Liam Neeson plays an aging thug

 

It's been more than a minute since I bothered with a Liam Neeson movie. In films such as Nonstop and Taken, Neeson proved a reliable action star. His movies tended to mire him in formula, the reluctant savior who eventually kicks ass. I’d had enough — until now. I decided to check on Neeson with Absolution, a thriller about a former boxer who spent most of his post-ring life toiling as a gangster for a Massachusetts drug boss (Ron Perlman). Looking grey as a New England fog, Neeson's character suffers from chronic traumatic encephalopathy, which means he's losing his memory -- and sometimes his temper. Dreary and depressing, Absolution includes scenes in which the boxer hallucinates about being on a boat, finds a bit of tenderness from a woman (Yolanda Ross), and tries to reconcile with his estranged daughter (Frankie Shaw) and his grandson (Terrence Pulliam). Eventually, Neeson's character is forced to seek absolution for sins of violence and family neglect through an explosive outburst in which he attempts to right his many wrongs. Neeson turns down his star wattage and looks forlorn as a man on the cusp of death; he creates a real character, but director Hans Petter Moland, who directed Neeson in 2019's Cold Pursuit, keeps the movie on a slow track, steering it into territory that feels more dispiriting than driven.

The wild ride of ‘Emilia Perez’

 

     Hints of mad surrealism blow through Emilia Perez, a film from French director Jacques Audiard that stars Zoe Saldaña, Selena Gomez, and transgender actress Karla Sofía Gascón.  

     The central conceit of Audiard's story shouldn't work at all. The story's animating twist involves a brutal Mexican drug lord (Gascon) who makes a late-life decision to -- brace yourself -- become a woman. 

    Clearly, Audiard (A Prophet, Rust and Bone) has something bold in mind, and he creates an intoxicating hybrid, a musical drama full of stylized flare and operatic emotion.  

   The story begins by introducing us to Saldana's Rita, a whip-smart attorney who plays second fiddle to her less than competent male boss. Unhappy with her status and income, Rita's ready for a change.

   A macho drug lord who's also a husband and loving father, Gascon's Manitas Del Monte contacts Rita and asks her to arrange for his disappearance, an ironic request in light of Manitas' role in "disappearing" others. 

   Once taken for dead, Manitas will complete his gender transition, a process he's already begun with a regimen of hormones.

   After accepting Manitas’ offer, Rita faces a myriad of problems. Manitas' children and wife (Gomez) must believe that he's dead and their financial futures must be secured. Rita also must make Manitas' new life plausible and possible.

   Filmed mostly in a Paris studio, employs sets that take us to Mexico City, London, Bangkok, and Switzerland.  Emilia Perez becomes a high-speed, cinematic ferris wheel that knocks us off our bearings. In a way, the movie is about the sense of disorientation it breeds.

   In addition to being well paid for her services, Rita  becomes part of the world created by the newly emerged Emilia Perez as the movie explores a provocative question: Can Emilia shed the criminality that scarred Manhitas' soul? Can his insides be reborn along with his transformed exterior?

   A skeptical Israeli doctor (Mark Ivanir) performs the surgery that changes Manitas' identity. Initially, Manitas’ move seems like an extreme way to evade capture. But, no, Manitas sincerely wants to become the person he believes he was born to be.  

   Performing musical numbers with angular acuity, Saldana commands the movie until Emilia emerges. She claims to be a cousin of Manitas' who insisted that she care for his family should anything happen to him. Unrecognizable to Manitas' former wife and two children, "Aunt" Emilia still knows how to be the center of any environment in which she finds herself.

    Eventually, Emilia moves the family to a beautiful home in Mexico City where the film broadens its scope. Emilia, who dotes on the children, dedicates  her life to locating the bodies of people who have been murdered by the cartels. 

      Stability, if not a happy ending, seems to loom but Gomez's Jessi has passions of her own: She yearns to restart a relationship with Gustavo (Edgar Ramirez), a guy with whom she once had a torrid affair. 

