An Ode To Videodrome Atlanta And The Joys of Physical Media-Oriented Spaces

When I first walked into a Blockbuster store as a kid, my mind exploded. Up to that point, my fervent film love was confined to Disney VHS tapes I owned or whatever videotapes my Uncle Doug had lying around. Walking through this domain’s doors, I was greeted with more VHS tapes than I could’ve ever imagined. Every genre under the sun was suddenly within my grasp. The horror movies with the gnarly covers that terrified yet compelled me. Those major adult dramas (Titanic, Cold Mountain, etc.) I occasionally heard my parents reference. Best of all, this place had all the Pokemon TV show tapes I couldn’t find at Wal-Mart.

God knows there were endless problems with Blockbuster, including how it affected independent video stores and the limited types of films it held. Still, first stepping into a Blockbuster at six years old did feel like a new phase of cinema obsessiveness had been unlocked. Just wandering down the aisles and being surrounded by physical copies of movies was a glorious sensation. The staggering decline of physical movie media outlets in recent years has ensured that the opportunities to wander betwixt cinema’s tangible iterations have been few and far between.

In my Atlanta, Georgia voyages, though, I paid a visit to the legendary Videodrome video rental store. Here, the wonders of existing in the same space as countless DVDs was not just revived but refined. Rather than merely mimicking an experience I had as a child, Videodrome created a new kind of joyous memory built on my decades of expanded cinema knowledge. God bless these stores.

Videodrome Killed It Before I Stepped Inside

After exiting my Lyft ride, me and my well-worn Velcro sneakers traipsed over to the Videodrome entrance. Having just eaten the best mac n’ cheese, biscuits, and friend chicken of my entire life at Mary Mac’s Tea Room, my belly was full and my spirit was soaring. Further serotonin was unlocked as I glimpsed at the two signs situated next to the Videodrome entrance. One of them was a Black Lives Matter sign. The other was a poster for the wonderful 80s B-movie The Miami Connection.

Cinema master Sean Baker called this title one of his four favorite motion pictures for a reason, it’s an extraordinary work of DIY artistry (it’s also got a kick-ass soundtrack). Here I was in a new city, preparing to enter an unfamiliar store, and here was a familiar cinema gem staring straight back at me. Every store should have pro-Black Lives Matter signage and Miami Connection posters next to their entrance. They just instill good vibes before you even set foot inside.

Once I was actually inside VideoDrome, my eyes could barely comprehend the sheer number of DVD covers staring back at me. Quickly, the structure of the store became apparent to me. Most of the right side of the store was dedicated to sections divided by English-language filmmakers. Spike Lee had a portion of one shelf, so too did Barry Jenkins and Damien Chazelle (among many others). My personal favorite was one lower shelf that made room for both John Sayles and Lynne Ramsay features. I never in my life thought I’d see these two cinema virtuosos get their own video store sections, but golly was I glad to see it.

Videodrome’s right sector also had an extensive B-movie cinema section. The left side of the store, meanwhile, was dedicated into sections pertaining to either genres (family films, for instance), new releases, or countries (Hong Kong, Portugal, Brazil cinema, among many others).

I first made a beeline for the B-movie area because, hey, those movies have the coolest covers. The features themselves may not live up to what’s on the VHS/DVD’s exterior, but the art is still cool to process. There were all kinds of obscure goodies in here full of motion pictures I’d either never heard of or thought I’d never hold in my hands as a DVD. Afterward, it was time for the auteur section, which is where I started to get a bit choked up.

Physical Media’s Joy In A Streaming Apocalypse

Much like with my Academy Museum excursion last year, Videodrome’s detailed collections of directing filmographies were a glorious respite to the streaming culture landscape. Amazon, Netflix, Hulu, they’re all about emphasizing either exclusive movies kept behind paywalls or motion pictures they have temporary licenses to. The emphasis is on reinforcing the brand names of Silicon Valley conglomerates, not the art itself.

Within the hallowed halls of Videodrome, though, I saw great care to making sure everyone from Celine Sciamma to Sidney Lumet to Otto Preminger got their works properly displayed and organized. The focus here wasn’t on boosting Amazon’s bottom dollars (“quick, put more ads for The Terminal List into this stream of The Pawnbroker!”) not consuming your attention with sudden trailers/clips from streaming originals. It was just on letting David Lynch’s or Charlie Chaplin’s filmography wash over visitors.

I’d freely admit, too, my perception was skewed by how choked up I got getting reminded of so many glorious movie watching memories in one space. Losing Ground, the excellently filmed Kathleen Collins directorial effort, was something I once thought could only exist on FilmStruck. Here it was, though, on Videodrome’s shelves. The Daytrippers, But I’m a Cheerleader, Ace in the Hole, the Small Axe features, they were all here.

Suddenly, I was transported back to countless hours spent on my couch, absorbing the flickering images of these features. Getting to hold these features in my hands for the first time was like I was getting to meet these movies for the first time, as weird as that may sound. They weren’t just tiles on a streaming service home screen. I could run my fingers across But I’m a Cheerleader or the 25^th Hour/He Got Game double feature Blu-Ray. These tactile joys extended to all kinds of motion pictures, another upside Videodrome had over typical streamers.

Because of the disinterest almost all streamers have with pre-1995 movies, I had to scrounge and put in extra effort to find many of these movies that made up my best cinema memories. Here they were, though, all displayed in glitzy packaging on Videodrome’s shelves like new Disney movies were showcased on Blockbuster shelves back in the day. My heart was full recalling so many wonderful moviegoing memories and realizing a new generation of Atlanta film nerds can uncover these glorious endeavors sooner in their lives than I did. That hope for the future is only possible because of Videodrome’s staff and operators. Their efforts have created a haven where all forms of movies can flourish.

“A Great Artist Can Come from Anywhere”

Strolling across the shelves and hallways of Videodrome, I was constantly impressed by how in-depth the selection at this place was. There wasn’t just a section for Argentinian films, for example, but that domain contained Trenque Lauquan, one of my favorite 2023 movies. Laura Citarella's expansive cinematic chronicling of a woman that goes missing is marvelous creation full of exquisitely framed images and a quietly ingenious story structure (specifically in how the film’s two parts are divided). It warmed my heart to see it in Videodrome’s inventory.  This amazing, underrated piece of cinema was more accessible than ever!

Eclectic and varied selection was the name of the game in this place. That quality makes Videodrome an outstanding microcosm for cinema as a whole. This is an artform where incredible and impactful art can emerge in anything from Drive My Car to Frankenhooker to Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives to Titane to Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans and everything in between. There is no one way to make a great movie. What a privilege and an honor to exist within a space dedicated to champion that versatility. “

“A great artist can come from anywhere,” as a wise Anton Ego once said. Streamers cultivating libraries built on algorithms and giving people what they’ve already seen can make it hard to remember that fact. Not within somewhere like Videodrome, which took all the fun parts of Blockbuster and then fixed up all its flaws (namely Blockbuster’s banning of NC-17 and unrated movies or lack of foreign language features). Much like The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance, Videodrome built on the potential of the past while recognizing how yesteryear’s institutions could stand major tweaks.

Just walking through Videodrome with my belly full from Mary Mac’s scrumptious cuisine and my favorite music pouring into my ears through my headphones provided a level of joy I’ve rarely felt in my life. Ah, but all good things must come to an end. I had to go present on a panel at the NLGJA conference that afternoon and soon, my public speaking responsibilities forced me out of Videodrome after spending two hours inside.

Before exiting, I took one last look around the place. This was truly a special place, the apotheosis of how cool and detailed a video rental store could be. As I knew at a young age walking around wide-eye and stunned at my local Blockbuster, there’s something special about being surrounded by physical media. For film freaks like me, it’s like you’re finally in a space that’s as passionate about this artform as you are. Videodrome didn’t just remind me of that specialness, it took it to the next level with its comprehensive selection.

Long live physical media.

Long live eclectic movies.

And long live the new flesh, er. Videodrome Atlanta.

