J Law, gliding around her every move through toils and snares. It's all so far out of left field that it could almost be read as a pitch black comedy — mother! would earn points outside of boldness and stylistic atmosphere if only there was something tangible to care about.
Your brain will want to evaluate mother! at face value for the first hour — which plays fairly straight — but this soon becomes impossible as logic eventually falls to the wayside. The excessive finale makes way for Darren Aronofsky's adeptness at the essence of the horrendous, defining films like Requiem for a Dream and Black Swan, but his inconsistency in cryptic and obvious biblical references are too removed from actual meaning. For all its experimentation and bracing challenges to our conditioned expectations, mother! could never touch the powerful austerity of The Wrestler, the director's best to date.
Logan Lucky briefing
3 (out of 4)
Benefitting from an ensemble out of their element and digging into rich comedic roles, Logan Lucky succeeds despite being familiar territory for the still very relevant Steven Soderbergh. The killer soundtrack, masterful editing and original gags beyond several worthwhile pop culture references make for a more than substantial diversion for the prolific filmmaker, if not up there with the slick and discreet auteur’s finest efforts.
Hilarious turns by Adam Driver and Daniel Craig are most memorable of the film’s assets — each is mischievously witty, giving us broad screwball performances. This is refreshing new ground for each actor, particularly Craig since even his silliest choices (Cowboys & Aliens, Lara Croft) saw him play it straight, while Driver's recent roles have been dramatic turns in Silence and Paterson. They gleefully let loose — Craig as the quirky, macho jailbird Joe Bang and Driver as the dull-witted, plastic-handed veteran and bartender Clyde Logan.
With Channing Tatum confidently spearheading another Soderbergh enterprise — albeit with his shirt on more often than not — and a supporting cast handing in fine work — including but not limited to Hillary Swank, Katherine Waterston and Riley Keough – Logan Lucky is, if nothing else, populated with great characters. But a plethora of performances and a clever, ridiculously plotted heist doesn’t ever distract from the emotional core between Tatum’s John Denver-loving Jimmy Logan and his daughter Sadie (Farrah Mackenzie), which wrings its sentimental efforts dry in one extremely effective, touching scene.
If it didn’t feel like a revisionist, low-stakes version of his previous and most profitable Ocean's shtick, Logan Lucky would feel like a scrappy breakthrough rather than just another late career gem — Side Effects, Magic Mike and Haywire are all superior in my book. But in such a weak summer, Soderbergh’s laid-back crime comedy delight is a revitalizing tonic.
Benefitting from an ensemble out of their element and digging into rich comedic roles, Logan Lucky succeeds despite being familiar territory for the still very relevant Steven Soderbergh. The killer soundtrack, masterful editing and original gags beyond several worthwhile pop culture references make for a more than substantial diversion for the prolific filmmaker, if not up there with the slick and discreet auteur’s finest efforts.
Hilarious turns by Adam Driver and Daniel Craig are most memorable of the film’s assets — each is mischievously witty, giving us broad screwball performances. This is refreshing new ground for each actor, particularly Craig since even his silliest choices (Cowboys & Aliens, Lara Croft) saw him play it straight, while Driver's recent roles have been dramatic turns in Silence and Paterson. They gleefully let loose — Craig as the quirky, macho jailbird Joe Bang and Driver as the dull-witted, plastic-handed veteran and bartender Clyde Logan.
With Channing Tatum confidently spearheading another Soderbergh enterprise — albeit with his shirt on more often than not — and a supporting cast handing in fine work — including but not limited to Hillary Swank, Katherine Waterston and Riley Keough – Logan Lucky is, if nothing else, populated with great characters. But a plethora of performances and a clever, ridiculously plotted heist doesn’t ever distract from the emotional core between Tatum’s John Denver-loving Jimmy Logan and his daughter Sadie (Farrah Mackenzie), which wrings its sentimental efforts dry in one extremely effective, touching scene.
If it didn’t feel like a revisionist, low-stakes version of his previous and most profitable Ocean's shtick, Logan Lucky would feel like a scrappy breakthrough rather than just another late career gem — Side Effects, Magic Mike and Haywire are all superior in my book. But in such a weak summer, Soderbergh’s laid-back crime comedy delight is a revitalizing tonic.
Wind River briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
Up to the high standards already set by Taylor Sheridan’s modern Western scripts Sicario and Hell or High Water, Wind River continues his reshaping and updating of a forsaken genre while proving he is as capable in the captain’s chair as he is on the page.
Jeremy Renner and Elizabeth Olsen at first feel a tad miscast as cowboy hunter and FBI agent respectively, only before each forces you to eat your preconceptions by the end. Bolstered with such a blunt, emotional screenplay, the true crime mystery of Wind River is unexpectedly transparent and never embellishes its already gripping details. It simply succeeds in well-crafted tension and smart editing.
Just like his previous films, Sheridan’s ultimate goals are slyly political — Sicario’s account of the unbelievable mess of drug trafficking on the southern border and Hell’s few questions on financial inequality are buried under watchable characters and blistering thrills. With Wind River, the message (the high number of indigenous Native American women who are raped and murdered) has never been so bare and yet so essential to the story Sheridan tells. And the expected white-knuckle, guns-drawn action feels excruciatingly close as Sheridan once again delivers a film near enough to Hollywood standards in pacing and moral objectivity.
Wind River is bleak no doubt but its outcome has a profound sense of righteousness along with such somber subject matter. Sheridan’s script is also a delicate balancing act — on a certain level the premise seems like something for a television procedural, and many lines of dialogue have the potential to be bear immersion-breaking banality. But Sheridan somehow handles the emotional beats of every scene with grace and finesse while not shying away from dark dramatics in the least.
Wind River is robust, unassuming, rather entertaining and more than a little devastating — every moment is infused with clarity and Sheridan makes the entire configuration seem so easy.
Up to the high standards already set by Taylor Sheridan’s modern Western scripts Sicario and Hell or High Water, Wind River continues his reshaping and updating of a forsaken genre while proving he is as capable in the captain’s chair as he is on the page.
Jeremy Renner and Elizabeth Olsen at first feel a tad miscast as cowboy hunter and FBI agent respectively, only before each forces you to eat your preconceptions by the end. Bolstered with such a blunt, emotional screenplay, the true crime mystery of Wind River is unexpectedly transparent and never embellishes its already gripping details. It simply succeeds in well-crafted tension and smart editing.
Just like his previous films, Sheridan’s ultimate goals are slyly political — Sicario’s account of the unbelievable mess of drug trafficking on the southern border and Hell’s few questions on financial inequality are buried under watchable characters and blistering thrills. With Wind River, the message (the high number of indigenous Native American women who are raped and murdered) has never been so bare and yet so essential to the story Sheridan tells. And the expected white-knuckle, guns-drawn action feels excruciatingly close as Sheridan once again delivers a film near enough to Hollywood standards in pacing and moral objectivity.
Wind River is bleak no doubt but its outcome has a profound sense of righteousness along with such somber subject matter. Sheridan’s script is also a delicate balancing act — on a certain level the premise seems like something for a television procedural, and many lines of dialogue have the potential to be bear immersion-breaking banality. But Sheridan somehow handles the emotional beats of every scene with grace and finesse while not shying away from dark dramatics in the least.
Wind River is robust, unassuming, rather entertaining and more than a little devastating — every moment is infused with clarity and Sheridan makes the entire configuration seem so easy.
Atomic Blonde briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
Anyone complaining about the dumb plot of Atomic Blonde has clearly misplaced their nitpicking — the motivations in John Wick hinged on getting revenge for doggie death, so you should be grateful David Leitch, the proficient stuntman, stunt coordinator and now fresh action auteur, even took the time to commit to Cold War fiction this time around. Compared to either Wick though, this film falls closer to realism while still incorporating pleasing passages of tongue-in-cheek.
Seriously though, when has plot or story ever really determined the success of a genre where combat in arms and fisticuffs are the targets most usually aimed for? Maybe I sound too defensive but the thrills and atmosphere Leitch conjures here are some of the most gratifying I've seen of late outside of Skyfall or Mad Max: Fury Road, all for a fraction of the cost and fuss.
Much has been said about what we can now call The Stairwell Scene — around five minutes plus of nonstop action caught in a seamless long take that would make Emmanuel Lubezki’s jaw fall agape scanning for edits. In the sequence Theron doesn’t simply take out hoards of bad guys — we get to see her resilience, fatigue and injuries. It's the film’s centerpiece and a fine one at that, almost unnecessary given how the film maintains a steady state of palpable badassery.
Sure, you can see the double-crossing twists a mile away but Atomic Blonde nestles comfortably into a spy formula of mild convolution as any thriller of the like should. Leitch doesn’t reinvent the wheel in adapting The Coldest City but he showcases his knack for impeccably lit, visually rapturous compositions, scenes and set pieces, all pleasingly framed in an 80s Berlin setting. He takes a lowbrow corner of cinema as high as conventions will allow.