    The movie was shot in a studio in Paris with Audiard employing sets that are supposed to be located in Mexico City, London, Bangkok, and Switzerland. Audiard can't solve all the structural issues raised by so many disparate pieces, but there's a plus side here, as well.

     Different elements bump into one another in ways that reinforce the movie's insistence on charting its own course. Tunes by Camille Dalmais and Clement Ducol bring propulsive energy to a movie that doesn't so much bend genre conventions as ignore them.

     Saldana and Gomez give striking performances, but the movie belongs to Gascon, who embodies a character in desperate need of resolving gender and moral contradictions. 

    It's a copout, I suppose, to say that Emilia Perez isn't for everyone, but it's worth noting that the movie divided audiences when it premiered at last May's Cannes Film Festival. I understand those who found the movie somewhat indigestible and wondered whether it could have used more musical numbers.

   But for me, Audiard's audacious approach trumped many of the movie's problems. Audiard asks us to take a wild ride with him. Why not be adventurous and take the dare?

What happens 'Here?' Not much

   Watching the new movie Here, I felt as if I were peering into a diorama devoted to mundane helpings of Americana. Set mostly in a single room and spanning a variety of eras, Here's narrow focus seems intended to open wide vistas of life in different eras.

   But the movie sacrifices depth for an artificial sense of breadth as it delivers a series of domestic scenes, many featuring Tom Hanks and Robin Wright as husband and wife.

    Director Robert Zemeckis, who directed Hanks and Wright in Forrest Gump, uses AI to de-age or age many of the characters as he tires to deliver meaningful moments in the lives of successive owners of the same house.

    OK, but was it necessary to show how the site on which the movie's modest home was built looked during prehistoric times? And did Zemeckis need to acknowledge a time before the arrival of settlers?

   The movie includes segments in which a Native American couple falls in love in a wooded setting so idyllic I half expected Bambi to nuzzle up against one of them.

   The movie's parade of vignettes features a full menu of ordinary events: births, deaths, marriages, divorce, Thanksgiving dinners, and Christmas celebrations, all of which serve as signposts that, I guess, are intended to encourage a sense of unfolding lives. Add a few cultural shifts and a bit of nostalgic set decoration and you've got the idea, a tableau of American life.

  Based on a 2014 graphic novel by Richard McGuire, Here mostly concentrates on Wright and Hanks, who play Richard and Margaret, a couple who meet as 17-year-olds during the 1950s. Economic concerns and Margaret's unexpected pregnancy force the couple to move in with Richard's parents, a hard-drinking dad (Paul Bettany) and a devoted mom (Kelly Reilly). 

    Scenes of the house's other occupants come and go, appearing as if they were someone else's memories. During the early 1900s, we meet Pauline (Michelle Dockery), who occupies the home with her pilot husband (Gwilym Lee). She fears flying will kill him.

   During the 1920s, Leo (David Fynn) and Stella (Ophelia Lovibond) take over. They like to drink and party and remain oblivious to anything that might resemble a problem. Leo invents a recliner that catapults the twosome into the upper economic rungs.

   To show what happens once Richard and Margaret move away, we meet a Black family (Nicholas Pinnock, Nikkie Amuka-Bird, and Cache Vanderpuye) that offers a glimpse of life in the 21st century.

     Lest the proceedings be swamped with greeting-card sentiment, the movie introduces a slew of unrealized dreams. Bettany's character fails to advance on his job. Hanks' Richard abandons his artistic aspirations to sell insurance, and Wright's Margaret feels stifled by living with her in-laws. She once hoped to go to law school.

    Eric Roth's screenplay tackles serious themes but they come off as obvious signposts: Problems unfold as if on schedule, and the movie’s deep focus images draw unneeded attention to themselves, as does a stationary camera that turns the screen into a near-theatrical space.

     Even with the introduction of a case of Alzheimer's, Here proves less maudlin than I expected, but that doesn't mean Zemeckis resists all schmaltz, and some scenes  -- notably those involving Benjamin Franklin (Keith Bartlett) and his son William (Daniel Betts) -- become distractingly silly.