How Unexpected Trans Camaraderie Transformed Toilet Stall Tears Into Strip Club Cheers

 

Lisa Laman's iconic cameo in the film Hustlers 

Have you ever sobbed in a strip club bathroom? Take it from me, it’s a bizarre experience.

For starters, you’re trapped within four very intimate walls, which doesn’t help alleviate those feelings of being trapped by your emotions. As you’re trying to keep tears stuck in your pupils, energetic, you might notice rebellious graffiti adorning the stall walls. Such fist-clenching energy feels like it’s worlds away, even unobtainable, as you’re crying. Meanwhile, wafting into the bathroom are the sounds of Dolly Parton tunes and faint “woo!”’s from patrons over the sudden appearances of bare breasts. How can one be sad in a place with tiddies and Queen Dolly? Alas, I was fraught with profoundly rattling dysphoria.

I couldn’t have imagined this situation when I first strolled into the doors of Clermont Lounge in Atlanta, Georgia. Nor could I have comprehended, as I gently wept on that toilet seat, that immense trans joy was literally waiting around the corner. But before those emotional highs and lows, let’s take a cue from a song I heard all the time in P.E. class and “take it back now y’all.” Let’s go back to Lisa Laman’s earliest days in the Lone Star State.

Lisa Begins: Origins

Allen, Texas. A little suburb located about 25 minutes outside of Dallas. There were Caucasians and Starbucks locations everywhere, but no strip clubs. Within the halls of my non-denominational Christian church and schools, these locations were talked about in hushed whispers, like some far away circle of Hell we couldn’t even imagine. Occasionally, someone on a field trip might share a dubious story of some recent male High School graduate now working as a dancer at once of these laces. Another Sunday, a youth leader would reference strip clubs as the apex of debauchery.

This was a land of abstinence-only assemblies where speakers would harrowingly talk about how anyone who has sex will die. Applying any nuance to sexuality, let alone humanity to sex workers, was a laughable notion. Thus, my upbringing ensured I imagined strip clubs as crawling with dirt, cocaine and “lost souls.”

As I got older, thankfully, my worldview expanded beyond what schools and youth groups taught me. This included cultivating a more nuanced and immensely supportive perception of both sex and sex work. Still, in my first 29 years on this planet, I’d never stepped for into a strip club. When I was planning my itinerary for a trip to Atlanta, Georgia, though, a queer gal pal of mine passionately suggested I check out the Atlanta landmark Clermont Lounge. One of the oldest strip clubs in the city, it’s entirely owned by women and has glowing reviews online.

Taking weekly estrogen injections or traveling on my own all once sounded impossible Now they were part of my everyday reality. Now it was time to tackle something else that once sounded far-fetched. I wouldn’t just be venturing into a new city. I’d finally come face-to-face with a strip club.

Into the (Bare) Belly of the Beast

Clermont Lounge shares a building with the Hotel Clermont (the two are apparently unconnected in any way beyond operating in the same physical space). To enter, you need to walk down a set of wooden stairs and then enter through a doorway in the back. It’s a fun little entryway accentuating how some special hideaway from general society awaits. I myself entered this domicile at 4:30 PM on a Saturday and immediately found it…empty.

The Clermont Liunge’s interior was dimly lit (likely to draw more attention to lights connected to the performers), with only a glistening disco ball and strings of Christmas lights on the ceiling bringing light into the place. Also catching my eye in this place was a very kind middle-aged blonde woman sitting on her phone at the bar. She immediately waved me down, said howdy, and introduced herself as one of Clermont’s performers. She looked glorious and we began chatting about all things Atlanta as well as her years of experience dancing at Clermont Lounge.

Once she began preparing for her performance, I was left to my own devices. I began nursing a Shirley Temple (I don’t drink), sat down at one of the tables, and plucked out a Charles Band autobiography I was reading. As I focused on absorbing stories about Band’s affair with Demi Moore without much light, I found myself chuckling. I’d spent years building up every single strip club as a drug-smeared abode oozing toxic personalities. Now, in its first 90 minutes of operation, it was basically just a library…albeit with bare-breasted beer banners on the walls. Maybe libraries should start incorporating those.

Inevitably, people began trickling in. More specifically, men were trickling in. The handful of non-Lisa Clermont Lounge patrons were grizzled, middle-aged men who were all loud and rowdy even before a drop of alcohol entered their system. Suddenly, I got flashbacks to my exploits being alone at my local lesbian bar. All those times gay men I didn’t know would “playfully” grip my knee or touch my hair without my consent. I had come here just to see pretty ladies and live vicariously through the physically adept exploits of sex workers. Not get grabbed.

Then, I remembered they were cis-het men…and I wasn’t with anyone. Oh God. Were they going to hit on me? Would they see me reading alone at this table and use that as an invitation for flirting? I’m a lesbian, leave me alone, ya brutes!

Then, the most devastating thought hit me as more men piled in. If there’s an entirely male clientele at Clermont Lounge…what does that make me?

Will I be perceived as a man by everyone else? Does being here automatically mean my woman card is revoked? Oh God, are there traces of my assigned at birth gender on my face? Is my facial hair showing? Why didn’t I do more this morning to look more “lady-like”?

These were the cruel, catastrophizing thoughts racing through my head as men increasingly outnumbered me in this space. It once sounded so fun to go to a strip club for the first time. Now, it was a nightmare. Immediately, I dashed into the women’s bathroom, leaped into a stall, and locked the door behind me. As I sat there trying to do some calming breathing exercises, one of the lady dancers came into the stall next to me. I could see on her feet a pair of pink heels adorned with heart patterns.

They were so pretty…and they just hammered home my dysphoria. I could never wear those. I almost broke my neck the one time I tried to wear really elaborate heels out in public. Is my not wearing those another sign I’m not a woman? I was spiraling, there was no other word for it. Gender insecurity and dysphoria were crushing my brain. No amount of breathing exercises could truly quell my pain. As I dabbed the tears from my eyes, I vowed to take care of myself. It was time to head for the exit. Lisa’s inaugural strip club adventure ended here.

I Thank the Bank for the Money, Thank God for Trans Camaraderie

With my purse situated on my shoulder, Shirley Temple stewing in my belly, and tears dabbed away, my feet firmly began to move towards the Clermont Lounge exit. Then, I saw another dancer had come out to the main area, a person we’ll call Appa (because of the way they lift people up). I’d previously run into Appa real briefly while reading, since Appa was changing a lightbulb or some other remedial task. They were very friendly in this quick exchange and we even bonded over how we were both wearing thigh-high socks that day.

When I came out, Appa immediately gave me a grin and a wave before signaling I should come stand next to them. A redhead with eyes radiating energetic creativity, Appa was all ready to go for performing in her leatherbound bras, panties, and heels. As I stood next to them, Appa and I began talking. During this exchange, they nonchalantly revealed they were non-binary and used they/them pronouns.

“Yeah, I dress like this,” they remarked, gesturing to their ultra-femme-leaning “leather mommy” appearance, “for capitalism!”

We both chuckled, each knowing how capitalism’s ridiculous demands inspire trans people to “mask” or modulate just to make rent. Those shared experiences were such a richly human contrast to my worries earlier about “failing” as a woman. Now here I was talking to a person who nonchalantly reinforced my validity as a trans soul. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so alone. Our conversation lasted a while longer, with Appa complimenting my appearance and inquiring how I was enjoying Atlanta so far.

Absorbing unbridled enthusiasm and queer chaos cascaded within Appa’s aura. Their personality kept me so captivated, my brain failed to return to focusing on catastrophizing dysphoria. As they bounced away to perform at the bar, Appa was still chatting with me, making amusing Avatar: The Last Airbender and The Legend of Korra references. After watching Appa talk the talk, I was transfixed (no pun intended) to see how they’d “walk the walk” in their strip performance.

First up was Appa impressively dancing and sliding on the bar stage on their knees (thank God for those soft, thigh-high socks!) to a country song. Though I’m an expert in the genre’s 2000s exploits (Cross Canadian Ragweed hive, rise up), I’m not cultured enough to know what this ditty was. All I know is Appa crushed their dancing and rhythmic movements. The precise timing and theatricality for when they finally took their top off was also stupendous, I just adored the grandiose physical flourishes they injected into this action.