Anyone complaining about the dumb plot of Atomic Blonde has clearly misplaced their nitpicking — the motivations in John Wick hinged on getting revenge for doggie death, so you should be grateful David Leitch, the proficient stuntman, stunt coordinator and now fresh action auteur, even took the time to commit to Cold War fiction this time around. Compared to either Wick though, this film falls closer to realism while still incorporating pleasing passages of tongue-in-cheek.
Seriously though, when has plot or story ever really determined the success of a genre where combat in arms and fisticuffs are the targets most usually aimed for? Maybe I sound too defensive but the thrills and atmosphere Leitch conjures here are some of the most gratifying I've seen of late outside of Skyfall or Mad Max: Fury Road, all for a fraction of the cost and fuss.
Much has been said about what we can now call The Stairwell Scene — around five minutes plus of nonstop action caught in a seamless long take that would make Emmanuel Lubezki’s jaw fall agape scanning for edits. In the sequence Theron doesn’t simply take out hoards of bad guys — we get to see her resilience, fatigue and injuries. It's the film’s centerpiece and a fine one at that, almost unnecessary given how the film maintains a steady state of palpable badassery.
Sure, you can see the double-crossing twists a mile away but Atomic Blonde nestles comfortably into a spy formula of mild convolution as any thriller of the like should. Leitch doesn’t reinvent the wheel in adapting The Coldest City but he showcases his knack for impeccably lit, visually rapturous compositions, scenes and set pieces, all pleasingly framed in an 80s Berlin setting. He takes a lowbrow corner of cinema as high as conventions will allow.
A Ghost Story briefing
1 ½ (out of 4)
As much as I like to put the distribution company A24 upon a pedestal for having an eye for superb independent film projects, they are still fallible to ill notions and ultimately guided by what they can market to the hipster film crowd. A Ghost Story is more or less the antithesis of what they’ve sought to give to their audience. The film is self-satisfied, faux-artistic and as hollow as a specter under a sheet with the eyeholes cut out. The film retains maybe enough substance to make an interesting music video.
The home movie frame format seems to lend an intimate perspective at first but the dreary slew of static shots and unnecessarily ponderous long takes makes this “story” feels like a premise at best, stretched rather thin. Rooney Mara and Casey Affleck’s on-screen couple are separated via the latter's off-screen death nearly right off the bat — his ghost revisits his house and watches time progressively unfold before him.
But as he first watches Mara’s character cope, we have little to no reason to care about her grief even as she scarfs down an entire pie in a seemingly endless shot. The neighbor's place contains a ghost and the two communicate — superfluous subtitles are added for “Hello” and “Hi” — but later as our titular spirit watches and later terrorizes the Spanish family that subsequently inherits his old house, we’re left in the dark for their many conversations.
A Ghost Story feels sparing for the sake of minimalist clarity and introspection, but then director David Lowery spells outs the themes with the next residents — a pseudo-intellectual 30-year-old spins grand philosophy on time as the destroyer of legacy as his peers patiently absorbs his 'deep' monologue at an otherwise loud party. Lowery makes us sit through nothingness and then slaps us with a summary of what he spends so long trying to conjure without words.
Furthermore the lazy, unrealized supernatural and fantasy elements hardly mesh with the inklings of dramatic weight Lowery struggles to convey. A Ghost Story is an inconspicuously overblown waste of time.
As much as I like to put the distribution company A24 upon a pedestal for having an eye for superb independent film projects, they are still fallible to ill notions and ultimately guided by what they can market to the hipster film crowd. A Ghost Story is more or less the antithesis of what they’ve sought to give to their audience. The film is self-satisfied, faux-artistic and as hollow as a specter under a sheet with the eyeholes cut out. The film retains maybe enough substance to make an interesting music video.
The home movie frame format seems to lend an intimate perspective at first but the dreary slew of static shots and unnecessarily ponderous long takes makes this “story” feels like a premise at best, stretched rather thin. Rooney Mara and Casey Affleck’s on-screen couple are separated via the latter's off-screen death nearly right off the bat — his ghost revisits his house and watches time progressively unfold before him.
But as he first watches Mara’s character cope, we have little to no reason to care about her grief even as she scarfs down an entire pie in a seemingly endless shot. The neighbor's place contains a ghost and the two communicate — superfluous subtitles are added for “Hello” and “Hi” — but later as our titular spirit watches and later terrorizes the Spanish family that subsequently inherits his old house, we’re left in the dark for their many conversations.
A Ghost Story feels sparing for the sake of minimalist clarity and introspection, but then director David Lowery spells outs the themes with the next residents — a pseudo-intellectual 30-year-old spins grand philosophy on time as the destroyer of legacy as his peers patiently absorbs his 'deep' monologue at an otherwise loud party. Lowery makes us sit through nothingness and then slaps us with a summary of what he spends so long trying to conjure without words.
Furthermore the lazy, unrealized supernatural and fantasy elements hardly mesh with the inklings of dramatic weight Lowery struggles to convey. A Ghost Story is an inconspicuously overblown waste of time.
Valerian and the City
of a Thousand Planets briefing
2 ½ (out of 4)
Profoundly, often uncomfortably, original, Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets is unfortunately so woefully written that its bold ingenuity and technical mounting are almost always undermined by pathetic characterization and reliably cringe-inducing dialogue.
Working as something of an update in the genre wackiness Luc Besson put forth in The Fifth Element, Valerian at least possesses the engrossing visuals and playful source material to work as the cheesiest of space epics. Not to mention the film at least has plenty of potential to be memed into cult status.
But ambitious set pieces and expensive VFX don’t make up for the fact that our chief characters Valerian (Dane DeHaan) and Laureline (Cara Delevingne) have about as much depth as an aboveground pool. Their romance is so basic, hackneyed and removed of any subtlety that you can actually anticipate what they will say before they do. That granted foreknowledge however doesn’t stop you from wincing or laughing — sometimes simultaneously — when each of them opens their mouths.
Dehaan and Delevigne might be miscast, but with a script set on psychedelic sci-fi and quirky misadventures, the characters come second no matter how bad their lines. But cameos by Ethan Hawke as Jolly the Pimp and Rihanna’s small part as Bubble the shapeshifting dancer, and sequences as unique as the virtual marketplace help Valerian’s extended runtime fly by, surviving on delectable images and worldbuilding details rather than its more than predictable plot.
Profoundly, often uncomfortably, original, Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets is unfortunately so woefully written that its bold ingenuity and technical mounting are almost always undermined by pathetic characterization and reliably cringe-inducing dialogue.
Working as something of an update in the genre wackiness Luc Besson put forth in The Fifth Element, Valerian at least possesses the engrossing visuals and playful source material to work as the cheesiest of space epics. Not to mention the film at least has plenty of potential to be memed into cult status.
But ambitious set pieces and expensive VFX don’t make up for the fact that our chief characters Valerian (Dane DeHaan) and Laureline (Cara Delevingne) have about as much depth as an aboveground pool. Their romance is so basic, hackneyed and removed of any subtlety that you can actually anticipate what they will say before they do. That granted foreknowledge however doesn’t stop you from wincing or laughing — sometimes simultaneously — when each of them opens their mouths.
Dehaan and Delevigne might be miscast, but with a script set on psychedelic sci-fi and quirky misadventures, the characters come second no matter how bad their lines. But cameos by Ethan Hawke as Jolly the Pimp and Rihanna’s small part as Bubble the shapeshifting dancer, and sequences as unique as the virtual marketplace help Valerian’s extended runtime fly by, surviving on delectable images and worldbuilding details rather than its more than predictable plot.
Dunkirk briefing
3 (out of 4)
For every retained insistence in Christopher Nolan's craft — a recent love of editing simultaneous events, time as a narrative and thematic device, Hollywood spectacle — Dunkirk is peerless from the perspective of historical recreation and, even in its experimental accidents, nevertheless a remarkable World War II film.
Nolan seems to be playing it safe with a trim, economical runtime and a simple, sort of sprawling dramatization of an indispensable chapter in the history of British warfare. The director's judiciously matured even though his latest bears the familiarly bitter taste of both too much and not enough. It's like his longtime editor Lee Smith — who couldn't have done his job better with The Prestige, The Dark Knight or Inception — needed to comb through the disorienting film one last time even though it was already an hour less than either of its protracted predecessors. Nolan's only just come off two of his most bloated, ambitious and fatally flawed films of his career — the compounding creative rut of the meme-tastic The Dark Knight Rises and the intellectual shortcomings of Interstellar.