   Zemeckis seems to be aiming for something poignant, meaningful, and broadly appealing, but, for me, Here had about as much emotional impact as a bouquet of artificial flowers. When you sort it all out, there's too little “there” in Here.

A sex worker's dizzying journey

   

 I’ve been reading about Anora ever since the movie won the Palm d'Or at this year’s Cannes Film Festival and began catapulting its way around the festival circuit. My initial anticipation was sparked not only by an award but by the movie’s pedigree. Anora is the work of Sean Baker,  a director whose The Florida Project I admired for its specificity and down-to-earth credibility. 

  Baker’s interests tend to be married to narrow forms of realism that resonate beyond each movie’s carefully chosen setting. His movies are about specific places -- Los Angeles in Tangerine -- but they're also about characters who struggle with chaotic forms of living -- the transgender sex worker in the same movie.

     In Anora, Baker immerses himself in Brighton Beach, a Brooklyn enclave defined by its community of Russian emigres and business people. If that description makes it sound as if Baker plans to chart an inspirational course through immigration issues,  think again.

    Baker builds his movie around an American-born woman who works in a nightclub that specializes in lap dances, some held in private VIP rooms.

    In what rightly has been described as a breakthrough performance, Mikey Madison plays Anora, a woman who’d like to escape the sex-worker grind. Ambition aside, Anora does her job with convincing enthusiasm. She’s not embarrassed by her work and has learned how to sell herself.

     The story’s pivotal event occurs when Anora meets Ivan (Mark Eydelshteyn), a 21-year-old Russian club patron who’s goofy and  immature. As it turns out, Ivan is also the son of a powerful Russian oligarch. Happy to pay for sex, he’s so taken with Anora — who calls herself Ani — that he offers to pay her $15,000 to spend a week him. They’ll party, take drugs, have sex, and party some more.

      Ably created by Eydelshteyn as a kid who's nothing but loose ends, Ivan lives in a beautifully appointed modern home in a gated community. His ocean view offers a stark contrast to Ani’s apartment. She and her sister share a dingy flat next to subway tracks where trains rumble their insult past smudged windows. Ani needs the money, does her sex duties willingly, and enjoys her new exposure to the high life. 

      Early on, the movie feels like a giddy party that includes a major bash at Ivan’s home, trips to upscale clubs, romps on the beaches of Coney Island, and a stay at a luxurious Las Vegas hotel where Ivan is a regular customer. The characters take a deep dive into what seems to be an inexhaustible supply of drugs. 

       We're not sure what to make of it when Ivan proposes and the couple hurries through a Las Vegas wedding. Suddenly, Ani is living the dream, much to the envy of at least one of her former co-workers.

       We wait for the fall of the other shoe, the hard kick that will shatter Ani’s dreams, but Baker is too shrewd to crash the gates of formula. Instead, he turns Anora into a near-hysterical comedy, bringing a farcical tone to the increasingly wild proceedings.

     A time bomb ticks beneath the story’s surface. Ivan’s disapproving parents are about to arrive in New York to nullify their notoriously irresponsible son's marriage.  

     Enter a cohort of subservient family employees who, with Ani in tow, must locate the fleeing Ivan. He runs off without Ani at the suggestion that he’s about to be transported back to Russia. Sans Ivan, there can be no annulment.

       Included in this gaggle are an Armenian (Karen Karagulian) who works as the loyal family fixer and two henchmen (Vache Tovmasyan and Yura Borisov).  Hired as the muscle of the group, Borisov's Igor has a disarming soulful quality that throws us off guard.

       The Brighton bumblers fail to take Ani’s toughness into account. A scene in Ivan’s apartment turns into an explosive comic brawl in which Ani holds her own. Baker allows the scene to play out as the mayhem spirals out of control. 