That was all already enough to make for a tremendous show, especially since Appa’s choreography and tiddies were so glorious. Then came the second of their two early performances, which Appa clarified beforehand was set to a song “just for me” since there were barely any patrons in the bar.

That’s when Weird Al Yankovic’s “Your Horoscope for Today” began blaring over the speakers.

I can’t even begin to say how much Weird Al has positively affected my life. If there was any musician who could solidify turning around my Clermont Lounge experience, it was the man behind “Skipper Dan” and “The Night Santa Went Crazy.” Suddenly, I could feel God in that Clemont Lounge.

Witnessing a powerful trans redhead lip-syncing to Weird Al was an experience too perfect for me even to dream about. There was no way something so aligned to my interests could ever materialize in reality. Yet Appa turned tht concept into engrossing reality. I was in awe of their showmanship, including perfectly coordinating ass smacks, boob flexes, or knee slides to the tune’s silliest sonic flourishes.

After the song finished, Appa left the stage to make way for a brief break in the performances. Immediately, Appa made a beeline to me (I’d been at the bar cheering and tossing dollar bills across both tunes) and I quickly blabbered about how Weird Al was one of my all-time faves. We found further common ground on how often we’d heard the man’s ingenious parodies (like “The Saga Begins”) before the original tunes he was lampooning.

With my tummy rumbling, I knew my Clermont Lounge experience was at an end. But I made sure to personally thank Appa for their kindness, trans camaraderie, and excellent music choices. They’d never fully know it, but just their kindness and being open about their gender identity restored my spirit. Appa insisted on a hug before I left and I was happy to oblige. With that, I exited Clermont Lounge and began strolling over to a nearby pizza joint. I’d lived through my first strip club encounter.

Trans People…Is There Anything They Can’t Do?

Once I walked back out into the sunlight and waited for Uber, I had to stand there and blink for a moment (and desperately try to charge my dying phone). Was all of that real? Everything within those Clermont Lounge walls (from the sobbing to Appa to even me reading at a table) seemed so surreal.

Returning to my Vrbo a few hours later, I sat in my bed and stewed over this emotional rollercoaster of a day. My mind also drifted to how my Clermont Lounge expedition occurred one day after I presented at a panel at the NLGJA Queer Journalism Conference (the whole reason I went to Atlanta!).

This place was packed with amazing, talented queer souls with excitingly varied journalistic interests. That night, a meet-up was organized for trans attendees of the event. So many of us trans folks (of delightfully varied gender identities) were put into a conference room and began endlessly chatting. The room was abuzz with the voices of individuals often silenced in society.

During this event, one attendee gave a mini-speech where she recalled how she’d come out as trans back in 2003. “When I first attended a trans journalist meet-up back then,” she remembered, “there were only five of us. And now…” She didn’t even need to finish the sentence. Her gesture to the room’s shoulder-to-shoulder crowd said it all.

We are many. We are not going anywhere. And we are here for each other.

You never know where that truth might get reinforced. I certainly didn’t think, at the height of my dysphoric spiral, Clermont Lounge would be such a place. Yet, Appa’s kindness provided a life raft when I was drowning in a sea of loneliness. Moments later, their dazzling dance work on stage radiated the kind of trans confidence I try exuding every day with my colorful, glitter-dotted makeup. They took that stage and made it their own, complete with stripping to a wacky Weird Al song they could lip-sync to without breaking a sweat.

It was such a memorable, glorious depiction of a trans individual being boisterous, alive, and contorting a space to suit their needs. Witnessing Appa performing on their terms (specifically in stripping and dancing to music they like) and unabashedly talk about their passions was a balm for the soul. I love seeing us be ourselves, throwing societal norms to the wind. Who knew such unforgettable trans camaraderie was waiting for me moments after I was sobbing on a strip club toilet?

I smiled in my Vrbo bed, thinking about that reality before closing my eyes. As slumber began chasing after me, that anxiety-ridden part of my brain still did its terrible nighttime dance reminding me how I didn’t know what lay in store for me the next day. Maybe I’d get harassed. Maybe my friends would suddenly say they hated me. Perhaps I’d just have a static, banal day. With this experience of going from bathroom stall sobs to euphoria fresh in my brain, though, I staved off the catastrophizing thoughts. I knew, from the bottom of my soul (at least for a moment), I could handle whatever came next. That’s the power of trans joy and connections…and Weird Al music.

The Toxic Avenger has the gross-out mayhem you'd expect...but also a surprising dose of heart

It felt wrong seeing 2025's The Toxic Avenger in my favorite hometown Cinemark. A dingy midnight movie like this one should be viewed in a rundown auditorium permeated with the slight twinge of cigarette smoke. The squelch of some random couple's lips (did they even but a ticket to THIS movie?) should constantly be faintly heard. Seats must be decaying and full of tears. Every step on the floor should result in one's shoes producing a sickening sticky noise. In other words, Macon Blair's Toxic Avenger is best viewed in a rundown domicile where Travis Bickle or Midnight Cowboy's Ratso could be seated next to you.

Instead, I witnessed the film in a ritzy, well-kept Cinemark auditorium in a cozy leather recliner seat. How surreal to see a Troma film projected in these suburban confines. The dissonance between the film and where it was being shown was tantamount to the Cinerama Dome reopening solely to house a 70mm Grandma's Boy revival screening or watching Come and See on your Game Boy Advance.

Even if it was surreal to watch The Toxic Avenger in the same movie theater that kept Kirk Cameron's Saving Christmas playing for three consecutive weekends, that didn't stop this title from being a fine time at the movies over Labor Day weekend.

This new vision of the Toxic Avenger lore (first established in a 1980s B-movie from trash cinema empire Troma) follows janitor Winston (Peter Dinklage). He's already struggling to make it every day as a single dad to his estranged step-son Wade (Jacob Tremblay). However, his boss, Bob Garbinger (Kevin Bacon), is also killing Winston's town with radioactive sludge and dangerous consumer products. Winston's life goes from bad to worse when he discovers he has only one year to live. His job's insurance won't pay for a surgery that could save his life, and asking Bob directly for help only gets this janitor even more mockery.

Trying to secure money for that operation gets Winston on the wrong side of Bob's younger brother Fritz (Elijah Wood) and his maniacal oons, the Killer Nutz. These baddies kill Winston and dump his corpse into a vat of toxic ooze. Here, Winston transforms into a new green-skinned, hideous being called Toxie (voiced by Dinklage, played in a suit by Luisa Guerreiro). This unkillable creation might just be the key to helping save Winston's neighbors and taking down Bob once and for all.

The Toxic Avenger channels Borat Subsequent Moviefilm as a cinematic follow-up altering what material is considered "shocking". The first Borat was about making the jaws of moviegoers drop over how quickly ordinary people could become racist or xenophobic. The second Borat, though, made it surprising to discover compassion between people, such as the budding bond between Borat and his daughter or the kindness exhibited by Holocaust survivor Judith Dim Evans.

Similarly, Macon Blair's Toxic Avenger shrewdly tweaks its ideas around what's transgressive. As Blair himself said in a recent interview, nudity was a major gasp-worthy element in the original Toxic Avenger. Its story, meanwhile, focused on a wish-fulfillment fantasy of a nerdy guy getting the hot babe of his dream, while threats of sexual violence were also common in the script. In the new Toxic Avenger, what's presented as "shocking" (beyond the graphic violence, of course) is someone overcoming apathy to do something in a world rocked by pollution, gentrification, and corporate greed. Committing to a sincere ode to helping ordinary souls is unexpectedly subversive in 2025, when the new Captain America primarily focuses on reassuring audiences that corrupt old white men Presidents are actually very nice.

