Till is a deeply human biopic with a mesmerizing lead performance

 

Mamie Till (Danielle Deadwyler) was insistent to her son, Emmett Till (Jalyn Hall), that he be careful when going down to visit cousins in Money, Mississippi. She wanted to make him aware of the hardships and brutality they hadn't been exposed to on a day-to-day basis living their existence in Chicago. Even with the knowledge that something awful could happen, though, nothing could've prepared her for what happened when Till and his cousins went to a corner store one day on this trip. Till's interactions with a white woman, Carolyn Bryant (Haley Bennett), would lead to a pair of white men coming in the middle of the night, grabbing Emmett Till, and lynching him. Afterward, his body was so mutilated that some coroners had trouble identifying the body. But Mamie Till knew. Just one touch of the corpse and she knew this was her son.

Till is a movie whose plot is set into motion through violence, but it's also about how the desecration of a human life lasts long after a vicious murder. The second of the screenplay, penned by director Chinonye Chukwu as well as Michael Reilly and Keith Beauchamp, is largely focused on an attempt to get a trial going to exact some kind of justice for Till. In the process, we see warped testimonies that not only offer falsehoods about Emmett Tilly's character, but also further demonstrations of how the American justice system fails Black voices. The fact that this is just as true today as it was in 1955 when Emmett Till was murdered means that Till isn't covering unprecedented territory in modern cinema. But the execution of this material still contains some weight, nonetheless.

Much of that power can be chalked up to Chukwu's filmmaking, which is just as vibrant and insightfully human as it was on Clemency. Her affection for intimate shots that linger on human beings processing devastating information, with vivid facial expressions speaking volumes, returns from her 2019 motion picture. That affinity for quieter depictions of grief is what really sells the emotional undercurrent of Till. A scene of Emmet Till's grandmother, Alma (Whoopi Goldberg), sitting on her bed next to Mamie, solely repeating the words "I told him to go down there" quietly is such a devastating and specific portrayal of coping with the aftermath of the unthinkable. Chukwu and cinematographer Bobby Bukowski framing this moment from afar in an unbroken shot is a terrific visual detail that lets the sorrow of this moment sink in.

Similarly, Till's visual palette makes heavy use of bright and vivid colors, a welcome departure from the often drab color choices of other mid-20th-century period pieces. The walls of a building belonging to the NAACP is coated in bright teal while the home of Mamie Till is packed with hues of pink and yellow. Even down in Mississippi, especially in a town exclusively inhabited by Black individuals, brighter colors populate the screen. Not only does this give Till a memorable look, but it also subtly provides a thoughtful depiction of how and where danger can manifest for marginalized people. Emmett Till isn't just in danger in places coated in a grey color-graded hue added in post-production. Even places featuring a shining blue sky or brightly-colored trucks can be home to danger and violence. 

The strong visual sensibilities of Till can't, unfortunately, mitigate some of its weaker elements. Confining this movie to a shorter portion of Mamie and Emmett Till's lives ensures that it doesn't fall into the cradle-to-the-grave problems that plague many biopics, but it still falls prey to some common issues in this genre. More pressingly, Abel Korzeniowski's score often intrudes on the emotions of key scenes. While the camerawork and performances often aim for subtlety, Korzeniowski's compositions make it overtly apparent what we're supposed to be feeling and when. It doesn't help that his work is surprisingly generic-sounding, especially considering his much more distinctive compositions in prior features like A Single Man.

Though not without its shortcomings, Till is another strong drama from director Chinonye Chukwu. Much like her 2019 film Clemency, Till also features a powerhouse lead performance, in this case, a dynamite turn from Danielle Deadwyler. Whether she's reacting to the news of her son's murder through just facial expressions or giving passionate speeches in court, Deadwyler is mesmerizing. Even as Mamie Till becomes more and more involved in activism in the wake of losing Emmett Till, Deadwyler never forgets to convey a tangible sense of humanity in her portrayal of Mamie. It's a stirring performance that, when combined with the smart visual choices of Chukwu, makes Till a much better-than-average American biopic.

The Inspection excels in its acting and writing

 

The quietly thoughtful nature of The Inspection is communicated almost right from the start of Elegance Bratton's screenplay (he also directs this quasi-autobiographical yarn). Most films with LGBTQIA+ leads that are heavy on weighty drama depict queer characters existing in total isolation from any larger queer community. Here, though, protagonist Ellis French (Jeremy Pope) is shown encountering openly queer pals on the subway station and sharing a pivotal conversation with a self-described "old queen" in a homeless shelter. Queer lives are everywhere from the start of The Inspection and French is well-aware of both that and his own orientation. Emphasizing this lends a sense of realism and a lived-in quality to The Inspection from frame one and kicks the movie off on the right foot.

From here, French decides to enlist in the Marine Corps, much to the befuddlement of his disapproving and intolerant mother, Inez French (Gabrielle Union). This is 2005, the final years of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell", so French is aiming to keep his head down, not attract much attention, and maybe even avoid being coded as "gay" by his fellow soldiers who would rather die than be queer. Unfortunately, the truth always comes out and it isn't long before his fellow marines, including the incredibly homophobic instructor Leland Laws (Bokeem Woodbine), know the truth. Thus begins a lengthy trial of turmoil for French as he tries to endure in an environment that doesn't want him to exist in the first place.

The Inspection is a harrowing movie with some appropriately uncomfortable scenes to watch, but one of the best facets of its screenplay is something akin to The Lonely Island's "Spring Break Anthem"; a depiction of how queerness is demonized in general society but pronounced depictions of heterosexuality are A-OK. The hypocritical nature of these norms is amusingly rendered in moments like the same soldiers who're terrified of even touching shoulders with French getting into a frothy passion over images of naked women. Bratton frames these double standards as absurdly amusing, but there's also a layer of darkness here. Gays must be quiet on all matters, while the straights can go as loud as they want in their expressions of sexual desires.

It's a theme that intriguingly runs throughout The Inspection while Bratton's screenplay demonstrates further creativity in eschewing a standard character arc for how French and his marine comrades get along. Normally, one would imagine they'd all start as enemies before gradually becoming friends as the movie progresses. Bratton, though, opts to make things more complicated than that. Some enemies become allies, but there's often a "two steps forward, two steps back" approach in how French grows close to people like Laurence Harvey (Raul Castillo). Going this route injects further realism into the proceedings while making one never certain just where French's journey will take him.

Bratton and cinematographer Lachlan Milne's visual sensibilities in The Inspection aren't quite as idiosyncratic as the film's many narrative flourishes. However, the film is never incoherent in terms of its imagery, and its competent camerawork never subdued the great performance scattered throughout the cast. A sequence depicting the interior yearning mind of French does make great use of bright colors, smoke, and dreamlike visuals to make for a vivid dive into this man's mind and an appropriate contrast to the intentionally subdued aesthetic of the rest of the feature. I wouldn't have minded more scenes like that, departures from reality that allow us to center French's desires over just his turmoil, but what we do get suggests Bratton does have some range as a visualist.

The Inspection is overall a strong movie, but even if its script and editing were trash (which they aren't, for the record), it would still be worth the price of admission just to discover Jeremy Pope's talents as an actor. In his first lead role in a motion picture (he's previously been a veteran of the stage and starred in two Ryan Murphy-produced TV shows), Pope is captivating. French is a character who often has to juggle layers of different personalities just to get through the day at this Marine training camp. Handling all of those layers could've resulted in a jumbled performance, but Pope gracefully communicates so many disparate parts of French's psyche even when he's just standing there waiting for orders from a commanding officer. It's a tremendous performance that wrings maximum pathos out of an understated part.

The supporting performances are also great, with Union playing a great subversion of her normal silver screen persona while casting the always compelling and authoritative Woodbine as a military sergeant was a stroke of genius. The Inspection is a feast for those who appreciate good acting and incredibly sharp writing. While it could've stood to have a little more panache in its visuals, The Inspection, as seen by the quietly subversive writing in its opening scenes, is well worth standing up and saluting.

Triangle of Sadness is a sometimes rocky but always compelling voyage

 

In talking about why Titanic proved so interesting to moviegoers, writer/director James Cameron has said that he saw the ship as functioning as a microcosm of the world. Viewers could see the lines between classes in modern societies sharper than ever in the context of a ship, while the people who were most impacted first by the ship sinking were also the ones most disadvantaged financially, just as the impoverished are the ones who first experience the devastation of climate change. Filmmaker Ruben Östlund has returned with Triangle of Sadness, another social satire from this director distinguished in his filmography by embracing Cameron's concept of a big ship working as a metaphor for broader society. Within Triangle of Sadness, though, there's a tad more on-screen vomit and excrement compared to the movie where Jack and Rose fell in love.

Split across three sections, Triangle of Sadness is focused on a collection of disgustingly rich people. This includes a young couple Carl (Harris Dickinson), a male model, and his girlfriend Yaya (Charlbi Dean), an influencer, as well as totally separate passengers like Dimitry (Zlatko Burić), a Russian capitalist who built a fertilizer empire. These and other exorbitantly well-off souls are all enjoying a trip on a cruise led by a figure only known as The Captain (Woody Harrelson). Initially, the screenplay is just focused on dark comedy emanating from the entitlement of the guests and their obliviously dismissive treatment of the wait staff on the yacht. Even when they think they're doing a good deed, like forcing the yacht employees to take a dip in the ocean to "relax", the wealthy are just suffocating the voices and wishes of working-class people.