        Eventually, Ivan’s father (Aleksey Serebryakov) and mother (Daryl Ekamasova) arrive in New York to retrieve their wayward son. Ivan's no-nonsense, steely mom makes no bones about asserting her authority. Ani isn't impressed. 

       Madison handles her role with bold confidence. She ignites sparks of humanity that keep Ani from becoming a caricature, and Baker continues his exploration of boisterous nihilistic situations that resist easy compartmentalization.

       Anora brings us into a tipsy, fascinating, ethnically specific world where Brooklyn funk and obscene amounts of money create an intoxicating mix that can be funny, bitter, and impressively true to itself. 

     

A semi-amusing helping of 'Venom'

    Eddie Brock (Tom Hardy) is still walking around with a creature incorporated into his body, a symbiotic alien that lives in harmony with its biological human host. By the time of the third installment of Venom: The Last Dance begins, the character of Venom has become a reliable sidekick who provides straight-man Brock with comic jabs. Venom also uses his superpowers to help Brock confront enemies. 

   So what else is up with the finale of this purported trilogy?  

    I’ll give you the short-form answer:

-- Venom: The Last Dance may be more enjoyable than its two predecessors, not a great achievement, but ...

-- Amusing scenes crop up when Brock encounters a wandering hippie family led by a guitar-playing dad (Rhys Ifans). The movie makes good use of Cat Stevens’s Wild World and even better use of David Bowie’s Space Oddity. -- Knull, the self-proclaimed "god of the void,"  introduces the story by informing us of his need for the codex, a MacGuffin that will release him from imprisonment. Any time I hear the word “codex,” my eyes glaze over. Last Dance earns no exemption.

-- At one point, Brock finds himself riding with Venom outside a jet that's bound for New York. And you thought your airline experience was bad.

-- Here's a discovery: Venom, the symbiote, likes to dance. In this case, he takes the floor with Mrs. Chen (Peggy Lu), a character who has appeared in all the alien movies and who this time turns up playing the slots in Las Vegas. The song: Dancing Queen.

-- Chiwetel Ejiofor again adds seriousness as General Taylor, a solider who doesn’t like symbiotes. Seriousness in a movie such as this is like water polo in the Sahara. Misplaced.

-- Juno Temple joins the cast as a scientist who’s interested in befriending and studying symbiotes. Temple doesn’t have much to do. Perhaps she’s warming up for future movies.

-- Stephen Graham, who appeared in the previous Venom movie, is now a symbiote who’s being studied at a top secret military facility.

-- Kelly Marcel makes her directorial debut. She also wrote the screenplay, as well the screenplays for two previous Venom movies.

    -- Did I mention that creatures called Xenophages turn up? Not into fine dining, they try to feast on symbiotes. 

    -- The movie eventually loads up on action and turns sentimental about the relationship between Venom and the Brock. It didn't strike much of an emotional chord with me, but then I had no great fondness for the first two movies.

   If you’ve never tapped into this corner of Marvel world, you may want to sit Dance out. If you’re a fan, you’ll probably find a reasonably amusing conclusion to the trilogy.  

 And if you’re just interested in movie culture, you may want to know that more Venom movies probably loom -- even if Hardy takes a pass.

A look at the art of Alfred Hitchcock

Along with lots of others, I regard Alfred Hitchcock as one of cinema’s greatest directors, a wry genius who  merged the art of cinema with storytelling mastery. Few directors could match Hitchcock’s facility for filming interior spaces. Although he supposedly didn’t revere actors, he obtained great performances from Jimmy Stewart, Cary Grant, Ingrid Bergman, Henry Fonda, and more.  The documentary My Name is Alfred Hitchcock quickly establishes itself as essential viewing for movie fans. Director Mark Cousins uses a novel idea to good advantage. Hitchcock, actually an unseen Alistair McGowan in a pitch-perfect impression, narrates the film with mischievous wit and intelligence. Cousins’ documentary includes clips from early films such as The Ring, as well as scenes from Vertigo, Spellbound, The Wrong Man, and Psycho. Cousins divides the movie into six sections: escape, desire, loneliness, time, fulfillment, and height. I’m not going to detail the analysis Cousins provides, but if you want to know how the great movie magician made his magic, My Name is Alfred Hitchcock will show you. Cousins relied on his knowledge of Hitchcock to create the illusion that Hitchcock was letting us in on his secrets -- and it works. My Name is Alfred Hitchcock makes a well-seasoned addition to the Hitchcock canon and an invitation to again return to Hitchcock's filmography.