As the star of this summer's best big-budget blockbuster noted this summer, "maybe [kindness] is the real punk rock." It's a total surprise that a Toxic Avenger reboot would make that its ethos, but it's executed quite nicely. Blair's script also translates edgy anarchy into delightful bursts of graphic violence. Have you felt this year's cinema has lacked scenes where heroes reach into the asses of villains and pull out their intestines? Have I got a movie for you! It's all wild and silly (albeit way too heavy on CG blood) in a fittingly Troma fashion. There's enough scalp chewing and gruesomely dark demises here to make the genre movie freaks pleased as Dolphins watching Darius Rucker cry.

The one big issue Toxic Avenger can't avoid, though, is that being innately a remake with several famous faces in its cast means it can never quite capture the wild, unexpected glories of classic B-movies like The Miami Connection. Even a crafty evolution of the past is still tethered to yesteryear. Excellent low-budget 2020s films like Cannibal Mukbang, The People's Joker, or Annapurna Sriram's Fucktoys are the true modern heirs to the chaotic and creative world of trash cinema. This Toxic Avenger remake from the production outfit behind the Dune movies, meanwhile, can't escape a polished and calculated veneer robbing it of some of its impact.

That inevitable shortcoming creeps up with some other screenwriting defects, including having Taylour Paige's J.J. Doherty frustratingly often only reacting to outsized male characters rather than also being a fun unhinged figure. Also disappointing in the script is a third act that needed an extra dose of unpredictability. Even with these foibles, this new Toxic Avenger remains an enjoyable exercise, especially with its welcome doses of sinceirty. That quality is effectively communicated through a soulful Peter Dinklage performance. This esteemed performer refuses to phone in his Winston work, which gives the character engaging Jack Lemmon-esque energy before he transforms into Toxie. 

There's such an endearing underdog humanity in Dinklage's on-screen presence, including in Winston's very genuine attempts to bond with Wade. It's a welcome surprise to witness that dramatic conviction in a film like this. Props too to Luisa Guerreiro, the in-suit performer of Toxie. Her consistency with Dinklage's pre-established physical acting is remarkable. The two actors share this part seamlessly, maintaining a consistently superb level of acting.

It's also a welcome relief that the script lets most jokes or silly details, like Garbinger owning an underground laboratory straight out of Scooby-Doo, just exist without self-conscious quips. The Toxic Avenger operates in an outlandish world with street signs indicating that your destination is 69 miles away, dicks getting whipped out on-screen with an accompanying "BOING!" sound effect, and Elijah Wood randomly playing the pan flute. Macon Blair happily revels in absurdity rather than craft mocking meta-jokes about the silliness. That confidence, plus welcome doses of puppetry and excellent practical makeupo effects, results in enjoyable blood-soaked mayhem, even though it's disappointing that this new Toxic Avenger movie made no room for the "My Big French Boyfriend" song from the Toxic Avenger stage musical...

Highest 2 Lowest see's Spike Lee creating compelling new cinema out of a Kurosawa masterpiece

 

There are at least two Highest 2 Lowest scenes where Spike Lee reaffirms why he’s a legend. The first is a mid-movie train heist, the other is a climactic tête-à-tête in a recording studio. They’re marvelously edited, composed, and paced sequences working flawlessly to create absorbing tension. 39 years after She’s Gotta Have It, Lee’s camera is still so alive with fervor. And to think, he’s exuding that energy while committing what sounds like on par cinematic sacrilege: remaking an Akira Kurosawa movie. 

True, Seven Samurai became The Magnificent Seven to lucrative results, but that and 2022’s Living are the exceptions, not the rules. Who would want to touch this master filmmaker’s most powerful works like Drunken Angel, I Live in Fear, or the crime thriller High & Low? Lee and screenwriter William Alan Fox, though, nail this process by ensuring Highest 2 Lowest is no straightforward retread of an earlier work. High & Low’s narrative skeleton is transported to a story that could only occur in 2025 and with tons of material specifically reflective of Lee’s status in life.

Music industry elder statesman David King (Denzel Washington) can often be read as a stand-in for Lee, himself the long standing icon of his own artistic medium. Happily, this exploration doesn’t become a way for Lee to vent about “the young people and their phones.” On the contrary, one of the loving elements of Fox’s writing and Lee’s camerawork is the emphasis on empathy for the younger generation. It’s important, rather than a tragic inevitability, that the previous generation helps and nurtures new artists.

One of the film’s most gripping scenes chronicles a tense conversation between David and his son Trey (Aubrey Joseph). The former character is refusing to pay a ransom for the son of eternal friend Paul Christopher (Jeffrey Wright), who was mistakenly snagged instead of Trey. While David tries remaining aloof about the whole scenario, the understandably shaken Trey eventually explodes at his father and asks “why don’t you just pay the fucking ransom?” Finally, David is shaken and angry, but only at a younger person daring to defy him. This father chastises his son for swearing at him and reminds him whose roof he’s living under.

It’s a great two-hander scene between Washington and Joseph, not to mention a tragic microcosm of a world prioritizing “respectability” above actually helping people, especially when it comes to the restrictive standards for young individuals. Lee’s filmmaking exudes immense, albeit quiet compassion for Trey here, existing in a world where David is quicker to leap into action against swearing at one’s father than kidnapping. Also, in a likely unintentional bit of stinging political commentary, David is framed in this single-take scene underneath a blue-tinted poster of Kamala Harris. David’s wrapped priorities in this scene of domestic strife echo how that 2024 presidential candidate condemned pro-Palestinian protestors infinitely more sternly than Benjamin Netanyahu. You can do anything you want to people…just don’t be loud or swear, for the sake of folks over 55.

There's a deluge of compelling material in here dealing with age and mortality, including David pleading with framed figures of famous Black musicians in his office for advice in a moment of intense crisis. Highest 2 Lowest, though, especially excels as a transfixing thriller. That aforementioned train heist scene is an especially great display of Lee channeling some gripping Inside Man energy to keep audiences on the edge of their seat. It's also tremendous how much personality from everyday New Yorkers informs this set piece, from folks celebrating Puerto Rican Pride to excited Yankees fans on the subway. 

This great touch provides some Highest 2 Lowest's most enthralling moments (I was cackling so hard at Yankees fans responding to their train abruptly grinding to a halt), but also works like gangbusters accentuating the sequence's tension. The unseen kidnapper could be anyone out here in these dense crowds. David's usually isolated from the world in his penthouse or record executive office. Now, he's knee-deep in the proletariat and unsure of whether he's staring his adversary straight in the face. The multi-layered success of this scene emphasizing ordinary souls crystallizes how well Highest 2 Lowest functions on so many levels.

Alas, one grave flaw keeps threatening to derail the entire enterprise. Despite being a movie about a music executive, Highest 2 Lowest's original score from Howard Drossin. This musician worked as an orchestrator on prior Lee movies for the filmmaker's go-to composer, Terence Blanchard. That legendary composer is dearly missed here since Drossin's tracks are ham-fisted entities lacking any sort of inventive instrumentation or personality. On the contrary, his score often sounds like tunes that would be preloaded onto GarageBand or a public domain website. It's absolutely bizarre watching such amateurish tracks punctuate images of high-profile actors and crisp Matthew Libatique cinematography. 

Needless to say, the dissonance between professional visuals and clumsy music cues is endlessly distracting. If Blanachard couldn't do this movie, wasn't there anyone else to do the score? Perhaps Bobby Krlic, if Lee wanted to keep things in the A24 "family"? Tamar-kali's been overdue for a big movie; she could've done wonders here and given this thriller the propulsive score it needed.

If Drossin's work disappoints, Highest 2 Lowest's biggest pleasant surprise comes from a terrific ASap Rocky turn as the feature's primary villain. Though one of his first times playing a fictional character in a film, Rocky's an absolute natural at captivating audiences and carving out a new character. That third act recording studio tête-à-tête leans heavily on just his screen presence and personality...and ASap Rocky crushes it. What a glorious sight to see him more than holding his own against an icon like Denzel Washington. Delivering that kind of star-making turn alone ensures Highest 2 Lowest is no hollow retread of a beloved Kurosawa film. It's a strong motion picture in its own right, not to mention an unabashedly Spike Lee creative endeavor.

What cis-het white woman nonsense is the original Pitch Perfect?!?