A stormy night kicks off a series of chaotic events that forever change the lives of everyone aboard the ship, though far be it from me to spoil what kind of madness lies in wait. The fun of Triangle of Sadness comes from watching Östlund constantly finding new and unexpectedly bizarre ways to underscore how the various emperors in this film have no clothes. Spoiling the specifics would undercut the entertainment for newcomers, but I can comfortably say that these parts of Triangle of Sadness work because Östlund refuses to engage in half-measures with this screenplay. Just as this screenwriter commits to portraying nearly every character on-screen as thoroughly shallow and despicable, so too does Östlund commit to depicting inescapable mayhem awaiting these figures out on the open seas. 

In the process, Triangle of Sadness paints an accurate portrait of how excessively wicked the upper crust can be while putting them through the wringer in a fashion as heightened as their real-world behavior. Is any of the chaos inflicted on the passengers of this vessel any more ludicrous than the average actions of Elon Musk? Granted, all while this mayhem is occurring, it's hard to escape the nagging feeling that Triangle of Sadness isn't quite as compelling or insightful as a critique of modern capitalism compared to, say, Sorry to Bother You. Focusing a narrative on characters who belong to the bourgeoisie instead of the proletariat while intending your story to critique wealth disparity will always have downsides. Östlund is clearly wanting the viewer to be enraged at the wealthy, but their very presence in the foreground of Triangle of Sadness still contributes to their omnipresence in American pop culture. Something like The Assistant manages to make the horrors of powerful rich people apparent without ever putting them in the frame, by contrast,

Similarly, much like Östlund's last film The Square, Triangle of Sadness can be too excessive for its own good (in this case, a 150-minute runtime could've been trimmed for sure). Does this comedy risk being as opulent as the uber-wealthy characters it intends to critique? On the other hand, perhaps it's necessary for Triangle of Sadness to be so extravagant to provide a mirror to the rampant consumerism and splendor in the real world. I kept flip-flopping between which of these two roads Triangle of Sadness was traveling down and ended up feeling the latter was more true than not. Much like Richard Kelly's Southland Tales, Triangle of Sadness is here to provide a farce whose immense absurdity is needed to capture the mayhem happening far outside the reaches of your local movie theaters. Plus, it's commendable that a movie like this offers so much for the viewer that you can see so many valid interpretations of its ambitions. Many other modern social satires like Don't Look Up wish they had that level of depth.

Triangle of Sadness can't evade all of its shortcomings, but it does prove constantly entertaining and intriguing thanks to the assured direction of Östlund and a cast that's game for whatever this movie throws at them. Dolly de Leon as Abigail is the most impressive member of that stacked roster of performers. Handed the most prominent working-class character in the story, de Leon is also handling the figure in Triangle of Sadness that experiences actual change as the plot progresses. She handles all these finer nuances with ease while also conveying a personality that could still exist in the same universe as the more pampered performances she's surrounded by.

Do you have a strong stomach? Do you like dark absurdist humor? If the answer to either of those questions is "yes," Triangle of Sadness is going to end up being for you. I'm still not sure if it works fully, but it's such an idiosyncratic and compelling creation that kept my mind engaged, especially in a third act that contemplates if the strains of capitalism are so omnipresent that they'll mold our lives even when we're detached from society itself. Also, there are good sight gags based around excessive vomiting. As James Cameron said, a luxury cruise can function nicely as a microcosm of the world. In Triangle of Sadness, it functions as a microcosm of a world on fire from the moment it leaves port.

Empire of Light is a bit dim when it comes to being a cohesive movie

In one of its many scenes that could’ve functioned fine as an ending, Empire of Life contains a scene where movie theater employee Hilary Small (Olivia Coleman) finally watches a film on the big screen in her workplace. As she becomes enraptured by the images on-screen, we cut back to the projectionist's booth, and specifically to close-up shots of various photos of classic movie stars taped to the walls of this area. It’s all shot quite nicely, Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross’s score sounds pretty, and Coleman is incredibly gifted at conveying a character experiencing a life-changing event just through facial expressions. 

Yet, it all means nothing. 

This scene has no point within the screenplay penned by writer/director Sam Mendes. It doesn’t pay off anything substantial on a character level. Worse, it’s detached from Empire of Light’s previous primary focuses of racial tensions in 1980s Britain and mental health issues. Without any way for this sequence to mean something, anything, within the context of the film it occupies, it might as well be an ad for AMC Theaters. Much of Empire of Light is, unfortunately, like this sequence. Handsomely made, competently acted, well aware of the emotional beats it wants to hit, but tragically unsure of how to blend it all into a cohesive whole. 

Small works at a small movie theater off the coast of England in 1981. She keeps to herself, doesn't speak up very often, and lives an overall muted existence. The arrival of Stephen (Micheal Ward) as a new employee at the theater initially doesn't seem to matter much, he's just another co-worker she'll make small talk with. But a romance begins to blossom between the two, with the pair finding so much joy in each other's company. Unfortunately, they each have larger problems to deal with, with Stephen often being targeted by a wave of renewed racism in the country while Small has a troubled past that she's always living in the shadow of.

Empire of Light finds its best footing in its earliest scenes, when it appears this will be a hangout movie about movie theater employees. The throwaway interactions between characters have a tangible quality to them. Plus, it’s hard not to like conversations shared between a distinctly 1980s punk rock lady and an infinitely more reserved middle-aged projectionist. The rapport between Small and Stephen is also at its best as they tiptoe around the possibility that they may be falling in love. No heightened drama to interrupt their camaraderie, just two good actors sharing some solid chemistry. 

But the more big ideas Empire of Light tries to squeeze into its screenplay, the more it begins to wobble and fumble under its weight. Confrontations with racism in the 1980s may be well-meaning, but they’re awkwardly executed and tend to show only intolerance manifesting in extremely pronounced means. Cartoonish caricatures are the only depiction of bigotry here. The times when Empire of Light grinds to a halt to confront this abhorrent behavior, it reduces Stephen to being either a punching bag for bigots or someone gently explaining how racism is still a problem to Small. There’s no problem with trying to confront hot-button issues, but you’ve got to deal with something like racism better and more creatively than Empire of Light.

Empire of Light's inability to go subtle also proves to be a key problem on a narrative front. The cinematography from Roger Deakins, with its subdued color palette and melancholy lighting, and the score from Reznor and Ross belong to a restrained and quiet character piece. But these elements clash against the film's tendency to go loud whenever it wants to be emotional, like Small bashing a sand castle or the police repeatedly knocking on Small's door. Empire of Light bashes you over the head with both what you're supposed to feel and what's happening on-screen. This story wants to touch your heart, but it's too aggressive to ever get close to that. Even worse, it jostles awkwardly from one big plot development to another. It never feels like there are organic transitions between its various themes or characters. This especially becomes apparent in its awkward third act, when it seems like the action is winding down for good only for the story to twist itself into knots to keep going on five or six separate occasions. If I'm thinking about whether or not the credits are about to roll instead of getting invested in the images on-screen, something's gone wrong.

The affinity Mendes has for such pronounced displays of human behavior end up leaving Coleman out to dry. This actor does the best she can with some really clumsy dialogue and ham-fisted expressions of big emotions, but even she cannot turn every lemon of Empire of Light into lemonade. Similarly, kudos to Micheal Ward for emerging as a memorable and charming performer (he gives the best performance here) despite being handed such a thinly-sketched character. There are enough pieces of commendable subtle acting between Coleman and Ward, not to mention solidly-realized cinematography and music, to keep Empire of Light from being a total washout. However, it's still a disappointment, almost crushingly so, that Mendes ended up delivering such a disposable drama despite having so many talented artists at his disposal. The magic of movies that entranced Small so much in that superfluous Empire of Light scene is shockingly absent from the film she headlines.

Tár hits a high note with its thoughtful and captivating filmmaking

Toward the end of Tár, titular protagonist Lydia Tár (Cate Blanchett) is watching an ancient video of a conductor talking about what makes the best music so enchanting. As this artist speaks, he notes that you don't need to know about measures or bars or any other complex terminology to understand a great piece of music. When it stirs an emotion you can't describe in your soul, that's what's most important about a composition. It reminded me of an interview with Gullermo del Toro, where this director observed how, whenever he watches a movie for the first time, he doesn't get wrapped up in the analytical details about why it's working. He just lets the images wash over him.

There are countless ways I could break down why Tár, the first film from writer/director Todd Field in 16 years, is as exceptional as it is. But taking a cue from both this maestro and del Toro, the best way to express how I knew Tár was something special isn't through lofty language lifted from the world of film academia. It's simply in recalling how Tár gripped me. My eyeballs were captivated by the screen from start to finish. Its 157-minute runtime flew right by as its ominous atmosphere proved intoxicating. Capture my full interest this much and, just from that alone, you're doing incredibly right. Those veteran artists were right: sometimes it's the simplest surface-level takeaways that really let you know you've experienced something remarkable.