There are far fewer logical fallacies within Dunkirk’s theatrical story than Nolan’s most recent outings, but the smarter-than-thou practitioner has to make things complicated like usual. The film balances the large, spread out cast of barely drawn characters with a narrative of simple human struggle dubiously dividing threefold between land, air and sea. He fits in his key actors (Cillian Murphy, Tom Hardy) into understated roles along with other considerable talents like Mark Rylance, James D'Arcy, newcoming, soft-spoken lead Fionn Whitehead and even Harry Styles. In fact the entire film has enough practicality to play like silent cinema — well, if you cut out every expository cutaway to Kenneth Branagh. Nolan’s infatuation with everything temporal leads him to what appears to be a breaking point, but Dunkirk steadily earns its place in the war film lexicon while stretching Nolan's repertoire and refurbishing modernity’s capacity for historical epics. It’s an anti-war movie tuned closer to a survival thriller than identifiable English propaganda. Until the manifold climax, it’s hard to find Dunkirk’s emotional edge, but it's designed to hit true by its final moments when the wide lens of swelling individual heroics pulls out to see how it adds up. Some specific shots and payoffs come across phenomenally.
However, even with less ham-fisted dialogue, the artistry in the film’s tremendous production value is mildly undercut by Nolan’s usual attraction to the enormous blockbuster goods that justify his precious lenses and chunky cameras. Hoyte van Hoytema's stark, somber photography lends well to Nolan's visualization while Hans Zimmer's expectedly propulsive scoring contributions — composed primarily of ticking rhythms — do their best to emphasize the pressing moments of suspense and the nerve-testing waiting spells. It has been reported that Nolan desired to shoot Dunkirk without a script and I almost wish he had. I would praise the movie as a masterpiece like many have if the film truly was a narratively avant-garde war picture or, more traditionally, an overwhelming extravaganza with an expansive, fleshed-out cast of figures and several degrees more pathos. Almost self-defeating yet grandly, almost futuristically composed, Dunkirk is a challenge to experience and enjoy but worth admiring no matter where you land on it emotionally.
For every retained insistence in Christopher Nolan's craft — a recent love of editing simultaneous events, time as a narrative and thematic device, Hollywood spectacle — Dunkirk is peerless from the perspective of historical recreation and, even in its experimental accidents, nevertheless a remarkable World War II film.
Nolan seems to be playing it safe with a trim, economical runtime and a simple, sort of sprawling dramatization of an indispensable chapter in the history of British warfare. The director's judiciously matured even though his latest bears the familiarly bitter taste of both too much and not enough. It's like his longtime editor Lee Smith — who couldn't have done his job better with The Prestige, The Dark Knight or Inception — needed to comb through the disorienting film one last time even though it was already an hour less than either of its protracted predecessors. Nolan's only just come off two of his most bloated, ambitious and fatally flawed films of his career — the compounding creative rut of the meme-tastic The Dark Knight Rises and the intellectual shortcomings of Interstellar.
There are far fewer logical fallacies within Dunkirk’s theatrical story than Nolan’s most recent outings, but the smarter-than-thou practitioner has to make things complicated like usual. The film balances the large, spread out cast of barely drawn characters with a narrative of simple human struggle dubiously dividing threefold between land, air and sea. He fits in his key actors (Cillian Murphy, Tom Hardy) into understated roles along with other considerable talents like Mark Rylance, James D'Arcy, newcoming, soft-spoken lead Fionn Whitehead and even Harry Styles. In fact the entire film has enough practicality to play like silent cinema — well, if you cut out every expository cutaway to Kenneth Branagh. Nolan’s infatuation with everything temporal leads him to what appears to be a breaking point, but Dunkirk steadily earns its place in the war film lexicon while stretching Nolan's repertoire and refurbishing modernity’s capacity for historical epics. It’s an anti-war movie tuned closer to a survival thriller than identifiable English propaganda. Until the manifold climax, it’s hard to find Dunkirk’s emotional edge, but it's designed to hit true by its final moments when the wide lens of swelling individual heroics pulls out to see how it adds up. Some specific shots and payoffs come across phenomenally.
However, even with less ham-fisted dialogue, the artistry in the film’s tremendous production value is mildly undercut by Nolan’s usual attraction to the enormous blockbuster goods that justify his precious lenses and chunky cameras. Hoyte van Hoytema's stark, somber photography lends well to Nolan's visualization while Hans Zimmer's expectedly propulsive scoring contributions — composed primarily of ticking rhythms — do their best to emphasize the pressing moments of suspense and the nerve-testing waiting spells. It has been reported that Nolan desired to shoot Dunkirk without a script and I almost wish he had. I would praise the movie as a masterpiece like many have if the film truly was a narratively avant-garde war picture or, more traditionally, an overwhelming extravaganza with an expansive, fleshed-out cast of figures and several degrees more pathos. Almost self-defeating yet grandly, almost futuristically composed, Dunkirk is a challenge to experience and enjoy but worth admiring no matter where you land on it emotionally.
The Big Sick briefing
3 (out of 4)
Strengthened by its witty, naturalistic dialogue and one hell of a watchable cast, The Big Sick is far funnier and decidedly more heartfelt than its romantic dramedy trappings would suppose. I'm only irked that the story contains no trace of noir elements as its title suggests.
Inspired by the real-life romance of Kumail Nanjiani and Emily V. Gordon, with the former playing himself and the latter inhabited by Zoe Kazan, the film appears to heavily fictionalize the soap-opera-tier facets of their relationship and Emily’s subsequent illness. While Nanjiani’s portrayal of himself is almost too flattering and self-congratulatory, he bears unforced charm and precise comic timing.
His efforts are graced with a great supporting cast, prominently the on-screen couple of Ray Romano and Holly Hunter playing Emily’s worried-sick parents — both, Romano in particular, are excruciatingly accurate as long-married boomers. Also present are the durable talents of Bo Burnham and SNL’s Aidy Bryant as Nanjiani's comedian friends.
The film’s only weak link in acting is Kazan, whose recurrent roles as the female lead in indie romantic comedies — Ruby Sparks, What If — makes her presence and somewhat underwritten role the result of a growing spot of typecasting. The Big Sick actually comes alive once she’s taken out of the story for about an hour due to the medically induced coma, the film’s central drama.
The trite ending doesn’t help either, but the saccharine sentimentality of the final moments doesn’t undo the tactful writing, nuanced performances and exceptional examination of culture clash beforehand.
Strengthened by its witty, naturalistic dialogue and one hell of a watchable cast, The Big Sick is far funnier and decidedly more heartfelt than its romantic dramedy trappings would suppose. I'm only irked that the story contains no trace of noir elements as its title suggests.
Inspired by the real-life romance of Kumail Nanjiani and Emily V. Gordon, with the former playing himself and the latter inhabited by Zoe Kazan, the film appears to heavily fictionalize the soap-opera-tier facets of their relationship and Emily’s subsequent illness. While Nanjiani’s portrayal of himself is almost too flattering and self-congratulatory, he bears unforced charm and precise comic timing.
His efforts are graced with a great supporting cast, prominently the on-screen couple of Ray Romano and Holly Hunter playing Emily’s worried-sick parents — both, Romano in particular, are excruciatingly accurate as long-married boomers. Also present are the durable talents of Bo Burnham and SNL’s Aidy Bryant as Nanjiani's comedian friends.
The film’s only weak link in acting is Kazan, whose recurrent roles as the female lead in indie romantic comedies — Ruby Sparks, What If — makes her presence and somewhat underwritten role the result of a growing spot of typecasting. The Big Sick actually comes alive once she’s taken out of the story for about an hour due to the medically induced coma, the film’s central drama.
The trite ending doesn’t help either, but the saccharine sentimentality of the final moments doesn’t undo the tactful writing, nuanced performances and exceptional examination of culture clash beforehand.
Spider-Man: Homecoming briefing
2 ½ (out of 4)
Disney should have no problem in sustaining Marvel’s reign above all other superhero flicks, especially with the famed web-slinger now in the midst of their established Avengers. But like the Guardians sequel back in May, this attempt to tell an interesting story aside from the expansive arc of the MCU ends up less in the territory of one-off originality and more like executive-boardroom-approved ‘fun.’
First what this version gets right. It stands just above those less than Amazing reboot entries but that doesn’t suffice as praise per se. Tom Holland is believable and plucky enough to inhabit the iconic tights. Michael Keaton — loathsome as his acting usually is — is the film’s strongest player since his Vulture has reasonable outlooks and goals. And Donald Glover’s brief cameo feels like a small justice for those yearning to see him play Spider-Man.
But when I have trouble deciding whether Homecoming is better than Spider-Man 3 that means something is horribly eschew in its conception. The most grievous of these errors is Disney’s untamable insistence on brand reinforcement. “Why, we can’t let moviegoers go for more than three minutes without referencing the rest of the Marvel Cinematic Universe!" I enjoy RDJ’s Iron Man in his element — he’s the central reason why this series is successful and watchable in the first place — but why should Tony Stark’s approval be Peter Parker’s primary motivation? And don’t get me started on those downright insulting Captain America PSA’s, the last of which is the worst post-credits stinger of all 16 films thus far, the equivalent of Disney taunting us: "Of course they sat through the credits, let's mock 'em for it!"