 

Perhaps I hated Pitch Perfect because I didn't watch it in the best circumstances. This is, after all, a film designed in a lab to be experienced when you're a 12-year-old girl at a sleepover or a teenager in the theater with your best friends. A 29-year-old woman watching it alone in her apartment on a Thursday night might not be the optimal experience for consuming this Anna Kendrick star vehicle.

But let's not let Pitch Perfect off the hook. I've watched tons of silly pre-2015 movies aimed at younger viewers alone in my apartment and enjoyed them. Legally Blonde. D.E.B.S. (masterpiece!!!) The Princess Diaries. Heck, I even found outlandish joys in Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle and Herbie: Fully Loaded. The problem here is an aca-awful movie, not the confines in which I watched it. 

You know what separates supreme femme-centric cinema (I refuse to say the phrase "chick flick", blech) from the genre's slop? What differentiates the Legally Blonde's from the How Do You Know's? Like with musicals and horror films, it's all about conviction. You've got to commit to your outlandish premise or kooky characters. You can't chicken out on your silliest elements or suddenly transform a farce into a bunch of people delivering soliloquies about their personal arcs in the third act. 

The excellent Bottoms, for instance, concludes with a delightful mixture of grisly violence and irony-free smooching. But I'm a Cheerleader commits wholeheartedly to doing its own version of "stop the wedding!" sequence (albeit at a graduation ceremony for conversion camp attendees). 2008's Mamma Mia!, meanwhile, doesn't let slower, emotional renditions of "Slipping Through My Fingers" or "When All Is Said and Done" disrupt its drunk karaoke party groove.

Director Jason Moore and screenwriter (Kay Cannon*) exhibit no such chutzpah or fun in their Pitch Perfect creative vision. For those unaware, the film concerns withdrawn college student Beca Mitchell (Anna Kendrick) at college at the insistence of her father. Mitchell doesn't want to get close to anyone, she's just interested in getting out of here and pursuing her DJ dreams. However, she soon joins the school's a cappella group, the Barden Bellas, who are trying to shake things up this year by recruiting new talent like Fat Amy (Rebel Wilson). Bellas' leader Aubrey Posen (Anna Camp) strictly sticks to tradition and old 20th-century pop tunes for their performances. Beca, though, ends up getting an urge to shake things up big time in this domain.

I hate how everyone talks in Pitch Perfect. There's no more eloquent or artistic way to put it, this film's style of dialogue irritated me to no end. Every single character exchanges the same sarcasm-drenched verbiage. It's an entire movie of people talking like Ryan Reynolds. This doesn't just ensure that the individual Pitch Perfect characters fail to sound different from one another. It also guarantees that every inch of this feature is drenched in snark. Nobody can exhibit affection for anything (music, movies, cappella performances, etc.) without following it up with a snarky "well, that happened!" retort.

At one point, upon seeing that her fellow Bellas members waited up for her after she was arrested, Becca launches into a brief monologue about how this group could something special if it got with the times. A competent movie would've let this display of vulnerability sit on its own and simmer. Instead, Becca immediately follows that display of passion by going "oh my god, that was so queerballs."The mood of the scene has been punctured and, even worse, viewers have been forced to hear the most arcane of early 2010s internet slang. Pitch Perfect is a movie constantly reassuring viewers it doesn't care about anything. With such an abrasive attitude, why should I care what happens to these singers?

Also, why does Pitch Perfect have such contempt for its characters? Bobcat Goldthwait's intentionally bleak comedies like World's Greatest Dad have more compassion for their fictional denizens than this uber-mainstream yukfest. Singer Stacie Conrad (Alexis Knapp) is around only to get mocked for being sexually active. Singer Cynthia Rose Adams (Ester Dean), meanwhile, has one trait, and it's that she's a lesbian. You can tell because she's always groping other women without their consent.  

What's with all these tired slut-shaming and gay panic jokes? It's not even that they're "offensive." It's that they're so tired and lack imagination. These aren't characters worth getting invested in, they're just weird put-downs of women who don't adhere to a rigid standard of "proper" femininity (read: skinny, white, cis-het). It all results in a movie that's mean-spirited yet doesn't have the guts to go full-John Waters on its cruelty or darkness. It wants to instead be as much of a crowdpleaser as Legally Blonde or Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle. Needless to say, that doesn't work. You'd need genuine bonds between women characters and constant fun to reach those levels, not footage seemingly cribbed from a gender-bent remake of Van Wilder.

Even more insulting than all that is how dismal Pitch Perfect's visual sensibilities are. I don't think Moore and cinematographer Julio Macat ever unleashed fun or unexpected camera positions the entire film. Nor does the position of the camera accentuate various punchlines. Instead, Moore and Macat keep the camera static and opt for unimaginative shot compositions whenever possible. That's true even when people are belting out tunes on stage. Other music-centric movies and musicals use crooning as a springboard for visually lively camerawork. Not so here. Stale framing permeates intimate conversations and splashy musical performances alike. There's no vivid verve in Pitch Perfect's visuals of characters singing. Instead, it's just the laziest, choppiest camerawork imaginable. 

Such slipshod imagery especially sucks all the energy out of a finale that, on paper, should've won me over without breaking a sweat. How the heck do you make me, of all people, find a musical finale focused exclusively on ladies jubilantly belting their hearts out insufferable? Center the whole sequence around a Breakfast Club homage, of course. Hinging the set piece around reminding audiences of a famous movie is such insulting laziness. While the SNL short Dear Sister uses pre-existing pop culture as a springboard for new comedic lunacy, Pitch Perfect is content to just regurgitate a famous teen movie ending. It's all good, though, because Becca earlier wryly criticized cheeseball movie endings. That makes it okay to indulge in a cliche. 

In every respect imaginable, Pitch Perfect is an off-key disappointment. It functions neither as a crowd-pleaser movie about women friendship nor a dark comedy centered on hysterically despicable souls. Instead, it's a vehicle for the most exhausted jokes about queer, fat, or non-white women. Moore also fills up the screen with so many interchangeable white dudes, including a flat, personality-free lead turn from Skylar Astin. Even the soundtrack is just a menagerie of 2009-2011 pop radio staples and truly terrible renditions of those tunes at that. How do you make "Party in the U.S.A." devoid of zip? Such is the magic of Pitch Perfect, which constantly undercuts seemingly surefire recipes for cinematic joy.

I do have to give this project one major kudo, though. Pitch Perfect has finally convinced me I have the courage to watch Pier Paolo Pasolini's Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom. I'm sure there's plenty of depraved, disturbing, and nightmare-inducing imagery in that feature. However, nothing Pasolini can conjure up will possibly be even a tenth as disturbing to witness as a Pitch Perfect sequence where Anna Kendrick sings an entire "No Diggity" verse. A wise Dan Olson put it best: "this is cringe." Beyond making me feel more prepared for eventually confronting Salò, Pitch Perfect, like Charlie Sheen jokes or "epic bacon" memes, is early 2010s culture that needs to rot in the past.

* = Between Pitch Perfect and 2021's Cinderella abomination, I'm beginning to think Cannon's delightful and surprisingly moving 2018 comedy Blockers was a fluke. Seriously, how did the writer of those two bad movies also produce something as funny as John Cena not knowing how quotation marks work?

The Fantastic Four: First Steps is fun, visually splendid, and a tad emotionally aloof

 

It's a 21st-century year ending in the number five, so you know what that means. It's time for a new reboot of the Fantastic Four. This time, Marvel's First Family are directed by WandaVision helmer Matt Shakman and don't waste time with an origin story. Taking place in an alternate dimension in 1964, screenwriters Josh Friedman, Eric Pearson, Jeff Kaplan, and Ian Springer begin The Fantastic Four: First Steps in media res with Sue Storm/The Invisible Woman (Vanessa Kirby) discovering she's pregnant.

 Upon telling the news to husband Reed Richards/Mr. Fantastic (Pedro Pascal), she reassures him, even with a kid on the way, "nothing's going to change."