Tár opens with Lydia Tár being interviewed in a packed lecture hall. Her interviewer is listing off all her various accomplishments as a conductor, including the fact that she's an EGOT winner and how she's worked with so many iconic artists over the years. These opening moments establish Lydia Tár as a force to be reckoned with and also the public persona that the rest of the movie is all about subverting. Think of this glowing description of her past as a block of marble that Field's screenplay subsequently begins to chisel to form somebody...a lot more complex. And dangerous. 

Lydia Tár spends her days teaching classes and conducting new compositions in Berlin, Germany, a place she also calls home with her wife, Sharon Goodnow (Nina Hoss), and her adopted daughter, Petra (Mila Bogojevic). Tár is hard at work setting up and conducting a performance that she's been dying to do for so long. Many of the tasks needed to organize her vision are delegated to her dutiful if quietly resigned assistant, Francesa Letini (Noémie Merlant). There's already a lot to juggle here, but things get even more contentious when something from Tár's past re-emerges. She initially shrugs it off as nothing, but the echoes of her past quickly become harder and harder to ignore. 

Field and cinematographer Florian Hoffmeister realize the world of Tár largely through sustained wide shots, with close-ups of characters being used as minimally as possible. They also regularly deep focus to excellent effect throughout Tár, an ingenious way of suggesting how interconnected everybody is in this movie. Even when Tár is in her head, absorbed with just herself, shots utilizing deep focus make it clear that other people, like her wife, a new protege, or her assistant, are still around, even if they're in another room. On the flip side of the coin, vast images where Tár is the only figure in the shot are incredibly haunting, it's like she's stuck in an endless void even if she's just lingering in an empty apartment. No matter what tone it's trying to strike, the images of Tár magnificently communicate how its lead character is just one piece of the larger puzzle of life.

Also impressive is a recurring visual motif, echoing similar shots in Sean Baker's Red Rocket, where some of the cruelest or disturbing behavior exhibited by Tár is filtered through a more intimate shot of the person she's closest to. Putting the focus on Goodnow or Letini in these moments makes the consequences of her behavior so much more apparent. It's a great maneuver to ensure that the emphasis of the camera is on the impact of Tár's actions rather than just wallowing in debauchery. There's also a clinical nature to how Field and Hoffmeister frame the world of Tár, a quality matched by the production design which tends to lather the world of Tár in very subdued and "serious" colors. It took me almost the entire movie to realize, but the lavish home of Tár, with its grey coloring and sparse walls, reminded me of nothing more than an interior environment from Crimes of the Future. Going this route adds an eerie quality to a place that should feel cozy, with that uneasy aura only becoming more and more inescapable as the story progresses.

Visually, Tár is a marvel, the kind of movie that begs to be viewed on the big screen. More than any big-budget explosion-laden blockbuster this year, Tár is a perfect distillation of why the theatrical experience is so incredible. Being confined to a darkened room, with your vision and mind only focused on the gigantic screen in front of you, the intensity of Tár becomes extra apparent while its titular lead seems particularly imposing when she's towering above you. As a cherry on top, the finer details of the sound design, namely the perfect use of surround sound to accentuate Tár's growing sense of paranoia, are best experienced in a movie theater auditorium rather than on an iPhone.

But wherever you watch it, whether in theaters or its home video release, the anxiety-inducing pleasures of Tár are bound to enchant, including Cate Blanchett in the lead performance. After nearly 25 years of turning in consistently incredible work, one would think Blanchett might be, understandably, struggling to surprise us anymore. Tár, though, delivers an artist who still delivers the totally unexpected. Blanchett is magnificent here, with the quiet nature of the filmmaking allowing her to flex her muscles as a physical performer and to pack in so much authoritative personality into her dialogue. Whether she's portraying her character as being cool under pressure or growing increasingly frazzled as the challenges around her pile up, Blanchett is transfixing. Hoss and Merlant are also delivering remarkable work here with their supporting Tár performances. Anyone who can go toe-to-toe with a great Blanchett performance deserves lots of recognition! 

For the sake of keeping this review spoiler-free (many of the captivating joys of Tár come from watching everything unfold at the moment), I'll refrain from diving into some of my favorite aspects of Tár, including the way it manages to be so insightful in its relevant social commentary without coming across like it's chasing fresh headlines or buzzy news topics. Even without being able to outline all its virtues, though, Tár is a tremendously well-crafted piece of filmmaking brought to life with an incredible amount of conviction from all involved but especially writer/director Todd Field. You could spend hours breaking down all the intricate details that make Tár so superb, but, as that conductor and del Toro remind us, the way it kept me enraptured is enough of a testament to this movie's quality.

Halloween Ends SPOILER THOUGHTS

MASSIVE SPOILERS FOR HALLOWEEN ENDS ARE BELOW! READ ON AT YOUR DISCRETION!

Halloween Ends sends the Halloween saga out on an unfocused whimper

 

"Maybe it's time to let the old ways die." - Jackson Maine (Bradley Cooper), A Star is Born

I love how horror films can combine gruesome violence with weighty themes.

This is nothing new for the genre and ties into what horror storytelling has been able to accomplish for centuries across multiple mediums. Throughout the years, films ranging from Psycho to Jennifer's Body to Train to Busan have given viewers as much food for thought as they have grisly deaths. This lengthy and impressive history reflects how the struggles of David Gordon Green's Halloween movies to properly fuse introspection and violence is not because it's impossible to make a slasher movie with brains. It's just that these features have been extremely clumsy in trying to merge these elements. This trend is alive and well in Halloween Ends, which aims to conclude the entire Halloween franchise. It wants to be the Toy Story 3 of Halloween movies but merely ends up being this saga's equivalent to Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker.

In one of many baffling storytelling turns in Halloween Ends, screenwriters Paul Brad Logan, Chris Bernier, Danny McBride, and David Gordon Green focus a large portion of this conclusion to the Halloween saga on the newly-introduced character Corey Cunningham (Rohan Campbell). This teenager is the sole focus of the movie's prologue, where we learn about a deeply traumatic event that has transformed Cunningham's life forever. From there, we flash forward to October 2022, four years after the events of Halloween Kills. Michael Myers has been AWOL during that time while Laurie Strode (Jamie Lee Curtis) has bought a house, started living with her granddaughter, Allyson (Andi Matichak) and even begun writing a book. Things seem to be improving in her life...but this is Haddonfield, Illinois. Nothing stays calm for long. Just as Allyson and Corey begin to spark up a romance, Myers begins to emerge from hiding. 

The character of Corey Cunningham isn't the only brand-new thing Halloween Ends adds to the world established by its two direct predecessors. There's a strange tonal whiplash in Halloween Ends that I just don't remember being around in either the 2018 Halloween or Halloween Kills. There were comedic moments in both (and some deaths in the latter film were meant to be darkly comic) but the awkward comedy has really been ratcheted up here. This includes broad archetypes like Cunningham's cartoonishly abrasive mom or Allyson's boss at the hospital where she works at. Part of the chills of the very first Halloween in 1978 came from seeing a figure of pure evil like The Shape just lingering around in what was discernibly the real world. The oversized characters and strange comedic asides of Halloween Ends, though, ensure that everyone is now as detached from reality as Michael Myers.

On a writing level, Halloween Ends also suffers from awkward transitions to new character beats or locations. The screenplay knows where it wants to go or what mayhem it wants to incur, but it rarely finds an organic way of getting there. Allyson and Corey's romantic life is especially clumsy in this regard. Neither of the two seems to know each other before their first meeting in Halloween Ends yet they're planning to run away together by the third act. There's never enough chemistry between the two performers or even just on-screen entertainment to justify how rushed their relationship is. Plus, it can't help but feel disappointing that Allyson's presence in the Halloween saga culminates in her relationship with a boy. Could we not find something more interesting for her to do? Shifting so much of the first and second acts onto the intimate interactions between these two had the added "benefit" of highlighting truly awkward dialogue related to the lingering trauma of these characters. No boogeyman popping out of a closet is as spine-tingling as the idea of these lines being deemed acceptable for a big-screen release.

There are plenty of gripes to be had with the narrative structure in Halloween Ends while the film's visual elements leave much to be desired. Extremely awkward editing by Tim Alverson disrupts even throwaway moments, like Allyson calling out to a distraught Corey to watch out for an incoming truck. But those details, admittedly, aren't why people are coming to Halloween Kills. The deaths and the scares are the primary attraction for most moviegoers and understandably so. In these departments, there's also not much to write home about. The first half of the film is largely focused on building up the Allyson and Corey relationship, so there aren't even many attempts at spooking the viewer. When the inevitable Halloween night rampage on Haddonfield starts, we do get two memorably gruesome death scenes. The other slayings, though, are boilerplate, and Green struggles to maintain suspense as all the carnage unfolds.