The new-age gimmickry of Stark’s advanced Spidey suit, the uninspired humor and overall missed opportunities for a strong, solitary Spider-Man film all retract from the surface level positives Homecoming has going for it. This film wants to be liked so badly but as just a small piece of a multi-billion-dollar mechanization, the affable earnestness feels strained and phony.
Disney should have no problem in sustaining Marvel’s reign above all other superhero flicks, especially with the famed web-slinger now in the midst of their established Avengers. But like the Guardians sequel back in May, this attempt to tell an interesting story aside from the expansive arc of the MCU ends up less in the territory of one-off originality and more like executive-boardroom-approved ‘fun.’
First what this version gets right. It stands just above those less than Amazing reboot entries but that doesn’t suffice as praise per se. Tom Holland is believable and plucky enough to inhabit the iconic tights. Michael Keaton — loathsome as his acting usually is — is the film’s strongest player since his Vulture has reasonable outlooks and goals. And Donald Glover’s brief cameo feels like a small justice for those yearning to see him play Spider-Man.
But when I have trouble deciding whether Homecoming is better than Spider-Man 3 that means something is horribly eschew in its conception. The most grievous of these errors is Disney’s untamable insistence on brand reinforcement. “Why, we can’t let moviegoers go for more than three minutes without referencing the rest of the Marvel Cinematic Universe!" I enjoy RDJ’s Iron Man in his element — he’s the central reason why this series is successful and watchable in the first place — but why should Tony Stark’s approval be Peter Parker’s primary motivation? And don’t get me started on those downright insulting Captain America PSA’s, the last of which is the worst post-credits stinger of all 16 films thus far, the equivalent of Disney taunting us: "Of course they sat through the credits, let's mock 'em for it!"
The new-age gimmickry of Stark’s advanced Spidey suit, the uninspired humor and overall missed opportunities for a strong, solitary Spider-Man film all retract from the surface level positives Homecoming has going for it. This film wants to be liked so badly but as just a small piece of a multi-billion-dollar mechanization, the affable earnestness feels strained and phony.
The Beguiled briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
After so much time spent on dreamy, meditative ambiances and disillusioned social commentary, Sofia Coppola returns to directing with a startlingly straightforward adaptation of the 1966 novel The Beguiled, of which there was an original adaptation a few years after its publication.
Working as the subtlest of thrillers as well as a fervent and deliberate romantic drama, The Beguiled stands as Coppola’s most assuredly absorbing and resonant film since Lost in Translation. Beyond this restrained tale covering the obvious themes of gender dynamics and prurience, the film’s thorny morality was gnawing at my brain both during and after the screening. Thomas P. Cullinan’s original story blurs the line of protagonist and antagonist, and Coppola makes the most of this ambiguity.
With only eight players and essentially one location, The Beguiled makes for both a claustrophobic and ravishing experience. With a reputation for plot-light, introspective and leisurely paced narratives, it’s amazing how eventful this discreet picture feels in contrast to the rest of lady Coppola’s work.
All the performances, even for the least regarded of characters, are polished and commendable. Colin Farrell’s lone male Yankee presence as the injured deserter Corporal John McBurney creates necessary tension as he is cared for by a small boarding house of Southern lasses from the very young Amy (Oona Laurence) — who discovers McBurney at first — to Nicole Kidman’s stern and conscionable Martha Farnsworth. Kirsten Dunst and Elle Fanning, however, are the highlights of Coppola’s slowly unnerving tale — each of their characters become romantically ensnared by the delicate, dangerous situation.
As historical fiction swathed in libido, intrigue and deception, Coppola is wise to play the tale straight while letting her auteurist notions guide the dense atmosphere closer to her temperate aspirations.
After so much time spent on dreamy, meditative ambiances and disillusioned social commentary, Sofia Coppola returns to directing with a startlingly straightforward adaptation of the 1966 novel The Beguiled, of which there was an original adaptation a few years after its publication.
Working as the subtlest of thrillers as well as a fervent and deliberate romantic drama, The Beguiled stands as Coppola’s most assuredly absorbing and resonant film since Lost in Translation. Beyond this restrained tale covering the obvious themes of gender dynamics and prurience, the film’s thorny morality was gnawing at my brain both during and after the screening. Thomas P. Cullinan’s original story blurs the line of protagonist and antagonist, and Coppola makes the most of this ambiguity.
With only eight players and essentially one location, The Beguiled makes for both a claustrophobic and ravishing experience. With a reputation for plot-light, introspective and leisurely paced narratives, it’s amazing how eventful this discreet picture feels in contrast to the rest of lady Coppola’s work.
All the performances, even for the least regarded of characters, are polished and commendable. Colin Farrell’s lone male Yankee presence as the injured deserter Corporal John McBurney creates necessary tension as he is cared for by a small boarding house of Southern lasses from the very young Amy (Oona Laurence) — who discovers McBurney at first — to Nicole Kidman’s stern and conscionable Martha Farnsworth. Kirsten Dunst and Elle Fanning, however, are the highlights of Coppola’s slowly unnerving tale — each of their characters become romantically ensnared by the delicate, dangerous situation.
As historical fiction swathed in libido, intrigue and deception, Coppola is wise to play the tale straight while letting her auteurist notions guide the dense atmosphere closer to her temperate aspirations.
Baby Driver briefing
3 (out of 4)
Edgar Wright has proven himself a master of parody and blink-and-you’ll-miss-it comic timing, but with Baby Driver he veers in slightly more subdued directions while never missing out on the fun of film or filmmaking.
Baby Driver’s tightly wrapped story focuses on all the collective elements of a classic male fantasy — fast cars, a killer soundtrack, danger, paranoia, and the simmering courtship of a lovely dame to boot. But Wright never lets boyhood daydreams get in the way of neat dialogue and a memorable smorgasbord of characters. Choosing not to entirely embrace the action, comedy or the romantic elements serves Baby Driver well — we’re left with a freewheeling yarn rather than anything close to slapstick or The Fast and the Furious.
Ansel Elgort has the innocence and stone-faced believability to sell his titular character as the sillier, self-effacing version of Ryan Gosling’s role in Nicolas Winding Refn’s Drive. The supporting cast around him is superb with Jon Hamm, Kevin Spacey and especially Jamie Foxx dealing out suitably savory performances.
And of course the guiding playlist — which makes Guardians of the Galaxy’s mixtapes look like a Sirius XM channel — is very lively. It heightens Wright’s already masterful pacing and furthermore precisely calculates a most comfortable degree of coolness. Wright frames his music taste and puts it on display here, seeming to relish not only his adolescent getaway driver premise but sharing his favorite songs with fans as well.
Flawed only in the simplicity of its story, Baby Driver is likely my least favorite of Wright’s filmography, even next to his amateurish, oft-forgotten Western-farce debut A Fistful of Fingers. His emblematic style and vigorous directorial energy persists, meaning his résumé remains practically unblemished.
Edgar Wright has proven himself a master of parody and blink-and-you’ll-miss-it comic timing, but with Baby Driver he veers in slightly more subdued directions while never missing out on the fun of film or filmmaking.
Baby Driver’s tightly wrapped story focuses on all the collective elements of a classic male fantasy — fast cars, a killer soundtrack, danger, paranoia, and the simmering courtship of a lovely dame to boot. But Wright never lets boyhood daydreams get in the way of neat dialogue and a memorable smorgasbord of characters. Choosing not to entirely embrace the action, comedy or the romantic elements serves Baby Driver well — we’re left with a freewheeling yarn rather than anything close to slapstick or The Fast and the Furious.
Ansel Elgort has the innocence and stone-faced believability to sell his titular character as the sillier, self-effacing version of Ryan Gosling’s role in Nicolas Winding Refn’s Drive. The supporting cast around him is superb with Jon Hamm, Kevin Spacey and especially Jamie Foxx dealing out suitably savory performances.
And of course the guiding playlist — which makes Guardians of the Galaxy’s mixtapes look like a Sirius XM channel — is very lively. It heightens Wright’s already masterful pacing and furthermore precisely calculates a most comfortable degree of coolness. Wright frames his music taste and puts it on display here, seeming to relish not only his adolescent getaway driver premise but sharing his favorite songs with fans as well.
Flawed only in the simplicity of its story, Baby Driver is likely my least favorite of Wright’s filmography, even next to his amateurish, oft-forgotten Western-farce debut A Fistful of Fingers. His emblematic style and vigorous directorial energy persists, meaning his résumé remains practically unblemished.
The Mummy briefing
1 ½ (out of 4)
This new Mummy is a clumsy, borderline farce hardly offset by the graces of Tom Cruise’s magnetic screen presence and a smattering of involving, kinetic action. From the onset Universal’s new Dark Universe has felt more like a joke than a multi-film endeavor costing hundreds of millions of dollars — yet Bride of Frankenstein apparently rests on the horizon and, for now, we’re left with this puzzling beginning to a rehash of old monster movies.