How ironic she'd say that since the Fantastic Four are more aware than anyone how inevitable change is. This quartet of souls, which also includes Johnny Storm/The Human Torch (Joseph Quinn) and Ben Grimm/The Thing (Ebon Moss-Bachrach), went on a routine trip to outer space and came back with superpowers, after all. You can’t beat back change, no matter how many lives oy save or fires you extinguish.

Further upheaval emerges when the cosmic entity Silver Surfer (Julia Garner) descends into Times Square and tells the Earth’s population that the planet will soon be devoured by her superior: Galactus (Ralph Ineson). Now, the Fantastic Four must save our world while juggling an expanding family.

The last three 21^st century Fantastic Four movies were clearly trepidatious on the unabashedly goofy exploits these characters get into in the comics. That’s why Rise of the Silver Surfer turned Galactus into a cloud, 2015’s Fantastic Four drained all the color from their world, and Doctor Doom was never handled well across all these productions. First Steps, meanwhile, ditches any self-conciousness or Joss Whedon-style quips to lend gravity to these unabashedly ludicrous crime-fighters. These superheroes don’t just suddenly resemble their comic incarnations but are realized with a sense of reverence.

Unfortunately, this also inspires a drier aesthetic that sometimes kept me at arm’s length. In trying to realize The Fantastic Four “properly”, the script is often too buttoned-up for its own good. Extended scenes focus on rehashing Archimedes quotes rather than finding more visually or emotionally exhilarating ways of communicating information. Plus, despite First Steps wanting to be a character-driven piece, awkward filmmaking issues (namely in the editing and pacing) undercut those ambitions.

Grimm’s two nighttime voyages to his childhood home of Yancy Street are especially plagued with distracting continuity issues and clumsy ADR. It’s hard to understand his interior world through such peculiar visual shortcomings. A slower pacing and emphasis on dialogue isn’t enough to lend immediate weight to your movie if we never get closer to the characters or themes.

Thankfully, First Steps is a sumptuous treat in its outfits and sets, which helps keep the endeavor afloat during its choppiest, exposition-skewing sequences. Production designer Kasra Farahani and costume designer Alexndra Byrne’s exquisite work unabashedly leans into a retro-futuristic aesthetic littered with colors. Domiciles like the Fantastic Four’s living room inspire you to crane your neck to catch all the neat details and intricacies in every corner. In a summer where F1, Ballarina, and Jurassic World Rebirth filled movie theater screens with such drab backdrops, First Steps dares to embrace tactile, imaginative scenery.

Similarly commendable is Shakman’s willingness to go whole-hog on cosmic mayhem. There’s a mid-movie chase sequence in the cosmos involving the Silver Surfer that’s like if Interstellar and Baby Driver fused together. Watching this thrilling set piece, it’s hard to remember a time back in 2010 when internet commentors understandably wondered if Thor could ever work in a movie. Galactus, meanwhile, appears on-screen in bright sunlight adorned in a glistening, purple outfit that’s incredibly appealing to the eye.

Juxtaposing that delightfully maximalist material with distinctly 60s elements, such as recording mysterious alien languages on vinyl records, creates irresistibly enjoyable dissonance. Just as entertaining is watching Vanessa Kirby absolutely crush it as Sue Storm/The Invisible Woman. Her immense performing chops from The World to Come are superbly utilized as Storm implores a crowd to express compassion towards her baby. Shakman and the writers exude great confidence in not capping the sequence with either a joke or big action beat. They just let the raw emotions and plea for empathy simmer. Plus, who needs a quip or explosion when the famously visceral talents of Kirby are on hand?

Meanwhile, Ebon Moss-Bacharach and Ralph Ineson leave no crumbs as the most heightened First Steps characters. The former performer especially nailed the lived-in gruffness that’s always made The Thing such a great character. Ineson, meanwhile, channels the towering sense of authority that’s always served him well in projects like The VVitch or The Green Knight. Galactus could’ve just been another CG comic book movie finale baddie. Thankfully, with Ineson around, there’s a palpable danger and commanding aura to this larger-than-life being.

The greatest actor in the feature, though, is Paul Walter Hauser in a brief appearance as Fantastic Four foe Harvey Elder/The Mole Man. In his one big third-act scene, Hauser shows up talking in a slightly higher-pitched voice while his cadence lends dramatic emphasis on every word he says. He doesn’t just apologize to Sue Storm, he’ll say things like “Sorry Sue…(brief dramatic pause) END of days, you know.”

This audacious approach is an absolute riot, especially since it’s so different from this tremendously talented actors prior performances in movies like I, Tonya and BlacKkKlansman. Unfortunately, it also made me wish more of the First Steps cast had gone in that direction. If everyone’s performances (save for Ineson, Moss-Bachrach, and Kirby) had been modulated in this direction, First Steps could’ve leapfrogged from being a fun summertime viewing to something truly special.

The Fantastic Four: First Steps is still an enjoyable watch, though, especially in its little displays of characterization. Anytime Johnny and Ben act like adolescent brothers with their bickering, I was grinning from ear-to-ear. Ditto any of the instances where Johnny’s scratching helpful robot servant H.E.R.B.I.E.’s. head. Best of all, First Steps, unlike other superhero movies such as Eternals (which I do have a soft spot for otherwise), doesn’t abandon its better qualities for a noisy CG-laden finale.

Instead, the climactic showdown with Galactus is a natural extension of pre-established character beats, not to mention a lot of fun to watch. Hinging this duel around Sue Storm is also an inspired decision lending emotional grounding to a very heightened skirmish. As a whole feature, First Steps needed more That Thing You Do! energy and less buttoned-up Interstellar vibes. Thankfully, its emotional moments hit more often than not and its sense of showmanship (especially in the stories second-half) is strong. Contrary to what Sue Storm says, change is indeed inevitable. That reality ensures this latest Fantastic Four reboot significantly improves on its predecessors, even if it’s summer 2025’s weakest superhero feature. 

I Got Suckered Into Watching Pete Davidson's The Home. Now It's Time to Vent About It

 

MASSIVE SPOILERS FOR THE HOME BELOW

Last night, I got cinematically bamboozled, there’s no other word for it. 

So, my local AMC held a Secret Horror Movie Screening on Monday, July 21. Nobody in the audience would know what the film was before those fateful opening logos appeared. I was convinced the screening was for 2025 Sundance sensation Together. After all, this showing's runtime matched Together’s perfectly. Plus, Neon and Bloody Disgusting were hosting word-of-mouth screenings for the film on July 21. Surely this was part of that. 

Nope! 

As the Roadside Attractions and Lionsgate logos filled the screen, it became clear I and the other moviegoers in that room were not in for Together. Instead, we were watching The Home, a fright-fest starring Pete Davidson from writer/director James DeMonaco (Adam Cantor also penned the script). It was unquestionably a chilling movie, just not remotely in any of its intended ways. At least it functioned as a vivid 95-minute reminder of how those Purge movies finally got good once series creator DeMonaco wasn't directing them.

The Home begins depicting lead character Max (Pete Davidson) just coasting through life as a troublemaker. As excessive, poorly-written flashbacks make clear, he’s still haunted by the loss of his foster brother Luke decades earlier. In the present, Max’s dad remarks “ever since Luke died…” like this happened a few months ago, not nearly two decades earlier. Anyway, Max has taken to being a real rascal. He's smoking weed, covered in tattoos, and spray painting environmentally conscious graffiti on buildings. What a rebel without a cause. After getting arrested for that graffiti, Max is sentenced to work at a local retirement home. This is his "last strike" after previous run-ins with the law.

At this domicile, Max is given lots of duties by boss Dr. Sabian (Bruce Altman) as well as a handful of strict requirements. One of those is to never venture onto the establishment's fourth floor. Once Max does that, he discovers a wing full of elderly souls confined to wheelchairs, howling in immense pain. This and other constant bizarre happenings at his new workplace lead him to believe that something terrible is going on. Now this guy's questioning authority once more and diving into the conspiracies of what's going on in this location.