Worst of all, Halloween Ends, like Halloween Kills, sidelines Laurie Strode for most of its runtime. The focus largely shifts to Cunningham instead, an utterly bizarre choice. Unlike that earlier sequel, at least Ends gives Strode plenty to do in the finale and there's no denying that it's fun to see Jamie Lee Curtis shooting guns and taking names. But even these surface-level pleasures are disrupted by a screenplay that just can't stop overstuffing its narrative. Exactly like The Rise of Skywalker, Halloween Ends keeps tossing out big twists and turns at the viewer but never gives those developments room to breathe. With neither fun slayings nor interesting observations on coping with long-term trauma to offer, Halloween Ends proves to be pretty unengaging. Countless horror films of the past have combined nasty deaths with weighty themes, which just makes the problems of Halloween Ends even more painful to process.

The Banshees of Inisherin brilliantly contemplates the conflict-driven nature of humanity

 

All throughout writer/director Martin McDonagh's The Banshees of Inisherin, the Irish Civil War rages on in the background. Both the audience and the film's characters never see this battle up close. Cannon fire is heard, explosions can be seen in the far-off distance, and a police chief even talks about traveling there to view an execution. But we don't see it first-hand. The distance allows the Irish Civil War to function as an extension of a concept that fascinates The Banshees of Inisherin: the constant conflict between human beings. No matter what the circumstances of the world are, we're always at each other's throats. That police chief's uncertainty over who is even being executed and by whom shows that humans often love conflict just for the sake of it, we don't even need to know the details about the warring sides.

This eternal staple of human behavior is reflected through the dynamic between the two lead characters of The Banshees of Inisherin. All the ceaseless turmoil captured by the cameras imbues the proceedings with unshakeable melancholy, but also plenty of memorable dark comedy. In order words, this is vintage work from writer/director Martin McDonagh.

On the fictional Irish island of Inisherin in 1923, there's not a ton to do. You tend to your animals, you drink, you make some friends. It's no wonder, then, that Pádraic Súilleabháin (Colin Farrell) holds his longstanding friendship with Colm Doherty (Brendan Gleeson) so close to his heart. As The Banshees of Inisherin begins, though, something's gone wrong. Doherty no longer wants to speak to Súilleabháin. This musician has come to realize that life is too short to be wasting time making small talk with Súilleabháin. Doherty just wants to end things there, bury this friendship in the past right away. But Súilleabháin isn't about to give up Doherty without a fight. So begins a conflict that keeps escalating in severity, all over one fellow not wanting to share a pint with a certain guy anymore.

It's no surprse that The Banshees of Inisherin's origins date back to it being initially conceived as a stage production (though, given how it had a slightly different title and what sound like major plot differences, it's unclear how much of this movie is taken from its initial incarnation). Often the movie echoes something like Waiting for Godot, a play where the scope is minimal but the contemplations on the nature of humanity are dense. The Banshees of Inisherin has a lot for viewers to chew on, but its surface-level pleasures are many. In particular, McDonagh's gifts for working with actors is alive and well here and helps draw out a murderer's row of memorable performances.

This includes Colin Farrell in a leading turn that made me realize that this man's gift is in playing pathetic people. I don't mean that as a commentary on Farrell as a person (he seems nice in interviews!) He's just got a real gift for portraying people that Jack Lemmon used to specialize in, a man whose sad-sack nature radiates off the screen, their gait alone conveying an overwhelming aura of woe. The Lobster, In Bruges, even his interpretation of Oswalt Cobbleplot/The Penguin in The Batman, these are all people who are all so awkward and brazenly imperfect. His gifts for portraying such characters continues with Pádraic Súilleabháin, a man who starts The Banshees of Inisherin with head hung low before getting even more mournful from there. Farrell lends such a captivating quality to his performance here and it's especially impressive how many layers he can reveal in Súilleabháin. This guy can seem intimidating, sympathetic, detestable, and so much more all in the same movie. This is why Farrell is so good at playing these kinds of characters. He makes them pathetic with a capital-P, but also nuanced enough to seem like believable humans.

Farrell's accompanied by a splendid array of deeply lived-in supporting performances, with Brendan Gleeson adding another exceptional turn to his long list of unforgettable credits as Colm Doherty. Kerry Condon might just steal the show, though, as Siobhán Súilleabháin. In her most high-profile film role to date, Condon provides a fascinating anchor to the two male leads. She's a woman who seems to have a little more worldly wisdom who can still be vulnerable and not have all the answers. Condon finds such fascinatingly subtle ways to convey the multi-layered nature of her character while her execution of a very important piece of dialogue to Doherty is handily one of the best line deliveries of 2022.

These actors exist within gorgeous-looking Irish landscapes so well-realized through McDonagh's director and the cinematography by Ben Davis. Taking place in a time before electricity was common for rural Ireland residents, Davis makes fantastic use of natural light even in interior environments. Nighttime scenes are always cogent thanks to being tinged in bursts of beautiful streaks of light from candles or the shimmering moon. Visually, The Banshees of Inisherin looks terrific and its strong handle on its camerawork enhances the humor of its finest visual gags. If one ever needs proof that comedies require excellent camerawork just like any other genre, here it is.

All of these top-notch performances and compelling imagery are tied around a story that masterfully bobs and weaves between dark comedy and an inescapable melancholy woe. McDonagh's screenplay is especially good at the seemingly simple but tricky-to-execute feat of constantly keeping you guessing on how things will escalate next. The stakes of The Banshees of Inisherin keep getting taken to the next level, but not in a way that sacrifices its emotional intimacy. These developments feel organic, a natural way to show the lengths people will go to keep conflict brewing. Plus, these breakthroughs in the narrative are always accompanied by intimate moments that allow these characters from 100 years ago to feel like real breathing humans.

In the wrong hands, Pádraic Súilleabháin could've been insufferable, which would mean that all the escalating chaos in his feud with Doherty wouldn't be interesting to watch. But McDonagh's script gives Súilleabháin people and donkeys to care about, we get to gaze at him in quiet moments bonding with the most important creatures in his life. These tenders scenes are where The Banshees of Inisherin's heart is on display, while its darkest moments are where the grimmest tendencies of humanity come out to play. 

Human beings are more than the conflicts that define them...but, as that constantly raging Irish Civil War indicates, conflict is still such a massive part of our lives. Even when there aren't cannons firing, human beings still find ways to feel seething hatred towards one another. That old saying of "laugh through the pain" is so true of The Banshees of Inisherin. This movie keeps a steady stream of dark laughs flowing even as it recognizes darker aspects of human nature. It's often brutal. It's sometimes hysterical. It's The Banshees of Inisherin, one of the year's best movies.

Javier Bardem can only liven up Lyle Lyle Crocodile so much

If Disney wants to focus on Marvel movies and live-action remakes when it comes to big-screen features, then I guess other studios will have to step up with the generic live-action kid's movies. Somebody needs to deliver on this genre and Sony/Columbia has taken a stab at doing their best impression of a 1990s Disney film with Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile. With this adaptation of the Bernard Weber children's book of the same name, audiences get two pastiches for the price of one as Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile is also an attempt to ride Paddington's coattails. The result of all that imitating is something painless, but also oddly oblivious to the best parts of the movies it's mimicking.

Lyle (Shawn Mendes) is a saltwater crocodile with an incredible talent: he can sing! Down-on-his-luck showman Hector P. Valenti (Javier Bardem) is captivated by this critter and see's endless possibilities for fame and fortune with Lyle. Unfortunately, Lyle has a mean case of stage fright and his inability to perform in front of people sends Valenti into enormous debt. While this wannabe superstar is paying off that money, Lyle stumbles into the lives of the Primm family, nervous son Josh (Winslow Fegley), wistful mom Katie (Constance Wu), and nebulously-defined dad Joseph (Scott McNairy). Lyle might be just what this family needs to overcome their individual problems...if they all don't catch the ire of neighbor Mr. Grumps (Brett Gelman) first, that is.

The best parts of Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile show screenwriter Will Davies, and directors Will Speck and Josh Gordon demonstrating a willingness to embrace the silliness and fantasticalness that comes with any children's book. Valenti is the best example of this. Being a guy who acts like he's Willy Wonka when he's really more Troy McClure, Valenti is an oversized personality who wouldn't exist in the real-world but feels perfect for the target demo of children's literature. I was also relieved to find that Mr. Grumps is just allowed to be a cartoonish villain, they don't even make self-deprecating jokes about his name. No need for a new prolonged origin story to explain why he's so cantankerous, he just functions like a classical pronounced children's book baddie.

Unfortunately, Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile doesn't immerse itself fully into the fantastical qualities ingrained into the best children's books. Instead, most of the runtime is dedicated to run-of-the-mill kid's movie hallmarks executed with little panache. It's like Speck and Gordon's inexperience in the world of kid-friendly entertainment (their biggest directorial gigs before this were a pair of Jason Bateman vehicles, The Switch, and Office Christmas Party) inspired them to make sure they touched base on every narrative standards in the genre. Even an epilogue set in a courtroom echoes the preposterous climax of Air Bud.

Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile is rarely bad and it's never painful, but it's also quite rudimentary. It hits the beats it thinks audiences want it to hit without ever having the courage to try something new. This is especially apparent in the various musical numbers penned by Benj Pasek and Justin Paul. The duo's tunes have always sounded more like pop ditties on the radio than classical musical numbers and that's especially apparent when their lyrics are being sung by Shawn Mendes. Even a tune called "Rip up the Recipe," which attempts to channel the Sherman Brothers in smuggling in life lessons into a "whimsical" package, feels more mechanical than naturally fun despite a game performance from Constance Wu. These kinds of lackluster tunes might be the thing that really keeps Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile from resonating with kids. What youngster is going to turn off We Don't Talk About Bruno to jam out to these generic numbers?

The movie as a whole offers so little to chew on that I found myself mostly amusing myself over small but notable shortcomings in the screenplay. In the third act, for instance, Josh specifically blames his dad for making him so paranoid about the world. But we never saw Joseph behaving like that to his son? It was the mom who was established at the beginning as being worried about her child! What a weird inconsistency in the script, I hope somebody got fired for that blunder. Similarly on a visual level, a scene at the end where Lyle interacts with a pack of other more feral and non-singing crocodiles reinforces what a bad idea it was to design Lyle to just be a semi-realistic looking crocodile. It's hard to tell him apart from his antagonistic brethren! Rather than embrace a fun and distinctive design for Lyle, this movie opted to go the boring route of quasi-realism.

Parents who get dragged to Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile won't find anything disastrous here, save for the clumsy choreography and camerawork during the amusingly small-scale musical numbers (I guess this is what musicals shot during COVID look like?) Compared to Alvin and the Chipmunks, Lyle practically looks like Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. But saving for an endearingly committed Javier Bardem performance, there's also not much here to recommend. It's all so apparently going through the motions to remind you of vastly superior movies (like Paddington) you could be watching instead. Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile, simply put, is like a film generated by one of Netflix's A.I. programs to evoke live-action 1990s Disney movies.

Postscript: Why is Ego Nwodim credited in the main cast in the opening credits despite appearing in only two small sections of the movie and having barely any lines? What a waste! I bet she could have brought some extra laughs to the proceedings. 

The laughs are quite enjoyable in the flawed rom-com Bros

In many ways, Bros looks like the future of mainstream movies. As its marketing has proudly trumpeted, this is one of the first major studio releases to be an LGBTQIA+ romantic comedy while its cast is almost entirely comprised of openly queer performers. I won't lie, considering how often American R-rated comedies (even ones produced as late as five years ago) have prided themselves on transphobic humor, seeing scenes in Bro inhabited by multiple trans characters with varying personalities made my heart smile. Unfortunately, Bros is held back by all too familiar faults in the world of modern comedies, namely poor pacing and flat camerawork. The more things change in terms of on-screen representation, the more comedies produced by Judd Apatow stay the same when it comes to filmmaking.

Bobby Lieber (Billy Eichner) is a podcaster and newly-appointed curator for the forthcoming National LGBTQ+ History Museum. While the protagonist of Bros has a lot to juggle in his life, one thing he isn't handling right now is a committed romantic relationship. Bobby is content to just be single...but then he meets Aaron (Luke Macfarlane). This meathead is just the kind of guy Bobby may occasionally ogle, but can never imagine dating. But then the two start spending more time with each other and, wouldn't you know it, the two begin to hit it off. Both men are hesitant to jump into a prolonged relationship, especially since they're each dealing with so much in their jobs (Bobby has to get $5 million for the museum, while Aaron is stuck in a depressing gig handling dead people's estates) but as they grow closer and closer, Bobby and Aaron may have to do the most daunting thing of all: be vulnerable with and devoted to one another.

Bros fits neatly into the pantheon of R-rated comedies produced by Judd Apatow, most notably a plotline that begins with a heavy emphasis on raunchy material before a third act that's as infatuated with sentimental romanticism as any Nancy Meyers movie. Unfortunately, Bros also carries over fatal flaws from prior projects either produced by Apatow or influenced by his style. Namely, the script for Bros can feel like it's being driven by spur-of-the-moment improvisation, with a lack of dedication to a pre-established cohesive script leading to a bloated runtime. Similarly, the directing and cinematography here isn't anything to write home about, with only two or three gags in the entire runtime getting boosted by a shape visual sensibility. Otherwise, flat renderings of conversations relying heavily on medium shots are the name of the game here.

More exclusive to Bros in terms of faults here is some of Bobby's dialogue. In a New York Times interview about her sitcom Abbott Elementary, Quinta Brunson noted that her goal for the show was to make sure it didn't just sound like people's Twitter feed getting repeated back at them. Unfortunately, that's what some of Bobby's lines about The Hangover, gay cowboys being played by straight actors, and other topics related to queer representation sound like and it gets a bit repetitive. It's extra strange to type this out as a complaint since I agreed with everything Bobby was saying! But what I might nod along to in an academic essay or an editorial column is a bit clumsy to hear spoken aloud as dialogue in a movie. Cinema is a visual medium, and finding a way to reflect the history of queer persecution in striking visual means (like how the ending montage of Bamboozled races through decades of dehumanization of Black people in movies) could've communicated these urgent ideas in more of an engaging manner.

It's a pity this didactic dialogue keeps creeping into Billy Eichner's performance since the actor is otherwise a very solid leading man to anchor the proceedings. His commitment to playing Bobby as a stand-off-ish loner who gradually finds himself won over by a hunky meathead is one of the best parts of Bros. The script (penned by Eichner and Stoller) makes all kinds of meta-references to classic romantic comedies, namely You've Got Mail, but this isn't a cruel mockery of the genre. Eichner inhabits a familiar but sturdy archetype in this genre well and gets you invested in his journey. The familiar but undeniably pleasing third-act wouldn't work as well as it does if you didn't care about Bobby and that investment largely comes about because of Eichner.

Just as pleasing as Eichner's lead performance is the undeniable fact that Bros accomplishes the most important thing of any comedy: it's funny. It'd be cool if the gags came from more sources than just dialogue (like through visual means), but at least the dialogue-heavy laughs here do tickle your funny bone. Especially amusing are the various interactions between Bobby and the fellow curators at the LGBTQ+ museum, which are full of hysterical chaos. Performers like Ts Madison, Jim Rash, and Eve Lindley, among others, get tons of chances to shine in these sequences with the pronounced and unique personalities they've been handed. Cameo appearences from the likes of Bowen Yang and Harvey Fierstein also ensure that some of the most throwaway characters in Bros still manage to make you giggle. Plus, who is going to complain about getting more Harvey Fierstein?!?

Bros is held back by being the next great romantic-comedy by some ham-fisted dialogue and less-polished production details (how does a score composed by Marc Shaiman sound this generic?) I yearn for the day if it ever comes when big-screen comedies can have great cinematography and lots of production value again. Until then, though, Bros still succeeds in delivering plenty of jokes, with many of them coming from a cast stacked with talent. There's also a welcome amount of heart, with the latter element especially apparent in a great finale. We may not be dealing with the next The Shop Around the Corner or The Big Sick in terms of great rom-coms, but Bros still serves as a solid entry in this genre. Plus, giving me the chance to be in a theater and just laugh with strangers again, that's gotta count for something. 

Blonde is more draining than compelling

 

Andrew Dominik is not an upbeat filmmaker. His directorial works, up to this point, pretty much laugh at the idea of frivolity. That's not a bad thing, though. With The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, Dominik used this bleak outlook to undercut the various forms of mythologizing that had soaked through the reputations of James and Ford. Neither one was all good or all bad, they were people, not legends. Killing Them Softly was a grimy crime saga that spiraled into a warning that the problems with America were so deeply entrenched in this country that not even the "hope" of the Obama era could hope to rectify it. "In America, you're on your own," Brad Pitt gravely intones in the film's final moments, aptly and unforgettably summarizing its themes. "Now where's my fucking money?"

With Blonde, Dominik, who is adapting a book of the same name by Joyce Carol Oats, now sets his sights on applying this tone and atmosphere to the life of Norma Jeane/Marilyn Monroe. This performer's life was so riddled with tragedies that it's easy to see why the tone of Killing Them Softly would seem like the perfect aesthetic to tell her story. But something got lost in translation here. Dominik's earlier narrative films dumped a bucket of cold bleak water on less nuanced perceptions of history. By contrast, Blonde doesn't bring much new to the vast catalog of movies that explore how old-school Hollywood was not kind to women.

Blonde begins with the tormented childhood of Norma Jeane Mortenson (played as a kid by Lily Fisher, but largely portrayed as an adult by Ana de Armas). Living with an abusive mom, Gladys Baker (Julianne Nicholson), and always being told about an absent father who worked in Hollywood, Jeane's life is not off to the best of starts. Her hardships only increase once she pursues an acting career, which eventually entails a plan by Hollywood executives for her to perform under the stage name Marilyn Monroe. Jeane's fame begins to grow and grow, but she can't escape the misery that's plagued her from the day she was born. The life of the woman the world calls Marilyn Monroe is defined by brutal realities and suffocating fiction.