Russell Crowe’s contemporary version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is the most embarrassing of many choices made in this half-baked and thoroughly rushed blockbuster. Like Oblivion before it, The Mummy is a Tom Cruise action vehicle trying to mix up enough film flavors — in this case strong touches of Indiana Jones and An American Werewolf in London among others — so all the vague thievery comes off more as murky originality.
Budgeted at 125 million, it’s good to know Universal didn’t put more stock into something that could turn out as cheesy as this did, but whatever they imagine this will amount to down the line is beyond me. Superheroes crossover in comics, even Star Wars has something of an overarching mythos to it — no one wants to see the modern House of Frankenstein.
The forced romance between Cruise and Annabelle Wallis's character is lame, though Sofia Boutella is well cast as Princess Ahmanet and our titular undead Egyptian. But no acting could save an almost nonexistent story — the film’s plot is strangely shapeless, seemingly slashed and hacked by studio tampering in a last minute editing job.
The PG-13 thrills, entertaining as they may be, are mismatched with the general grasp at spookiness, tainting whatever excitement the film intended — even when something potentially scary happens it's undercut with ill-fitting humor. That may be The Mummy’s biggest flaw of all — though it doesn't waste more than one scene setting up future films, it doesn't pause for a second to actually try to pull off something "Dark" or have some fun for the sake of the "sense of adventure" it also seeks.
This new Mummy is a clumsy, borderline farce hardly offset by the graces of Tom Cruise’s magnetic screen presence and a smattering of involving, kinetic action. From the onset Universal’s new Dark Universe has felt more like a joke than a multi-film endeavor costing hundreds of millions of dollars — yet Bride of Frankenstein apparently rests on the horizon and, for now, we’re left with this puzzling beginning to a rehash of old monster movies.
Russell Crowe’s contemporary version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is the most embarrassing of many choices made in this half-baked and thoroughly rushed blockbuster. Like Oblivion before it, The Mummy is a Tom Cruise action vehicle trying to mix up enough film flavors — in this case strong touches of Indiana Jones and An American Werewolf in London among others — so all the vague thievery comes off more as murky originality.
Budgeted at 125 million, it’s good to know Universal didn’t put more stock into something that could turn out as cheesy as this did, but whatever they imagine this will amount to down the line is beyond me. Superheroes crossover in comics, even Star Wars has something of an overarching mythos to it — no one wants to see the modern House of Frankenstein.
The forced romance between Cruise and Annabelle Wallis's character is lame, though Sofia Boutella is well cast as Princess Ahmanet and our titular undead Egyptian. But no acting could save an almost nonexistent story — the film’s plot is strangely shapeless, seemingly slashed and hacked by studio tampering in a last minute editing job.
The PG-13 thrills, entertaining as they may be, are mismatched with the general grasp at spookiness, tainting whatever excitement the film intended — even when something potentially scary happens it's undercut with ill-fitting humor. That may be The Mummy’s biggest flaw of all — though it doesn't waste more than one scene setting up future films, it doesn't pause for a second to actually try to pull off something "Dark" or have some fun for the sake of the "sense of adventure" it also seeks.
Wonder Woman briefing
3 (out of 4)
Easily superior to the rest of the relatively catastrophic DC Extended Universe — the best of which to this point was the brain-numbing Man of Steel — Wonder Woman does a 180 reverse on the sloppy cinematic slew of dreary capeshit so far, single-handedly redeeming the brand overnight.
The film may have the most personality of any superhero movie since the original Iron Man nine years ago and its plot somehow does a better job with story elements similar to both Captain America: The First Avenger and Thor. The former’s jingoism pales next to Wonder Woman's surprisingly complex look at the harshness of war and the simple courage of idealism. And the mythological fantasy turned fish-out-of-water story of the first god of thunder film wasn’t nearly as endearing as Gal Gadot’s turn from Amazon warrior princess to one badass lady trying to take on the god of war himself in the thick of the early 20th century.
Its story is tidy and uncomplicated, the action is reasonably sparse and engaging, but its third act is yet another disappointment in the realm of recent comic book adaptations with a stock villain and climax. That said the predictability of its final section couldn't undo the genuine thrills, infectious humor and uncluttered cheek and charm of its first 90 minutes.
Patty Jenkins' movie wisely keeps modern girl-power subtext almost entirely out of the picture, letting the unmistakable feminism of Princess Diana’s own lore speak for itself in terms of today’s gender politics — the period aspect aids these themes. Chris Pine is also perfect as Gadot’s foil, doing well as both the comic relief then straight man and finally a convincing love interest. The film gives me little extra hope for November’s Justice League (not as much as the Joss Whedon takeover does) but Wonder Woman rests apart from the DCEU and sets a new standard of purpose for this burned out genre.
Easily superior to the rest of the relatively catastrophic DC Extended Universe — the best of which to this point was the brain-numbing Man of Steel — Wonder Woman does a 180 reverse on the sloppy cinematic slew of dreary capeshit so far, single-handedly redeeming the brand overnight.
The film may have the most personality of any superhero movie since the original Iron Man nine years ago and its plot somehow does a better job with story elements similar to both Captain America: The First Avenger and Thor. The former’s jingoism pales next to Wonder Woman's surprisingly complex look at the harshness of war and the simple courage of idealism. And the mythological fantasy turned fish-out-of-water story of the first god of thunder film wasn’t nearly as endearing as Gal Gadot’s turn from Amazon warrior princess to one badass lady trying to take on the god of war himself in the thick of the early 20th century.
Its story is tidy and uncomplicated, the action is reasonably sparse and engaging, but its third act is yet another disappointment in the realm of recent comic book adaptations with a stock villain and climax. That said the predictability of its final section couldn't undo the genuine thrills, infectious humor and uncluttered cheek and charm of its first 90 minutes.
Patty Jenkins' movie wisely keeps modern girl-power subtext almost entirely out of the picture, letting the unmistakable feminism of Princess Diana’s own lore speak for itself in terms of today’s gender politics — the period aspect aids these themes. Chris Pine is also perfect as Gadot’s foil, doing well as both the comic relief then straight man and finally a convincing love interest. The film gives me little extra hope for November’s Justice League (not as much as the Joss Whedon takeover does) but Wonder Woman rests apart from the DCEU and sets a new standard of purpose for this burned out genre.
Pirates of the Caribbean:
Dead Men Tell No Tales briefing
1 ½ (out of 4)
Though not plagued by the potent boredom that made On Stranger Tides the series' low, this unwelcome revamp of the series that seemed to perish a decade ago is still an inane, purposeless mess. In the fifth entry of the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise, the hunt is on for the trident of Poseidon, which possesses the power to break the nastiest mystical sea-curse. Both Henry Turner (Brenton Thwaites), son of ol' Will (a coral-covered Orlando Bloom, who bookends this film with a few minutes of screen time) and Captain Salazar (Javier Bardem), whom Jack Sparrow left for dead many a year ago, seek this new plot device.
Keira Knightley and Bloom appear in brief cameos only as a way to mislead people in marketing, and their younger surrogates — Thwaites and Kaya Scodelario — are basically as pointless a duo as the mermaid romance of the last installment. Even with the Pirates-Generations aspect with the offspring of prominent characters like little Turner and Scodelario's role as Carina, the daughter of Barbossa, Dead Men Tell No Tales can't make you even a bit nostalgic for the superb schlock that was so popular to start with.
At this point, the audience for this series knows what they're after — Johnny Depp’s caricature of a caricature 'performance' and some zany, special-effects-laden sailing, swashbuckling and spectacle. You get plenty of that here, but the cumulative result is all familiar flavors and no sustenance. Dead Men Tell No Tales can't even parcel out its ridiculousness properly. In terms of plausibility, this Pirates jumps the ghost shark in the first 10 minutes — a handful of horses drag an entire building down the street through turns and obstacles, all a new idiotic ploy for Sparrow’s drunken, luck-assisted parkour.
They even drag David Wenham into this wreck for a thankless B-villain role as a lieutenant of the British Royal Navy. This film isn’t as lethally uninteresting and tiresome as the last, but never does the fifth Pirates for even a scene really recapture the expensive, freewheeling goods of Gore Verbinski’s kind of wonderfully original and sort of terribly overblown trilogy. It’s just further proof this fluke of a franchise has no afterlife whatsoever.
Though not plagued by the potent boredom that made On Stranger Tides the series' low, this unwelcome revamp of the series that seemed to perish a decade ago is still an inane, purposeless mess. In the fifth entry of the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise, the hunt is on for the trident of Poseidon, which possesses the power to break the nastiest mystical sea-curse. Both Henry Turner (Brenton Thwaites), son of ol' Will (a coral-covered Orlando Bloom, who bookends this film with a few minutes of screen time) and Captain Salazar (Javier Bardem), whom Jack Sparrow left for dead many a year ago, seek this new plot device.