It's borderline impressive how DeMonaco and Cantor's The Home script is so incompetent at building tension. For one thing, the duo immediately makes the retirement community a weird place where elderly ladies seductively flicker their tongues at Max, and people bleed out of their foreheads during pool aerobics. There's no sense of atmospheric pacing in The Home. What you see is exactly what you get in this project. Great horror movies like Society, both Suspiria's, or The Texas Chain Saw Massacre just get more and more unhinged as their stories progress. The Home, meanwhile, just exists as a horror cinema flat-line from the moment the studio logos end. 

Meanwhile, Max's tremendously easy ability to access that "forbidden" fourth floor further undermines internal anxiety. Granted, it's not as devastating to the production as truly wretched instances of ADR (Automated Dialogue Replacement, dialogue recorded in post-production). Tahar Rahim's comically bad ADR in Madame Web would be proud of the awkward execution of various Home lines. Too often, security camera footage or other unnerving images are accompanied by an off-screen Pete Davidson either over-explaining what's happening or dropping superfluous observations like, "what the fuck are you doing, old man?" 

The Home doesn't trust its audience to understand the simplest visuals, which means the whole film is papered over in amateurishly incorporated ADR'd expository dialogue. It's a byproduct of what this feature's shoddily assembled status. Todd E. Miller's editing, for instance, is incredibly choppy, even when it comes to the most mundane, static conversations. At least his poor visual impulses create one or two instances of unintentionally hilarious comedy. Most notably, there's an ominous Home sequence that immediately cuts to a wide shot of Pete Davidson sullenly using a leaf-blower outside. Swerving right from Z-grade horror to an image of Davidson channeling the energy of an eight-year-old forced to do his chores had me chuckling.

Also generating inadvertent chuckles is the utterly stupid interior politics of The Home. Initially, DeMonaco and Cantor's script has constant references to global warming (including through an extended televised "debate" playing as background audio for one scene) and even features a temporary explanation for the retirement home's evil rooted in U.S. government experimentation. Then, the third act swerves to reveal that this whole story has been about elderly people kidnapping young folks. This way, folks like Dr. Sabian and Lou (John Glover) can extract "nectar" behind these youthful right eyes that keeps them eternally young. So it all devolves into imagining "what if QAnon-adjacent nonsense was real?". Where are all these contradictory political leanings going?

Nowhere! It's just sporadically amusing that The Home invokes the most surface-level versions imaginable of leftist and right-wing friendly talking points. This is such a stupid movie, right down to it only knowing political terms like "global warming" without having any thoughts or commentary to offer on them. It's infuriating that such idiotic cinema gets financing and major theatrical releases, but the staggering incompetence is certainly something to witness. Eventually, all those references to 2020s political matters dissipate for the only reason anyone will talk about The Home. For the film's final eight minutes, Max is restored to health through the youthful eye nectar of other fourth-floor patients. Then, he grabs an axe and hammer and proceeds to viciously slaughter all the evil retirement home employees and residents. 

Did you ever watch Oldboy's hallway fight scene and wish Choi Min-sik was played instead by Pete Davidson? For that one weirdo out there, The Home is your must-see movie. The sight of Chad from Saturday Night Live drenched head-to-toe in blood snapping elderly bones is certainly a commendably "WTF" sight. Unfortunately, even this set piece reflects The Home's failure as a movie. After all, there's just not much tension in whether or not Pete Davidson can beat up Lex Luthor's dad from Smallville. Opting for a tidy, happy ending, meanwhile, is just another cop-out in a film full of wasted potential. 

The antithesis to quality, frightening horror cinema, The Home will become infamous among scary film aficionados for being humorously bad (oh God, I didn't even bring up the exposition-laden "secret room" in Max's childhood home that contains a shrine to the Goddess of youth). Even in that regard, though, this is no Assassin 33 A.D. or Birdemic in the realm of constantly hysterical subpar genre fare. The Home turgidly vomits back up jump scares, plot points, and visuals (including  DeMonaco's love for kooky masks from The Purge) from infinitely superior chilling motion pictures. It's an insultingly bad enterprise that would've gotten on my nerves even if I hadn't had my hopes of seeing Together early dashed.

So How Did Superman Did In its Second Box Office Weekend?

 

It was clear earlier this week that something special was brewing with Superman's domestic box office run. After a strong $125 million start, this title kept having incredibly remarkable holds from one day to the next during the week. That included leaping 33% from Monday to Tuesday, a significantly better than usual hold across those two days for a July superhero movie. Good word-of-mouth was clearly working in Superman's favor...but would it hold on for its second North American frame? The answer turned out to be a resounding yes.

Superman grossed another $58.5 million this weekend, a great 53% drop from its opening. That's slightly better than the second-weekend declines than Deadpool & Wolverine and Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse. It's also way better than typical July superhero movie second weekend holds. Usually, these family-friendly titles burn off enough demand in the week that Spider-Man: Homecoming, Captain America: The First Avenger, and Ant-Man and the Wasp have 60-61% drops before stabilizing the following frame. Superman, meanwhile, held steady with a drop in the low 50s. 

Meanwhile, its second gross was noticeably bigger than the second frame of Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, despite that 2016 feature having a $40 million bigger debut than Superman. What's going on with these holds and strong figures?

This is totally conjecture on my part, but one has to wonder if there was a segment of the population that was a bit dubious about a new Superman movie. Those individuals may have sat out last weekend, but then decided to give James Gunn's newest feature a go thanks to the positive word-of-mouth of this motion picture. Superman's certainly become a point of positive conversation online and in the real world. Just look at the affectionate memes sprouting up in the last week over things like David Corenswet's Superman grinning while lying down. With the feature taking off like this, initially hesitant moviegoers might've finally dived in just to join in on the chatter. Meanwhile, the bouncy, colorful, and upbeat atmosphere of Superman makes it prime for revisits, which could've also contributed to the smaller holds.

Plus, hey, maybe something this hopeful is actually something people didn't know they desperately needed until the word-of-mouth on Superman took off. The biggest hit movies throughout history tend to satiate audience demands that nobody in Hollywood could've predicted before they debuted. Who thought, for instance, moviegoers would gravitate towards Avatar's classical and brightly-colored storytelling in an era of gritty reboots? Similarly, Superman turned out to be just the blockbuster palette cleanser folks were looking for when it came to the superhero movie realm. Even with The Fantastic Four: First Steps on the way, it's doubtful all this good word-of-mouth is about to vanish. Expect this title to keep on rocking and rolling for the rest of the summer.

Fans of dogs, colorful costumes, and memorable Nicholas Hoult performances unite: Superman is an uplifting treat

A dozen Julys ago, Guillermo del Toro's Pacific Rim clobbered its way onto the big screen. This monster movie took the skeleton of classic Kaiju films but blew them up enormously in scale while maintaining a zippy tone and vibrant color scheme. The point wasn't to translate these older genre films into "grounded" modern contexts. It was to just give them a scope and budget that was never previously possible.

James Gunn's Superman has similar ambitions in mind. However, the screenwriter behind The Specials and The Belko Experiment is not interested in just making a $200+ million version of the George Reeves Superman TV show or the Christopher Reeve Superman movies. Instead, this is the most lavish spiritual and visual Spy Kids sequel one could imagine witnessing.

That's not a complaint either. Superman is a classical, kid-friendly movie to a tee, bursting with enough bright colors to fill up a Lisa Frank coloring book. It's also another indicator that Gunn (following the Guardians of the Galaxy trilogy and The Suicide Squad) has a gift for satisfying crowdpleaser blockbusters. "It just comes natural," as a wise George Strait once crooned.

Beginning in media res, Gunn's Superman picks up three years into Superman/Clark Kent's (David Corenswet) stint as a Metropolis crime-fighter. The kind-hearted Kryptonian is in hot water with certain souls after stepping into a foreign conflict. Specifically, he stopped Boravian (DC's equivalent to Russia or Israel) soldiers from invading the neighboring country of Jarhanpur (DC's equivalent to Ukraine or Palestine). 

Even while mired in controversy, Superman's opening scene shows that this friendly alien isn't stopping his quest to protect the innocent. When he isn't fighting robots or monsters, Superman takes on the alias of mild-mannered Daily Planet reporter Clark Kent. Also working at this institution are intrepid reporter Jimmy Olsen (Skyler Gisondo) and dynamic journalist/Kent's love interest Lois Lane (Rachel Brosnahan).