Intrigue during a papal conclave

  It's hardly a surprise to watch a movie in which the selection of a new pope bristles with intrigue, personal ambition, and conflicting agendas, crosscurrents made more potent by their connection to ardently held beliefs. After all, cardinals are people, too.

   Basing his movie on a novel by Robert Harris, director Edward Berger (All Quiet on the Western Front) slowly develops the movie's political maneuvering as conflict emerges between those who want to keep the Church on a liberal track and those who yearn for the rigidity of the past.

   Berger pays meticulous attention to detail and relies heavily on a terrific set of performances. As dean of the College of Cardinals, Ralph Fiennes' Cardinal Lawrence has been assigned the unenviable task of running the fractious conclave at which a pope will be elected.  Election requires a two-thirds majority.

  The role fits Fiennes, an actor capable of great precision,  perfectly. A man of balance, Lawrence sides with the liberals but tries to maintain neutrality. To add further complication, he's also in the midst of a personal crisis of faith. He also must fight off his own candidacy for a job he insists he doesn't want. Others are more transparent. 

    Other key players are Cardinal Bellini (Stanley Tucci), an opponent of the constrictions of traditionalism, and  Cardinal Tedesco (Sergio Castellitto), a churchman who's unsettled by the rise of Third World cardinals. Tedesco wants the papacy returned to Italy -- with him as pope, of course. 

   Other cardinals include the Nigerian Adeyemi (Lucian Msamati), an early frontrunner who, if elected, would become the first Black pontiff. Cardinal Tremblay (John Lithgow), a popular American, has his eye on the papal throne and makes no bones about it.

    Gradually, Cardinal Benitez from Kabul (Carlos Diehz) becomes a dark horse, an unknown who was a last-minute appointment by the late pope.     

    Essentially a movie about cloistered men, Conclave features Isabella Rossellini as Sister Agnes, a nun who reluctantly insinuates herself into the proceedings.

    Berger creates the same kind of interest found in the novel: We try to guess who'll emerge as the Church's leader. 

   Credit Berger and his team for creating first-class atmospherics -- both in terms of the movie's edgy score and a secluded church environment dominated by the proscribed behavior of ritual and majesty. 

    I had read Harris' novel and viewed its ending as more of a provocative punch line than a satisfying conclusion. The movie, which adheres closely to the novel,  has the same politically charged ending (no fair telling), and the third act tends to go a little over-the-top.

    By the end, the screenplay (by Harris and Peter Straughan) has expanded its thematic reach to a near  breaking point, but Conclave remains one of the most crisply acted and involving ensemble pieces of the year. 

 

John and Yoko go daytime

In 1972, I was living in New York City. I had a job and a family, and I didn’t have much time for daytime TV. If I ever knew, I’d forgotten that in February of that same year, John Lennon and Yoko Ono spent a week as the principal guests and co-hosts of the Mike Douglas Show, a popular daytime program that originated in Philadelphia. The documentary Daytime Revolution chronicles that week, highlighting how John and Yoko used the show to cast light on what then was dubbed  “the counterculture.” Guests, selected by John and Yoko, included Jerry Rubin, Bobby Seale, and Ralph Nader. At times, the documentary plays like a greatest hits version of the early 70s counterculture that includes segments in which Chuck Berry — the show’s highlight guest — not only performs Memphis, Tennessee with John but provides unlikely help with a bit on macrobiotic cooking. Hey, seeing is believing. Directed by Erik Nelson, the one-hour and 48-minute documentary can feel oddly dated, which is another way of saying it reflects the odd juxtapositions that sometimes cropped up during the 1970s. Douglas, who sang with an easy-listening voice and who conducted his show with non-confrontational ease, still feels like a strange pairing with John and Yoko. Contemporary interviews offer perspective as Daytime Revolution cements its status as a cultural curio. And, yes, it's moving to watch John, who was 31 at the time, sing Imagination.