The dissonance between reality and the fiction we tell ourselves provides some of the most interesting moments of Blonde. A great instance of this comes as an adult Jeane is tending to her mother in a psych ward. This movie star is expecting a child and begins to talk to her mother about parenting, a task Baker undertook despite being single. "You did the right thing, not getting rid of me," Jeane says as the camera cuts to jagged and sound-free flashbacks of Jeane getting abused and terrorized by her mom. These memories have left a scar on Jeane, and yet, she still creates a justification that her mother was a good firm parent, just like every mother should be. It isn't just in her name that Jeane inhabits a fantasy. In trying to come to terms with her horrific childhood, she's also built up ways to defend her mom.

That's a fascinating way to explore her fractured psyche and Dominick finds other creative ways to blend fantasy and reality throughout Blonde. I especially liked the way the exploding bulbs of old-timey cameras function as something akin to the Jaws theme music, a warning of impending danger that can pop out of nowhere. Whether she's on a date or experiencing a medical emergency at the beach, Jeane has been so overwhelmed by the paparazzi that she hears those bulbs flashing and breaking wherever she goes. It's a great use of a period-specific sound effect and the way we're sometimes unsure if there are really cameramen nearby or if this is all in Jeane's head is well-played.

Unfortunately, too much of Blonde is more derivative and draining than insightful in terms of its depiction of Jeane's relentless suffering. Running for 167 minutes, Blonde keeps piling on one miserable event after another, to the point that its vision of the performer known as Marilyn Monroe sometimes doesn't even feel like a human being. She's often like the people in a Human Centipede movie, just a vessel for unique forms of torment. Her anguish reaches such extreme melodramatic heights that it often becomes unintentionally comical when clashing against the pervasively dour tone of Blonde. How else are viewers supposed to react to the sight of Monroe's fetus chastizing her for getting an abortion earlier in life, all played straight?

That moment exemplifies why Blonde, despite some interesting moments and a strong lead performance from Ana de Armas, ends up fumbling the ball. Its attempts at insight into the mind of Norma Jeane are just too heavy-handed and obvious for their own good, especially when executed inside such a dour production. If everything's going to be so serious and contemplative, shouldn't there be more interesting or original pieces of symbolism than a STOP sign inspiring Jeane to protest against an abortion? Aren't there more distinctive ways of depicting Jeane's constant anguish than just resorting to a succession of scenes where she gets brutalized by men on-screen? Also, returning to this again, must there be so many shots lingering on her fetuses like this is a Pure Flix movie warning of the dangers of abortions? 

When the material isn't thuddingly obvious, it's just derivative of other movies. Glossy scenes depicting the early happy days of Jeane's marriage to Arthur Miller (Adrien Brody) prove especially distracting in how they take the lighting of a Terrence Malick movie combined with the stares into the camera from a Barry Jenkins feature. The constantly shifting aspect ratios had me thinking about how something like The Grand Budapest Hotel showed real thought when its framing was adjusted. Even two brief uses of what appear to be GoPro cameras strapped to people's chests just reminded me of everything from Pain & Gain to King Arthur: Legend of the Sword. It's one thing to be oppressively bleak. It's another to have that tone and also be frustratingly lacking in visual innovation.

You've seen what Blonde has to offer so many times before but often with a lot more depth. The one-note tone suffocates any chance of Jeane being seen as a human being, despite the game efforts of Armas. That's an especially strange flaw since Dominik's earlier movies did manage to capture recognizable human beings in the middle of tidal waves of misery. James Gandolfini in Killing Them Softly, for instance, reeks of heartache and missed opportunity, there's a human being there informing all the torment. Blonde, meanwhile, is all anguish, all the time. It's fixated on the screams of a woman in pain, but not on the psyche of the woman herself. What worked so well tonally for Dominik's earlier works just proves ill-suited and oppressive in Blonde.

The Woman King reigns supreme as crowdpleaser entertainment done right

 

Director Gina Prince-bythewood knows how to make satisfying crowdpleasers. That's a much more difficult task than it may sound on paper. How many times have you watched a romantic drama that just laid there inert or just stared emotionless at the screen during a hollow action movie? By contrast, Prince-bythewood has often delivered the compelling character dynamics and creative manifestations of certain genre staples that make sure these films can live up to their potential. It's why her 2000 motion picture Love & Basketball was so absorbing or her 2013 romantic drama Beyond the Light was downright enchanting.  These titles delivered the emotions and narrative hallmarks you'd want out of these movies without coming off as mechanical or manipulative.

Gina Prince-bythewood is working with a bigger canvas than Beyond the Lights on The Woman King, but she's still got her knack for making features that leave your spirit stirred without sacrificing depth in the process. There are quibbles and nitpicks to be had here, but by and large, The Woman King is something quite exceptional.

Taking place in the West African kingdom of Dahomey in the 1820s, General Nanisca (Viola Davis) leads the Agojie, an all-women team of warriors who protect their land on behalf of King Ghezo (John Boyega). Nanisca and her fighters are aiding Ghezo in a cruel system wherein they capture violent intruders from rival kingdoms and sell them to European slave traders. It's a cycle of brutality that has no end in sight. Nanisca wants to find another way to survive. Just as she's plotting an alternate course for Dahomey, Nawi (Thuso Mbedu) arrives with a slew of other young girls to train as potential new soldiers in the Agojie. The path to fighting for Dahomey will be rough and Nanisca will have no mercy on potential new recruits. But soon, Nanisca will need all the help she can get as new evil forces begin to descend on Dahomey and its people.

The screenplay by Dana Stevens opts to capture the story of Nawi training with a classical story structure that evokes everything from sports movies to Captain America: The First Avenger. Any film about an underdog outsider having to come in and prove themselves on a physical level seems to have been a guiding star for the first-half of The Woman King. That may sound like a complaint, but it truly isn't. For starters, such plot mechanics endure for a reason, they can still be plenty stirring when executed right. Plus, they provide a familiar template for Stevens to establish unique character dynamics, such as the delightful rapport between Nawi and Izogie (Lashana Lynch).

Going this route narratively also allows for plenty of intimate sequences where we get to truly know these characters before they head out into battle against evil forces. Prince-bythewood's filmmaking, which has extensive experience with capturing low-key but important interactions between people, is especially solid here. She knows when to just let the actors, especially Viola Davis's rich performance, carry the scene while also understanding the need to make time for seemingly disposable moments, like Nawi bonding with two of her fellow trainees. What could've been observed as a throwaway moment by another director is rightfully seen by Prince-bythewood as critical to the overall movie. By the time we come to Nawi undergoing her final trial for a place among the Agojie (which is brought to life with some of the sharpest editing and camerawork in the whole movie), we're fully immersed in every step she takes. Such is the power of knowing how little character details add up to something big in terms of audience investment.

Admittedly, certain character beats work better than others. A prospective romantic bond between Nawi and an outsider to her society just isn't as rich as the scenes depicting her friendship with her fellow fighters. Whenever the two characters are talking, their dialogue feels especially predictable and I found myself squirming, wanting to get back to the kind of character dynamics The Woman King excels best at. 

On a more positive note, The Woman King fares shockingly well in tackling weightier issues, namely putting the complicity of the lead characters in slavery front and center in the narrative, without sacrificing moments of excitement. Part of that comes from how Gina Prince-bythewood's framing of the fight sequences has some fun flourishes but don't totally eschew reality. When it comes time for grander set pieces, they still feel at home with the rest of the movie. These fighters aren't moving around on the battlefield like Legolas walking on air in The Hobbit, which certainly helps. Once again demonstrating the importance of balance, these set pieces are still capable of engaging in exciting heightened touches when the occasion calls for it. My personal favorite is Nanisca and Izogie's simultaneous response when the former character gets her sword shot out of her hand.

Even beyond the touches Gina Prince-bythewood brings in the director's chair, The Woman King also functions as a great showcase for the talents of its cast. There's not a dud performance in here, with Davis being the perfect deeply human anchor for this story. Lashana Lynch may be the standout of the entire ensemble, though,  even just for her gift for unforgettable facial expressions alone. Also emerging as an MVP is composer Terence Blanchard. The subtle details of his score add so much to the sweeping scope of this historical epic. All these talented artists have been given the space to really flex their muscles and give 110% in The Woman King and the results are downright remarkable. 

It can be easy to take broadly-appealing crowdpleaser entertainment for granted, but with The Woman King, director Gina Prince-bythewood once again shows that it takes real craft to create something that makes you want to stand up and cheer. Oh, and having an actor of Viola Davis's caliber around doesn't hurt either.

Barbarian is an entertaining and chilling romp best experienced unspoiled

I don't really know where to begin reviewing a movie like Barbarian. Everyone whose already written lengthy paragraphs about this movie have been right to keep the surprises hidden since this is very much a horror film that thrives on shocking the audience with each new twisted layer in its web of scary storytelling. It's tricky to break down what makes Barbarian so good without giving away key surprises and reveals best experienced in a movie theater, but I'll try my best. But know this above all else; Barbarian is quite a good horror feature. It's always nice when a genre title comes out of nowhere from a lesser-known filmmaker to surprise us all with its wits and smarts, and that's just what's happened here.