Keira Knightley and Bloom appear in brief cameos only as a way to mislead people in marketing, and their younger surrogates — Thwaites and Kaya Scodelario — are basically as pointless a duo as the mermaid romance of the last installment. Even with the Pirates-Generations aspect with the offspring of prominent characters like little Turner and Scodelario's role as Carina, the daughter of Barbossa, Dead Men Tell No Tales can't make you even a bit nostalgic for the superb schlock that was so popular to start with.
At this point, the audience for this series knows what they're after — Johnny Depp’s caricature of a caricature 'performance' and some zany, special-effects-laden sailing, swashbuckling and spectacle. You get plenty of that here, but the cumulative result is all familiar flavors and no sustenance. Dead Men Tell No Tales can't even parcel out its ridiculousness properly. In terms of plausibility, this Pirates jumps the ghost shark in the first 10 minutes — a handful of horses drag an entire building down the street through turns and obstacles, all a new idiotic ploy for Sparrow’s drunken, luck-assisted parkour.
They even drag David Wenham into this wreck for a thankless B-villain role as a lieutenant of the British Royal Navy. This film isn’t as lethally uninteresting and tiresome as the last, but never does the fifth Pirates for even a scene really recapture the expensive, freewheeling goods of Gore Verbinski’s kind of wonderfully original and sort of terribly overblown trilogy. It’s just further proof this fluke of a franchise has no afterlife whatsoever.
King Arthur: Legend of the Sword
briefing
1 ½ (out of 4)
King Arthur has long been mythologized since he helped Britain defeat the Saxons many centuries ago, but I doubt any film attempting to turn his history into fantasy has done it so tastelessly as Guy Ritchie.
This film pinches flavors of Middle-Earth mythos and works Game of Thrones’ regal grit into its production design, all while Guy Ritchie's snappy stylizing bastardizes everything making the story worthy of big-budget cinematic treatment to begin with. King Arthur: Legend of the Sword feels like something Zack Snyder would concoct on an off day.
Much of this Arthur plays like an endless montage constantly cutting between simultaneous events, like something of a constant trailer for the film you’re already watching. This comes off most regrettably in Arthur’s hazardous excursion through the Dark Lands and his encounters with its dangerous creatures — if this sequence was given proper dramatic structure it could have been rather cool. But for as batshit insane as the movie appears to be from its overly fantastic opening, by the film’s video game boss climax Legend finally leaves you feeling exhausted and swindled.
Aside from the enjoyment in watching Jude Law play a hammy villain, there's little to connect with here. Charlie Hunnam is a decent enough actor, but Legend of the Sword is about flexing its budget with wacky action foremost rather than familiarizing us with characters Warner Brothers planned to have us somehow endure for another five films. I never thought I’d look back on the boredom of 2004’s Clive Owen-headed King Arthur with any sort of affection, but Antoine Fuqua's film seems downright quaint compared to this modern medieval music video. Excalibur this is not.
King Arthur has long been mythologized since he helped Britain defeat the Saxons many centuries ago, but I doubt any film attempting to turn his history into fantasy has done it so tastelessly as Guy Ritchie.
This film pinches flavors of Middle-Earth mythos and works Game of Thrones’ regal grit into its production design, all while Guy Ritchie's snappy stylizing bastardizes everything making the story worthy of big-budget cinematic treatment to begin with. King Arthur: Legend of the Sword feels like something Zack Snyder would concoct on an off day.
Much of this Arthur plays like an endless montage constantly cutting between simultaneous events, like something of a constant trailer for the film you’re already watching. This comes off most regrettably in Arthur’s hazardous excursion through the Dark Lands and his encounters with its dangerous creatures — if this sequence was given proper dramatic structure it could have been rather cool. But for as batshit insane as the movie appears to be from its overly fantastic opening, by the film’s video game boss climax Legend finally leaves you feeling exhausted and swindled.
Aside from the enjoyment in watching Jude Law play a hammy villain, there's little to connect with here. Charlie Hunnam is a decent enough actor, but Legend of the Sword is about flexing its budget with wacky action foremost rather than familiarizing us with characters Warner Brothers planned to have us somehow endure for another five films. I never thought I’d look back on the boredom of 2004’s Clive Owen-headed King Arthur with any sort of affection, but Antoine Fuqua's film seems downright quaint compared to this modern medieval music video. Excalibur this is not.
Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2
briefing
2 ½ (out of 4)
Is there anything left to comment about the Marvel Cinematic Universe at this point? Apparently we have to. 2017 marks the first year in which Disney’s most robust and lucrative franchise expands its domination of the box office calendar from two films annually to three, the following this year being Spider-Man: Homecoming and Thor: Ragnarok.
But first thing’s first: Marvel’s sequel to their 2014 gamble of sorts Guardians of the Galaxy, which was marginally more successful than the studio was counting on — hence a prime debut on the opening weekend of the summer season for Vol. 2. But whatever you might have found original or clever about the first film seems to have gotten stale overnight.
Its opening credits sequence, involving Baby Groot dancing along to “Mr. Blue Sky” round his fellows Guardians as they fight an enormous alien foe, is an amusing and impressively staged highlight — director James Gunn says he paid a pretty penny for use of the ELO song. But after the two strong entries last year, from the rousing mini-Avengers extravaganza of Captain America: Civil War to the substantial detour that was Doctor Strange, Guardians 2 feels like one of the most formulaic and perfunctory entries to date, containing more broad, cringe-worthy humor than any other film in the MCU.
The story is at least fairly self-contained and doesn’t have many ties to the greater arc of the Universe unlike the Infinity Stone plot device of the first film. The looser structure leaves room to get somewhere with the father-son relationship of Chris Pratt's Star-Lord and his godlike dad Ego (played with some finesse by Kurt Russell), as well as letting Drax (Dave Bautista) show a little humanity as he becomes acquainted with the best new character, the adorable, empathic Mantis (Pom Klementieff). But then there’s also a Sylvester Stallone cameo setting up further nonsense. For every attempt at emotion, the film deals out twice the comic relief from the majority of our primary characters and many supporting ones too.
But rather than tell a lighthearted side-adventure, this movie tries to be both fringe and mainstream. It awkwardly balances the frequent show-stopping jokes with the fate of the universe at stake as if we needed more pointless threats of galactic destruction 15 films in. What was a cute tale of getting the intergalactic gang together the first time has devolved into something very smug and only sometimes amusing. Vol. 2 comes out swinging but ultimately cashes in on the worst aspects of original Guardians.
Is there anything left to comment about the Marvel Cinematic Universe at this point? Apparently we have to. 2017 marks the first year in which Disney’s most robust and lucrative franchise expands its domination of the box office calendar from two films annually to three, the following this year being Spider-Man: Homecoming and Thor: Ragnarok.
But first thing’s first: Marvel’s sequel to their 2014 gamble of sorts Guardians of the Galaxy, which was marginally more successful than the studio was counting on — hence a prime debut on the opening weekend of the summer season for Vol. 2. But whatever you might have found original or clever about the first film seems to have gotten stale overnight.
Its opening credits sequence, involving Baby Groot dancing along to “Mr. Blue Sky” round his fellows Guardians as they fight an enormous alien foe, is an amusing and impressively staged highlight — director James Gunn says he paid a pretty penny for use of the ELO song. But after the two strong entries last year, from the rousing mini-Avengers extravaganza of Captain America: Civil War to the substantial detour that was Doctor Strange, Guardians 2 feels like one of the most formulaic and perfunctory entries to date, containing more broad, cringe-worthy humor than any other film in the MCU.
The story is at least fairly self-contained and doesn’t have many ties to the greater arc of the Universe unlike the Infinity Stone plot device of the first film. The looser structure leaves room to get somewhere with the father-son relationship of Chris Pratt's Star-Lord and his godlike dad Ego (played with some finesse by Kurt Russell), as well as letting Drax (Dave Bautista) show a little humanity as he becomes acquainted with the best new character, the adorable, empathic Mantis (Pom Klementieff). But then there’s also a Sylvester Stallone cameo setting up further nonsense. For every attempt at emotion, the film deals out twice the comic relief from the majority of our primary characters and many supporting ones too.
But rather than tell a lighthearted side-adventure, this movie tries to be both fringe and mainstream. It awkwardly balances the frequent show-stopping jokes with the fate of the universe at stake as if we needed more pointless threats of galactic destruction 15 films in. What was a cute tale of getting the intergalactic gang together the first time has devolved into something very smug and only sometimes amusing. Vol. 2 comes out swinging but ultimately cashes in on the worst aspects of original Guardians.
Ghost in the Shell review
2 (out of 4)
Piggybacking off the story elements and famous images of the superior 1995 anime adaptation, this live-action revision of Ghost in the Shell — originating with the 1989 Japanese manga series of the same — scrubs its source material clean of its national origins and thematic complexities.