Superman's juggling of these two halves of his identity becomes even more challenging thanks to Lex Luthor's (Nicholas Hoult) wicked machinations. This billionaire's seething hatred for this Kryptonian inspires a complicated evil plan that involves infiltrating Superman's Fortress of Solitude and getting the public to turn even more hostile towards the symbol of truth, justice, and DC Comics merchandise. "Who am I?" is the question Superman grapples with as Luthor's cruelty ramps up and threatens even more innocent lives. Also factoring into the proceedings are Justice Gang superheroes Mister Terrific (Edi Gathegi), Kendra Saunders/Hawkgirl (Isabela Merced), and Guy Gardner/Green Lantern (Nathan Fillion), as well Luthor's nefarious helpers like The Engineer (María Gabriela de Faría).

Call Superman a key line from Smash Mouth's All-Star because this thing "hits the ground running." Picking up right as Superman is in the middle of a battle with a mechanical adversary, this superhero film wisely eschews origin stories for its principal heroes and villains. Why build up the entire movie to Luthor's head finally getting shaved? Much like the animated Spider-Verse movies, Superman recognizes that its oversized, colorful characters are pretty self-explanatory. Nathan Fillion's immediate jerky swagger as Guy Gardner, for instance, says more about this character's interiority than any 100-minute origin story ever could. Why not, then, just hop right into the fun stuff instead of dragging everyone's feet through yards of lore?

The drawback to this plot approach, though, is that the more grounded human character in Gunn's Superman script often struggles to get heard. Big costumed crime-fighters and expository dialogue about "pocket dimensions" and Luthor's wicked plans are the storytelling priorities. Players like the Daily Planet crew, meanwhile, vanish for long stretches of screentime. Granted, I'm biased in craving more of Mikela Hoover's adorably-realized Cat Grant. Still, a third act where these journalists are immensely disconnected from the action encapsulates how Superman's crowded script can't give everyone the room they need. Even Lois Lane sometimes feels like an afterthought in these spectacle-driven proceedings.

Luckily, what Gunn's script excels at is comic book mayhem and pathos. Happily, the former element involves plenty of bright colors, including Mister Terrific's use of vivid red hues in his drones or the various complexions populating an ominous river Superman briefly gets trapped in. Much like how Gunn previously made no bones about bringing characters like Rocket Raccoon and Starro to live-action, so too do the likes of Metamorpho (Anthony Carrigan) or Krypto leap to the silver screen with transfixing visual conviction. All these qualities inform a slew of fun action sequences (such as squabbling superheroes fighting a monster with everything from robots to massive oven mitts) brimming with excitement. The third act especially delivers a cornucopia of awesome crowdpleaser moments destined to send audiences everywhere (and a certain bimbo lady film critic) into fits of gleeful clapping.

In addition to just being a lot of fun to watch, Superman also demonstrates how much Gunn has grown as a screenwriter in terms of pathos. Gunn's earliest days featured a borderline nihilist streak in his non-Scooby-Doo work (an inevitable byproduct of his Troma upbringing). In 2000s The Specials, every ramshackle superhero had seething contempt for each other while the "normal" people were mostly idiots. 2006's Slither, meanwhile, saw Gunn viewing rural America as being full of "yokels" whose only value was in getting monstrously transformed by slug aliens.

Since then, Gunn has used his superheroes to grow as a writer and exhibit a more nuanced approach to the human race. The guy who previously used his characters as just punching bags for sometimes amusing dark comedy now crafts films where King Shark longingly gazes out at the "ordinary people" he wishes he could be. Much like with the most heightened Guardians of the Galaxy and The Suicide Squad moments, Superman exhibits tremendous affection for its silliest concepts and characters.  Some comic book movies make "yellow spandex" jokes about their source material's most outlandish qualities. Superman continues the welcome James Gunn trend of not just embracing comic book silliness, but uncovering the rich pathos within conceptually ludicrous material. 

Laser vision and ice breath are not Superman's greatest superpowers. Instead, it's those quiet, affecting moments (devoid of any self-conscious, intrusive quips) that are this feature's greatest strength. "You see everyone as...beautiful," Lois Lane tells Superman at one point. Gunn's script also sees beauty in everyone who inhabits this world. From everyday Kansas residents like Ma (Neva Howell) and Pa Kent (Pruitt Taylor Vance) to folks selling falafel on the street to robots with no consciousness to Lex Luthor's girlfriend Eve Teschmacher (Sara Sampaio). 

Modern misguided attempts at "old-school" comic book movies like Wonder Woman 1984 failed partially because they didn't seem to love their characters. Superman, meanwhile, wants to give even its most fleeting inhabitants a hug. Gunn's camera lovingly lingers on the little bits of life in this universe, like Krypto playing with cows or ordinary citizens looking out for one another when disasters strike Metropolis. Best of all, there's an outstanding sequence where Pa Kent comforts a dejected Clark with words of wisdom like "parents aren't good at letting their kids discover themselves...we give them the tools to make fools of themselves." Who knew the man behind the sometimes wearily edgelord dialogue of The Specials would one day write such intimate poignant dialogue.

That's another great virtue of this latest reimagining of Jerry Siegel and Joe Schuster's lastingly influential creation. Every cast member gets to leave a positive impression, a happy byproduct of Superman's default heightened acting style. That includes David Corenswet, an extraordinary discovery as the film's main superhero. There's nary even a hint of irony in his delivery of Superman lines like "dang it!" or "what they hey, dude?" He just feels like he walked right out of a classic Superman comic (or All-Star Superman, the more modern publication that heavily influenced this 2025 film). 

Corenswet also had dynamite chemistry with Rachel Brosnahan, whose spunky Lois Lane is an endless delight. Nicholas Hoult, meanwhile, is a deliciously wicked treat as Lex Luthor. Hoult's performance absolutely radiates ceaseless malice just in his insufferable facial expressions. It's a delightful turn, especially following up his wildly varied (yet consistently impressive) work in late 2024 features like The Order and Nosferatu.

Among supporting players, Gathegi is the MVP as Mister Terrific, particularly in how he's able to maintain a consistent stoic expression while demonstrating outstanding comic timing. Gisonodo is also a hoot, I'm so glad Gunn's screenplay features a mid-movie digression where his Jimmy Olsen basically goes on his own mini-adventure. Superman's great discovery, though, is Sara Sampaio channeling big Chrissy Chlapecka energy as Eve Teschmacher. Right from this movie's first post-title card scene, Sampaio's physicality portraying Teschmacher snapping selfies had me rolling. There's also such love in Sampai's performance, though, that makes the character extra transfixing. This performer isn't realizing Lex Luthor's girlfriend as a caricature but with real affection and humanity (all while scoring big laughs).

Superman's flaws (like certain sets or colors not looking as sharp as they could've been if captured on film) are unmistakable, particularly when it comes to an exceedingly crowded plot. However, it's hard to care that much when the feature nails the poignancy, performances, and fun with so much flair. Channeling Spy Kids vibes turn out to be a good look for Superman, especially since it means James Gunn unabashedly embraces sentimentality and heightened spectacle. With such confidence, no wonder Superman produces so much showmanship and excitement.

It took Hollywood 44 years, but this superhero finally got another sublime movie. If you're looking for an energetic summer blockbuster that'll make you cheer, well, to paraphrase a pair of tunes from the 1966 Broadway musical It's a Bird... It's a Plane... It's Superman*, Superman has  "got what [you] need" since it's "super nice".

* = Hey, I actually saw this show during its summer 2010 Dallas Theater Center run. I had no idea it was at the time "reviled" and odd to do a revival of the show. 14-year-old Lisa Laman just assumed, since Spider-Man: Turn Off The Dark was in the news at the time, that every comic book superhero eventually got a Broadway musical. I also remember being very confused why Superman was facing off against generic scientists and bank robber baddies instead of contending with Lex Luthor or Brainiac.