Written and directed by Zack Cregger, Barbarian begins as Tess (Georgina Campbell) arrives at her AirBnB in Detroit, Michigan in the middle of a stormy night. With rain pouring down, Tess is excited to get inside...only to discover someone else is in the house. Keith (Bill Skarsgard) has already claimed the house through another website. Here, Cregger's screenplay kept me on edge with uncertainty over where the horror in this horror movie was coming from. A strange man is unexpectedly in your AirBnB, that alone is enough to make you feel uneasy. There's a thousand ways to interpret every one of his lines and actions. Is he manipulating Tess? Is he trying to be nice? Is he working for somebody? There's enough vagueness surrounding this character (whose played by, of course, Pennywise the Clown) that it keeps you guessing.

Soon, though, it becomes clear that there is something wrong inside this house, specifically in the basement area of the place. A handful of strange incidents lead Tess to do some poking around and...well, that's where the spoiler sensitivity kicks in. To say anymore about what happens once she gets curious would spoil the fun. Whatever's going on here soon entangles AJ Gilbride (Justin Long), an actor embroiled in controversy. He has no idea what lies ahead in this domicile and neither does Tess or the viewer for that matter. 

Again, treading on eggshells here without giving away the game, but part of what makes Barbarian such an entertaining watch is something as simple as the wry fun Cregger has behind the camera with this premise. There's a cheeky sensibility, though not one that lapses into self-parody, to see doors slowly but surely close on people or the way the camera gradually pulls viewers deeper and deeper into darkened hallways. These unabashedly spooky touches keep you on the edge of your seat wondering just what's around the corner or when Tess will realize what's happening around her. These are simple details, but they're also the kind of flourishes so many lesser horror movies forget even exist. What a welcome surprise to see them executed here with such confidence as Cregger never demonstrates a rush to get to the punchline, instead drawing out the suspense for all its worth.

There's also a constant inventiveness in Cregger's screenplay that's extremely welcome. Movies that rely too heavily on twists can end up feeling like just a series of revelations without a proper story or characters to give these shocking developments any sense of weight. Here, there's a fine balance between us getting invested in Tess as a character while also making sure Barbarian is constantly throwing out one "wait, what?" turn after another. Just like in his measured camerawork, Cregger shows a thoughtfulness in his writing that doesn't distract from the chilling atmosphere on the screen. Like the best visual effects work, it's only after the credits began to roll that you appreciate the craft that went into the writing and directing of Barbarian.

The chills are plentiful in Barbarian, with many of them coming from a delightful disinterest in playing things "grounded" or "respectable." Blood doesn't pour out the rafts in every scene, but Barbarian is all too content to get gnarly when the time is right and it'll send you squirming at just the proper moments. It's not the next Hereditary or His House in modern horror, but Barbarian delivered just what I wanted from an entertaining horror movie, complete with extra touches of dark comedy to boot. If it looks remotely appealing to you, you'll probably end up enjoying yourself a lot in Barbarian, especially if you can guard yourself against getting spoiled on the movie's biggest secrets.  

Don't Worry Darling is messy, but not without charms

As Don't Worry Darling begins, 1950s housewife Alice Chambers (Florence Pugh) is playing a drinking game with her husband Jack (Harry Styles) and their assorted friends. There are laughs a-plenty at this shindig and, combined with just how passionate the sex life of Alice and Jack is, seems to indicate that everything is blissful in their life living in the company town known as Victory, California. Slowly but surely, though, Chambers begins to feel something is amiss. Maybe it's some of the words she hears over the radio spoken by Frank (Chris Pine), the leader of this community. Maybe it's the flashes of weird black-and-white imagery that spark in her head. Maybe it's the inexplicable plane crash on the outskirts of town that nobody else remembers. Whatever it is, Chambers becomes more and more convinced something is wrong here, despite every nearby man, and even her lady pals, telling her not to worry.

Don't Worry Darling follows a long tradition of media that wonders what kind of dark underbelly lied beneath the seemingly idyllic picket fence-lined world of America in the 1950s. Everything from the works of David Lynch to Far from Heaven to Pleasantville to even scenes in Joe Dante's Matinee have commented on how not everything was so rosy in an era that restricted so many rights for marginalized groups, especially people of color. Unfortunately, the long list of great films that have covered this terrain before means that Don't Worry Darling is working under a lengthy shadow it can never quite escape. Even if the likes of Blue Velvet didn't exist, though, there would still be some critical flaws dragging this enterprise down.

However, the presence of problems doesn't mean the absence of virtues. Don't Worry Darling has its fair share of commendable attributes, including whenever director Olivia Wilde indulges in explicable creepy imagery. Letting bursts of often-monochromatic puncture the typical color scheme and ambiance of an average scene without lengthy explanations as to their meaning provide plenty of eerie moments. Meanwhile, the way Wilde's camera lingers on shots of steaks covered in spices, runny eggs, or coffee getting poured so tight that we can see their every imperfection or the finer details of their textures effectively conveys a quiet sense of unease. Just as there's something uncomfortable or unsavory on this food if you look closely, so too is there danger hiding in plain sight in the life of Alice Chambers. Whenever Wilde and screenwriter Katie Silberman let Don't Worry Darling just be unnerving without holding the viewer's hand to explain why it's unnerving, it functions as nicely chilling.

Unfortunately, Silberman's writing eventually floods the screen with exposition and backstory in the third act. An avalanche of explanations just isn't as frightening as something perplexing. There's a reason something like Mulholland Drive ends on an ambiguous bang rather than a PowerPoint presentation breaking down what you just watched. This section of Don't Worry Darling also suffers from a strange decision to stop and start the basic premise of the entire movie. The pause doesn't last long enough to either leave an impact or justify its presence in the story. It's a strange move that just ends up disrupting the tension in the narrative.

As for storytelling problems plaguing the whole movie, Don't Worry Darling's stabs at social commentary could've used more bite and specifics. Without getting into spoilers, at times it almost feels like it's dancing around calling a spade a spade when it comes to misogyny in an effort to not alienate general moviegoers. The weird treatment of women of color characters (poor KiKi Layne has nothing to do with her disposable supporting role) also undercuts Darling's intended message of underscoring the humanity and complexities of women. Like many mainstream American movies trying to tackle weighty issues, Don't Worry Darling can't quite reach its most insightful thematic aspirations. 

If there's somewhere the film excels, it's in its performers. Shocking nobody, Florence Pugh once again crushes a lead performance. The woman responsible for those hauntingly powerful sobs in the opening of Midsommar puts that kind of talent to great use again depicting the pronounced anguish of Alice Chambers. Chris Pine, though not in the movie as much as one would expect, is also terrific, perfectly capable of conveying a commanding presence with an uneasy slimy undercurrent. A dinnertime tête-à-tête between him and Pugh is easily a highlight of the movie thanks to the terse rapport between the two performers. Unfortunately, Harry Styles is the weak link of an otherwise commendable cast. He isn't awful, but his penchant for big gestures and yelling come off as a touch ameteurish, especially when compared to the more subtly detailed lead turn from Pugh.

Composer John Powell also turns out to be a highlight of Don't Worry Darling with his unnerving score. While he's spent much of his time since 2011 concocting music for animated family movies (and typically doing it well, as seen by his unforgettable How to Train Your Dragon compositions), Powell's well-versed in adult-oriented cinema, like the Bourne movies. Those Paul Greengrass titles, all about cloud identities and ambiguous loyalties, seemed to have given him plenty of perfect experience for Don't Worry Darling, as Powell's score here conveys a gripping sense of frayed uncertainty. It's a great detail to have it become more and more prominent as the story goes on. The increasing presence of these paranoia-drenched orchestral tunes reflecting Chambers becoming more and more conscious that something is askew about the world around her.

Don't Worry Darling has a lot going for it, including some great performances, another commendable score by John Powell, and Wilde's chops as a visualist. Unfortunately, for every inspired element of Don't Worry Darling, there's something frustrating lying in wait, particularly in its flawed attempts at social commentary that lack vital originality or intersectionality. Don't Worry Darling can never quite escape the feeling of "I could be watching Pleasantville again right now", but it isn't a bad film and it's better parts deserve to be noticed more than its cursed press tour.

Micro-Reviews: Moving Edition

I'm moving into my first-ever apartment on Friday!

It's a very exciting moment, I'm so stoked that, after year of searching for the right place and concern over my readiness to live independently, this is about to become a reality. This whole week is kind of a whirlwind, just a lot of busy busy things. I don't quite have time to write a lengthy review for everything I've seen lately...but I do have some thoughts on the varied features I've managed to watch in the last eight-ish days. For only the fourth time in the history of Land of the Nerds, I'm here to do Micro-Reviews, small bite-sized versions of a typical movie review. Read on below for what may very well be my last post in my pre-apartment domicile!

Fall

Two women get to the top of a tall radio tower, but end up getting stuck once the ladder to get back down collapses. It's The Shallows/The Martian/Cast Away/47 Meters Down, but super high up in the air. Another key difference from those movies? Fall isn't very good. Never offensively incompetent, Fall just never settles into a rhythm that would work best for its storyline. These kinds of plots are also made or shattered by their lead performers, and, unfortunately, leading ladies Grace Caroline Currey and Virginia Gardner just aren't quite good enough to hinge an entire movie around. Director Scott Mann gets some good vertigo-inducing imagery in there and there are a handful of moments (like Currey luring a vulture to its doom) that hit upon a successful creative groove. For the most part, though, Fall just reminds you of better movies.