Not to say, with such great material to work through, none of it paid off on-screen. The film’s narrative is definitely simplified for American audiences but the cyber-punk sci-fi action premise alone stands a cut above what a 100 million plus budget studio film usually gets you.
The film takes place sometime in the mid-21st century, though the year isn’t specified. Scarlett Johansson stars as Major, the first perfected human cyborg synthesis and leader of the counter-cyber-terrorism operation Section 9. This came to be after the company Hanka Robotics used its artificial intelligence technology to save Major from a nearly fatal accident. Once the presumed antagonist Kuze (Michael Pitt) begins hacking into the minds of those involved with Hanka Robotics, he becomes Major’s primary target as she simultaneously attempts to regain memories she lost during her transformation.
It's hard to comment on this film without mentioning the whitewashing, but the criticisms are self-defeating given the nature of Hollywood. Paramount would never risk a high-budget adaptation of this nature without one of the most popular actresses in the land, so I’m willing to ignore the casting issues. The cultural appropriation handled in every other aspect of Ghost in the Shell is more troubling.
Much of the nameless Blade Runner-esque cityscape where the film takes place feels like a generic assimilation of watered-down Japanese culture mostly populated by Japanese people, with the main cast partly in exception. Yet the movie acts in an entirely race-blind fashion by virtually erasing its tone and identity. This comes across early on when the dialogue moves back and forth between Japanese and English without a care for logic.
Part of the fun of Japanese cinema, animated or live action, is the culture shock that goes along with the experience. Ghost in the Shell, without explicitly rejecting the original manga and films, softens everything interesting, or grotesque, about its universe. For instance, Major’s lack of nudity and the bloodless action all stem from changes garnered for a safer PG-13 rating.
The visual spark of Ghost in the Shell, however, can make you forgive some of the film’s worst choices. Though the universe looks a little too spotless, the cinematography and production design work hand in hand to bring the digitally integrated futuristic setting into a convincing live-action vision. The film can’t help but replay some of the best sequences and moments from 1995 anime, but the action is cleanly shot and proficiently choreographed.
However the casting yields as many mixed results as the film itself. Pilou Asbæk is perfectly suited to play Batou, Major’s bulky, cybernetically-spectacled right hand man. Pitt is appropriately creepy playing a character that was once much more interesting in the 1995 adaptation when he was called the Puppet Master, a being born from the Internet. Juliette Binoche is wasted in an inconsequential role as a Hanka Robotics scientist who oversees Major’s recoveries.
ScarJo herself, aside from her whiteness, just isn’t the right fit for the masculine, hard-jawed Major of the original film — in the realm of artificial intelligence, her emotional portrayal of a computer operating system in 2013’s Her was far more suitable to her talents. She has the benefit of her familiarly with action heroine antics but her soft, round facial features are almost the antithesis of the physical aspects the original character. Despite what Johansson gives to her boiled-down written role, when most of your job is being stone-faced, a more identical match to the role is preferred. And the script simply tries too hard to humanize her cyborg character.
The biggest shortcoming of Ghost in the Shell though is how bluntly and gracelessly it handles its story’s themes. The series conceptually deals with questions of consciousness, identity, memory and a world where the organic and the digital have begun to merge. This new film has almost no time for introspective dialogue with its trim runtime and a propulsive, blockbuster sense of pacing. As a result, the few forced moments spent building themes are just there to buffer the space between the stylized violence and visually enhanced vistas.
Recognizing the potential of its source material only in moments of inspired visuals, this adaptation thankfully doesn’t set up sequels. Regardless of some inspired moments of actual filmmaking from director Rupert Sanders (who brought us an even more useless reimagining in his 2012 debut Snow White and the Huntsman) Ghost in the Shell is so ironically lacking in its own voice and personality that it really couldn’t stand on its own anyway.
*Edited version published in The Pitt News
Piggybacking off the story elements and famous images of the superior 1995 anime adaptation, this live-action revision of Ghost in the Shell — originating with the 1989 Japanese manga series of the same — scrubs its source material clean of its national origins and thematic complexities.
Not to say, with such great material to work through, none of it paid off on-screen. The film’s narrative is definitely simplified for American audiences but the cyber-punk sci-fi action premise alone stands a cut above what a 100 million plus budget studio film usually gets you.
The film takes place sometime in the mid-21st century, though the year isn’t specified. Scarlett Johansson stars as Major, the first perfected human cyborg synthesis and leader of the counter-cyber-terrorism operation Section 9. This came to be after the company Hanka Robotics used its artificial intelligence technology to save Major from a nearly fatal accident. Once the presumed antagonist Kuze (Michael Pitt) begins hacking into the minds of those involved with Hanka Robotics, he becomes Major’s primary target as she simultaneously attempts to regain memories she lost during her transformation.
It's hard to comment on this film without mentioning the whitewashing, but the criticisms are self-defeating given the nature of Hollywood. Paramount would never risk a high-budget adaptation of this nature without one of the most popular actresses in the land, so I’m willing to ignore the casting issues. The cultural appropriation handled in every other aspect of Ghost in the Shell is more troubling.
Much of the nameless Blade Runner-esque cityscape where the film takes place feels like a generic assimilation of watered-down Japanese culture mostly populated by Japanese people, with the main cast partly in exception. Yet the movie acts in an entirely race-blind fashion by virtually erasing its tone and identity. This comes across early on when the dialogue moves back and forth between Japanese and English without a care for logic.
Part of the fun of Japanese cinema, animated or live action, is the culture shock that goes along with the experience. Ghost in the Shell, without explicitly rejecting the original manga and films, softens everything interesting, or grotesque, about its universe. For instance, Major’s lack of nudity and the bloodless action all stem from changes garnered for a safer PG-13 rating.
The visual spark of Ghost in the Shell, however, can make you forgive some of the film’s worst choices. Though the universe looks a little too spotless, the cinematography and production design work hand in hand to bring the digitally integrated futuristic setting into a convincing live-action vision. The film can’t help but replay some of the best sequences and moments from 1995 anime, but the action is cleanly shot and proficiently choreographed.
However the casting yields as many mixed results as the film itself. Pilou Asbæk is perfectly suited to play Batou, Major’s bulky, cybernetically-spectacled right hand man. Pitt is appropriately creepy playing a character that was once much more interesting in the 1995 adaptation when he was called the Puppet Master, a being born from the Internet. Juliette Binoche is wasted in an inconsequential role as a Hanka Robotics scientist who oversees Major’s recoveries.
ScarJo herself, aside from her whiteness, just isn’t the right fit for the masculine, hard-jawed Major of the original film — in the realm of artificial intelligence, her emotional portrayal of a computer operating system in 2013’s Her was far more suitable to her talents. She has the benefit of her familiarly with action heroine antics but her soft, round facial features are almost the antithesis of the physical aspects the original character. Despite what Johansson gives to her boiled-down written role, when most of your job is being stone-faced, a more identical match to the role is preferred. And the script simply tries too hard to humanize her cyborg character.
The biggest shortcoming of Ghost in the Shell though is how bluntly and gracelessly it handles its story’s themes. The series conceptually deals with questions of consciousness, identity, memory and a world where the organic and the digital have begun to merge. This new film has almost no time for introspective dialogue with its trim runtime and a propulsive, blockbuster sense of pacing. As a result, the few forced moments spent building themes are just there to buffer the space between the stylized violence and visually enhanced vistas.
Recognizing the potential of its source material only in moments of inspired visuals, this adaptation thankfully doesn’t set up sequels. Regardless of some inspired moments of actual filmmaking from director Rupert Sanders (who brought us an even more useless reimagining in his 2012 debut Snow White and the Huntsman) Ghost in the Shell is so ironically lacking in its own voice and personality that it really couldn’t stand on its own anyway.
*Edited version published in The Pitt News
Logan briefing
3 (out of 4)
As if it were trying to make up for every PG-13 Wolverine kill from the last 15 plus years of X-Men films, Logan stops at nothing to make the most of its newfound R-rated freedom with profanity and adamantium-fueled carnage.
With a Western genre flip and more brutal realism, this feels more like a unique superhero film and an exceptional X-Men movie without being terribly memorable or mold-breaking. The first scene revels in some gore and a decrepit Wolverine, but by the end we’re numb to both the blood and blows to Hugh Jackman’s aged body. The film’s pacing is sure-handed, taking time for plenty of earned introspection and character drama in Jackman’s last go-round while still including more than its fair share of violent — and a few times fairly schlocky — action sequences.
That said this film does right what so many other caped creations forget to do: invest you emotionally in its characters. By limiting an expansive comic book universe to a very elder and often uncontrollably dangerous Professor X, Logan himself and his own re-engineered flesh and blood in the young, ravenous Laura (Dafne Keen), never has this comic book world felt so personal and so believable. Laura is virtually silent for an hour all while giving an aching, challenging performance.