A non-linear look at a romance

   Some filmmakers delight in fragmenting time, disrupting its normal flow for non-linear storytelling. The technique can be illuminating if it serves as a structural prism that heightens understanding and deepens involvement with the tale that's being told. Then there's the other kind, a drama in which time shifts seem designed to elevate a story that otherwise might seem overly familiar.

   The romance We Live in Time tends toward the latter category, a love story that dices a familiar arc into chunks, some agreeable, some cliched, and others that might produce heavy eyerolls.

   Director John Crowley (Brooklyn, The Goldfinch) builds his film around the evolving relationship between Almut (Florence Pugh) and Tobias (Andrew Garfield), a couple whose contrived meet-cute strains for novelty. Almut and Tobias fall in love, struggle to become parents, eventually have a daughter, and are ultimately jolted by news that Almut has an incurable cancer, a fate announced in an early scene.

    The doom-struck romance should (here's a shock) leave audiences reaching for tissues.  Garfield's ability to project the wounded soul serves a similar purpose, and for those who see real chemistry as opposed to a strained romance, the movie may strike a chord. 

    It's arguable that romance should carry playwright John Payne's screenplay, providing Pugh and Garfield conquer the way scenes are dealt out in what can feel like a near-random shuffle. 

    We Live in Time wears its editing like a costume that diverts attention from its characters, Tobias's job, whatever it is, seems suited to anonymity. Almut works as a well-known chef, an occupation that allows the movie to introduce a cooking competition into a cancer drama, which struck me as an example of trendy dramatic overcooking.

     And, yes, Almut and Tobias's daughter (Grace Delaney) is cute, a product of an over-amped childbirth scene that arrives before the couple can reach a hospital.  

     The story includes an assertive statement from Almut who doesn't want her daughter to remember her only as a mom, a thematic point that feels like an afterthought rather than one that's fully developed.

     The movie's title reminds us that changing times and circumstances can make a difference in relationships and how we perceive them. Fair enough, but a juggled timeline can't keep these characters from seeming to love, hurt, and grieve on cue.

      

     

Strong dominates ‘The Apprentice’

 

    It's difficult to imagine a world full of people who have yet to form an opinion about Donald Trump. Few public figures have so rampantly flaunted themselves as the Queens, N.Y.-born 45th president.

    In The Apprentice, director Ali Abbasi tries to explain how Trump became what the filmmaker has called an icon of American culture. Abbasi returns to  the 1970s and 80s, focusing on what the movie regards as Trump's formative relationship with attorney Roy Cohn. 

   The Apprentice moves quickly through a bold-faced telling of its tale, playing like a highlight reel. I wouldn't call The Apprentice essential viewing, something you might expect from a movie about a man now running for president. 

    To use the lingo currently applied to comic-book movies, The Apprentice qualifies as an origins story -- albeit one with the involving kick of a New York tabloid.

     Known for his unflinching brutality, Cohn, played by Jeremy Strong, took Trump under wing when the future president was beginning to spread his ambitious wings By the time Trump met him, Cohn already had gained notoriety for arguing in favor of the death penalty for Ethel and Julius Rosenberg and serving as Chief Counsel during the Army-McCarthy hearings.

     In a key scene, Cohn, who has been portrayed as a closeted gay man, shares three rules for life with Trump: 1. Attack. Attack. Attack. 2. Admit nothing. Deny everything. 3. No matter what happens, claim victory. Never admit defeat.