Beast

Beast is the movie where Idris Elba fights a lion. That's it, plain and simple. Refusing to go even an inch deeper than that keeps Beast from being much more than an afternoon distraction. Thankfully, the movie has been brought to life by competent people, including director Baltasar Kormákur and leading man Idris Elba, who do know hot to wring entertainment out of such a straightforward premise. Elba especially does strong work delivering moments of actual gravitas and urgency while being chased by a CGI lion. It all moves quite quickly, the screenplay doesn't get bogged down by contrived subplots or extraneous characters, and the lion mayhem is crisply filmed and edited. It doesn't do much more than what it says on the tin, but there's something to be said for a movie like Beast that manages to deliver what it promises.

Flux Gourmet

I wasn't sure about Flux Gourmet at first. Initially, director Peter Strickland's latest exercise in bizarre storytelling told in a subdued serious manner seemed a bit too oddball, the kind of movie that would clearly be for somebody else's tastes but not my own. I'm not sure if Flux Gourmet won me over by the end so much as it browbeat me into submission with its constant adherence to escalating levels of strangeness...but I did grow to admire its commitment to the weird. The performances certainly help make things as engaging as they are, with Fatma Mohamed being quite gripping even when she's not saying a word while Richard Bremmer's facial expressions speak volumes. Bound to divide people and inspire one-star reviews on Amazon, Flux Gourmet isn't as good as Strickland's The Duke of Burgundy, but it might be worth tasting if only to see if such an unusual concoction tickles your own taste buds.

The Imposter

Bart Layton's feature-length directorial debut before he made the 2018 narrative title American Animals, The Imposter is a documentary recounting the story of Frédéric Bourdin. Specifically, it's about how this Frenchman decided, in 1997, to pose as Nicholas Patrick Barclay, a 13-year-old child who went missing in Texas a few years earlier. What follows is full of endless twists and turns all centered around Barclay's family welcoming a stranger into their home. Layton's decision to pepper Imposter with glossy filmed recreations of key moments in Bourdin's deceitfulness (like him impersonating a police officer to U.S. child serve representatives) sometimes feels like a minor mistake. These digressions feel too flashy for their own good, a story this preposterousness needs something more grounded and raw to work. But for the most part, The Imposter does click together and keep you on the edge of your seat, wondering what on Earth could happen next. Does it offer much more than that? Maybe not, but you can get away with that you're a documentary that's this compelling. 

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan

Holy shit, this is so much better than Star Trek: The Motion Picture! Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan moves at a good clip, and has actual tension, and a sense of bombast to its story about revenge that's been brewing for over a decade. It's just an exciting movie, the kind you want to see when you shell out a bunch of cash for a ticket to a summer blockbuster. Even better, the sincere approach to executing moments of pathos between characters like Kirk and Spock are handled exquisitely. In these interactions, the characters of the Starship Enterprise transform from caricatures of pop culture icons to discernible human beings. It's something both magical and only possible in a movie as good as The Wrath of Khan.

Samaritan

There's no question that Samaritan is among the worst movies of 2022 so far, down with Disney's live-action take on Pinocchio and Firestarter. But what specifically went wrong here? One would assume a gritty movie about a superhero past their prime played by Sylvester Stallone helmed by Overlord director Julis Avery would have some redeeming R-rated action elements. However, Samaritan takes its basic concept and creative team through run-of-the-mill PG-13 hijjinks. Worse, its tone is all over the map. Sometimes, our villains act like they're in a Robert Rodriguez kids movie while Stallone is always dropping pearls of wisdom for kids like he's in an after-school special. Other times, people are getting tortured or brutally beaten like this is something aimed exclusively R-rated audiences. More consistent is the terrible dialogue and drab cinematography, neither of which make Samaritan a pleasant experience. As a cherry on top, Stallone barely seems awake her and the editing does a dismal job concealing how an obvious stuntman is performing any task more physical than walking down a hallway. "They say that a hero will save us," Chad Kroeger once intoned, but I don't think he had the lead character of Samaritan in mind.

Stranger Than Paradise

It was a great joy to experience Jim Jarmusch's Stranger Than Paradise without knowing anything about the plot first. The incidental nature of its ensuing plot (if you could even call it that) proved extra engaging, something I had no preconceived expectations for. An incredible restrained exercise, Jarmusch still grips your attention with quietly detailed characters and fantastic pieces of visual comedy, such as the arrangement of four characters in a movie theater. The lingering melancholy of the whole piece has also stuck with me long after the movie ended. This is a feature where its lack of a concrete plot is emblematic of how there's no set future or financial security for our lead characters. Their lives are aimless and unpredictable, right down to an ending that leaves everyone scattered and isolated, so why shouldn't a film chronicling them be similarly spontaneous? It's no wonder Jarmusch's career took off after this feature, Stranger Than Paradise, decades after its release, is still remarkable. 

Regina Hall excels in the darkly comedic mockumentary Honk for Jesus, Save Your Soul

Trinitie Childs (Regina Hall) and Lee-Curtis Childs (Sterling K. Brown) used to be on top of the world. The main subjects of the mockumentary Honk for Jesus. Save Your Soul., the duo led a Southern Baptist megachurch that drew people far and wide...until Lee-Curtis Childs got involved in a scandal that burned everything down. Save Your Soul begins as the duo plans a comeback for their church on Easter Sunday after a prolonged closing. Director Adamma Ebo shifts between faux-documentary footage and traditionally-filmed sequences to explore the inner lives of this fictitious duo and how much turmoil is barely concealed beneath the surface.

Of all the reasons to see Honk for Jesus. Save Your Soul., it's to witness the movie's lead performances. Nobody benefits more from how this film alternates between mockumentary and a conventional narrative feature than Hall or Brown. The duo do an excellent job forming vastly different personas for their respective characters depending on whether or not a documentary crew is capturing their actions. Hall especially excels playing Trinitie as somebody who puts on a big grin and the show of being a "proper" wife in front of the cameras while being torn between half-a-dozen impulses inside. There are so many shades to Trinitie and at times, Hall effectively makes you wonder if there's any real personality there anymore. Is she just a bunch of loosely-stitched together facades clinging to whatever power she can still wield?

It's a thoughtful exercise that dovetails into the quietly interesting way writer/director Adamma Ebo contemplates how and why we allow our actions to be filmed. There has been a deluge of documentaries over the years that involve powerful people inviting a camera crew into their lives only to unwittingly reveal a peek behind the curtain to their darker interior lives. The Queen of Versailles is a perfect example of this, a feature where a wealthy Floridian family doesn't seem to realize just how badly they come off while the cameras are rolling. What makes these people invite concrete video proof of their inevitably bleak lives? The prospect of getting even more money? Obliviousness to moral depravity? Maybe the allure of being on camera, of meaning something by being in the cinematic canon, is just too powerful even for the richest folks.

Whatever the reason, Honk for Jesus. Save Your Soul. had me constantly thinking about this as the troubles for the Childs couple pile up and up. There's a bleak sense of comedy to our two lead characters trying to portray themselves as victims when Curtis Childs is accused of predatory behavior and this couple lives in a massive mansion. The subtlety of this hypocrisy fits right in with similar unknowing depictions of martyr complexes as seen in stuff like The Queen of Versailles. Ebo's restrained direction doesn't just make these dark gags work as standalone material, but they also show a deep knowledge of the visual language and hallmarks of documentaries about the rich and famous. 

Ebo's solid direction is also apparent in the best shifts between mockumentary footage and traditionally-filmed shots. The peak of these variations comes during a big third-act confrontation between Curtis Childs and a former member of his congregation, with the style of camerawork alternating as quickly as one shot to the next. The constantly fluctuating aspect ratios should induce a headache, but they instead accentuate the tension of this interaction and quietly suggest how many different perspectives are being juggled here in this one conversation. Even in an intimate conflict between people on a sidewalk, Ebo uses terrific visual details to suggest the sheer expanse of emotions being navigated here.

Less inventive are the more rudimentary camera set-ups in the non-mockumentary portions of Honk for Jesus. Save Your Soul. while the eventual reveal of what Curtis Childs has done leaves something to be desired. Without getting into concrete spoiler territory, the storyline this film travels down, specifically in terms of a Pastor preaching intolerant things on the pulpit before acting a different way behind closed doors, has been done before. It's not like this element of the narrative is "offense," it's just that, if you're going down such well-trodden territory, you really need to bring unprecedented execution to the table. Honk for Jesus. Save Your Soul. can't quite hit that mark.

Its shortcomings keep it grounded to Earth, but Honk for Jesus. Save Your Soul. is still a largely engaging affair, particularly for those well-versed in the world of documentaries. Even better, the film functions as basically a 100-minute reminder of why Regina Hall is one of our best and most criminally underrated leading ladies working today. As if her lead turn in Support the Girls wasn't enough to reflect her talents, Honk for Jesus. Save Your Soul. is here to reinforce why we should all be singing the praises of Hall. The movie as a whole may not be as consistently good as her, but more often than not Honk for Jesus. Save Your Soul. is a fine home for such a superb performance.