Some say Logan dethrones The Dark Knight as the superhero cinema great, but their words are stocked in hyperbole — it reminds us of some of the franchise’s worst hours (*cough* The Last Stand *cough*) and still has several muddled plot details confusing what's at stake. But it would be foolish of me to say that Logan is anything other than very good. It takes all of the possibilities of a post-Deadpool world and gives you numerous reasons to believe mainstream R-rated comic book films may reanimate the ever-ongoing lethargy of the genre.
As if it were trying to make up for every PG-13 Wolverine kill from the last 15 plus years of X-Men films, Logan stops at nothing to make the most of its newfound R-rated freedom with profanity and adamantium-fueled carnage.
With a Western genre flip and more brutal realism, this feels more like a unique superhero film and an exceptional X-Men movie without being terribly memorable or mold-breaking. The first scene revels in some gore and a decrepit Wolverine, but by the end we’re numb to both the blood and blows to Hugh Jackman’s aged body. The film’s pacing is sure-handed, taking time for plenty of earned introspection and character drama in Jackman’s last go-round while still including more than its fair share of violent — and a few times fairly schlocky — action sequences.
That said this film does right what so many other caped creations forget to do: invest you emotionally in its characters. By limiting an expansive comic book universe to a very elder and often uncontrollably dangerous Professor X, Logan himself and his own re-engineered flesh and blood in the young, ravenous Laura (Dafne Keen), never has this comic book world felt so personal and so believable. Laura is virtually silent for an hour all while giving an aching, challenging performance.
Some say Logan dethrones The Dark Knight as the superhero cinema great, but their words are stocked in hyperbole — it reminds us of some of the franchise’s worst hours (*cough* The Last Stand *cough*) and still has several muddled plot details confusing what's at stake. But it would be foolish of me to say that Logan is anything other than very good. It takes all of the possibilities of a post-Deadpool world and gives you numerous reasons to believe mainstream R-rated comic book films may reanimate the ever-ongoing lethargy of the genre.
Get Out briefing
3 ½ (out of 4)
Jordan Peele’s directorial debut is lightning in the proverbial bottle as far as pure zeitgeist-distilling topicality is concerned. It’s difficult to say what Trump’s America will yield cinematically as his world is reflected back at us in the coming years, but Get Out was conceived as a product Obama’s America, making it a juggernaut of cultural intuition.
Get Out is a creative, conspicuously racial take on horror's tropes and America's collective predispositions. Despite Peele's clever, one-step-ahead-of-you premise, the film is, on the whole, restrained and efficiently free of unnecessary frills. Needless to say there is caustic comedy abound — though perhaps that’s my white gaze talking — mostly hiding in satire, all of it perfectly arranged to take jabs at liberal hypocrisy as well as white supremacy and white guilt. Being left in the dark in the film’s first hour is a great pleasure and it’s also where Peele exercises his knack for social commentary and punch-line-free jokes at the numerous pasty antagonists’ expense. In terms of unavoidable carnage though, the eventual bloodshed in the film's final scenes doesn’t measure up to the diabolical mystery slowly unfurled by our unsuspecting lead Chris (Daniel Kaluuya) in what is assumed to be a casual weekend away to meet the parents of his white girlfriend Rose (a dynamic Allison Williams).
However, even the plain as day politics aside, I believe this film’s greatest trick is in converting a diverting, new-age Guess Who's Coming to Dinner premise into such an original and somehow remarkably crowd-pleasing Blumhouse gem, all while lacing his finessed screenplay with slick details that emerge viewing after viewing. And Peele is smart enough to know double entendre is key to classic horror, not to mention where most of the appeal of the genre lies. The end result might be blunt and broad but the two prior acts of head-scratching puzzles and meaningful mockery, leveled out by Lil Rel Howery’s hilarious comic relief, makes for a hell of a lot of fun. I wanted something a little extra from Get Out but I suppose Peele still gave us plenty in his wunderkind cinematic breakthrough.
Jordan Peele’s directorial debut is lightning in the proverbial bottle as far as pure zeitgeist-distilling topicality is concerned. It’s difficult to say what Trump’s America will yield cinematically as his world is reflected back at us in the coming years, but Get Out was conceived as a product Obama’s America, making it a juggernaut of cultural intuition.
Get Out is a creative, conspicuously racial take on horror's tropes and America's collective predispositions. Despite Peele's clever, one-step-ahead-of-you premise, the film is, on the whole, restrained and efficiently free of unnecessary frills. Needless to say there is caustic comedy abound — though perhaps that’s my white gaze talking — mostly hiding in satire, all of it perfectly arranged to take jabs at liberal hypocrisy as well as white supremacy and white guilt. Being left in the dark in the film’s first hour is a great pleasure and it’s also where Peele exercises his knack for social commentary and punch-line-free jokes at the numerous pasty antagonists’ expense. In terms of unavoidable carnage though, the eventual bloodshed in the film's final scenes doesn’t measure up to the diabolical mystery slowly unfurled by our unsuspecting lead Chris (Daniel Kaluuya) in what is assumed to be a casual weekend away to meet the parents of his white girlfriend Rose (a dynamic Allison Williams).
However, even the plain as day politics aside, I believe this film’s greatest trick is in converting a diverting, new-age Guess Who's Coming to Dinner premise into such an original and somehow remarkably crowd-pleasing Blumhouse gem, all while lacing his finessed screenplay with slick details that emerge viewing after viewing. And Peele is smart enough to know double entendre is key to classic horror, not to mention where most of the appeal of the genre lies. The end result might be blunt and broad but the two prior acts of head-scratching puzzles and meaningful mockery, leveled out by Lil Rel Howery’s hilarious comic relief, makes for a hell of a lot of fun. I wanted something a little extra from Get Out but I suppose Peele still gave us plenty in his wunderkind cinematic breakthrough.
John Wick: Chapter 2 briefing
2 ½ (out of 4)
Maybe the simplicity of the coy, neatly self-contained bourgeoisie hitman universe of 2014’s John Wick was actually all we needed from this now new franchise. Chapter 2 goes for broke in nearly every aspect and almost convinces you of engaging in more brutal, classy, meta-mild action entertainment. But the increased worldbuilding, multiplied body count, inflated runtime and escalated dangers eventually all become perfunctory and self-defeating.
And this Wick's failings are not for lack of trying — this is not just a cut-and-dried case of diminishing returns. Keanu Reeves is pulling off the 50-something badass role more graciously and comfortably than even the certified, lovable insanity of Tom Cruise. The Hollywood glisten the original imitated is fully inhabited this time around and the aesthetic excess suits the film well in incidental moments. Played in montage alongside a Bond-like tailor scene, Wick's shopping trip to Peter Serafinowicz's posh sommelier of arms playfully notches the current tension. Later, an extended public brawl with Common and the set of endless mirrors in the final shoot-'em-up sequence effortlessly nail the intended style both of these films have set out for.
But I couldn’t understand why this film had to take itself so seriously, raise the stakes so high and stretch its length so frivolously long. So much of Chapter 2 is spent watching Wick mow down creeping or fleeing assailants. Even a clever bit like a seven million dollar price tag on Wick’s head creates a video game-like, almost endless progression of violent challenges with other assassins throughout a New York civilian environment; the amount of metropolitan hobo hitmen they expect me to accept was pretty insulting. The weak, unresolved parting also suggests the later completion of a useless trilogy rather than giving this installment its proper sendoff.
Maybe the simplicity of the coy, neatly self-contained bourgeoisie hitman universe of 2014’s John Wick was actually all we needed from this now new franchise. Chapter 2 goes for broke in nearly every aspect and almost convinces you of engaging in more brutal, classy, meta-mild action entertainment. But the increased worldbuilding, multiplied body count, inflated runtime and escalated dangers eventually all become perfunctory and self-defeating.
And this Wick's failings are not for lack of trying — this is not just a cut-and-dried case of diminishing returns. Keanu Reeves is pulling off the 50-something badass role more graciously and comfortably than even the certified, lovable insanity of Tom Cruise. The Hollywood glisten the original imitated is fully inhabited this time around and the aesthetic excess suits the film well in incidental moments. Played in montage alongside a Bond-like tailor scene, Wick's shopping trip to Peter Serafinowicz's posh sommelier of arms playfully notches the current tension. Later, an extended public brawl with Common and the set of endless mirrors in the final shoot-'em-up sequence effortlessly nail the intended style both of these films have set out for.
But I couldn’t understand why this film had to take itself so seriously, raise the stakes so high and stretch its length so frivolously long. So much of Chapter 2 is spent watching Wick mow down creeping or fleeing assailants. Even a clever bit like a seven million dollar price tag on Wick’s head creates a video game-like, almost endless progression of violent challenges with other assassins throughout a New York civilian environment; the amount of metropolitan hobo hitmen they expect me to accept was pretty insulting. The weak, unresolved parting also suggests the later completion of a useless trilogy rather than giving this installment its proper sendoff.