       Strong's bold performance captures Cohn's unrelenting aggression, which he carried under the shielding umbrella of extreme patriotism. It's easy to imagine that Logan Roy, the media magnate of Succession, would have been pleased if -- apart from sexuality -- his son Kendall (also played by Strong) had become more like Cohn, a flaming comet of ambition aimed at reducing foes to ashes.

     Sebastian Stan's portrayal of Trump may present a challenge for audiences. Stan gives Trump a familiar lumbering walk. He brings a tone of faux confidentiality to Trump’s speech, the illusion of an insider sharing the “real” story. He gradually enlarges the bravado of a man who believes he was blessed with winner genes.

      Stan creates a real character; he's not doing an impression. Still, I found myself asking whether I was buying Stan's portrayal, an uncertainty that speaks to the difficulty of playing a person who's inescapable to anyone who owns a TV.

       The supporting cast adds credibility. Martin Donovan convinces as Fred Trump, Donald's authoritarian father, a man who made his mark in New York real estate. Trump wanted to make his own impression. To illustrate the point, Abbasi concentrates on Trump's plan to renovate the Commodore Hotel, located near Grand Central Station. Cohn abetted Trump's efforts.

       Charlie Carrick plays Freddy, Trump's sad older brother, an airline pilot whose job embarrassed Fred Trump. "A flying bus driver,'' the elder Trump calls him. Freddy's alcoholism and suicide sound a somber note.

        Maria Bakalova comes on strong as Ivana Zelnickova, the model who'll become Ivana Trump. Trump eventually grows bored with the Czech-born Ivana, who's too eager to share the limelight with her husband.

        Abbasi doesn't skimp when showing Trump's vanity: As part of the movie's finale, Trump undergoes liposuction and hair transplants. It's a bit much; we've already seen Trump's ego at work.

         If you're searching for psychological subtext, you won't have to dig deeply. Trump sought to please and then surpass his harshly judgmental dad. 

          The Apprentice isn't exactly revelatory. Much of what's depicted has been written about elsewhere, and how audiences view the movie probably depends on how they feel about Trump and to a lesser degree Cohn, whose AIDS-related demise arrives after Trump moves on from his declining tutor.

        Those who regard Trump as a narcissistic blimp floating ominously over the American landscape will find what they want. Those who think otherwise may not bother with the film, or they may view Trump's emerging killer instinct as an asset in a kill-or-be-killed world.

        However you see it, it's difficult not to view the movie with curiosity in an election year.  I generally try not to pay too much attention to box office numbers, but I'm curious to see how many people are eager to see more of a Trump story than is already available on the nation's airways. 

       

         

            

An uneven look at SNL’s first show

 

  Who among us doesn't know what the letters SNL stand for? OK, it's Saturday Night Live, the show that recently celebrated its 50th anniversary. That's half a century of sketches, new comic faces, weekend updates, and cold opens. The show has hooked successive generations of younger viewers and created long-time loyalists.

    Perhaps understanding the place SNL has earned in American culture, director Jason Reitman, working from a script he co-wrote with Gil Kenan, has made Saturday Night, an energized look at the 90 minutes preceding the first time Chevy Chase uttered the keynote words, "Live from New York. It's Saturday Night."

    If you're a committed SNL fan, you may find amusement in Reitman's brisk examination of how producer Lorne Michaels (Gabriel LaBelle) survived turmoil that included the use of drugs on set, personality clashes, and what sometimes looks like a show-threatening helping of amateurism.

   Difficulties seem to compound as air time approaches: John Belushi (Matt Wood) hadn't yet signed his contract, and an NBC executive (Willem Dafoe) threatened to pull the plug in favor of a Johnny Carson Tonight Show rerun.

     If there's a larger point to any of this, it involves Reitman's recognition of a cultural shift. Gone were the days of the jokey brashness of Milton Berle, played here by J.K. Simmons, once known as Mr. Television. SNL pulled off a neat trick: It turned a parodic mindset against the mainstream while becoming part of it.

      The cast is mostly game with a variety of standouts, notably Cory Michael Smith as a self-impressed Chevy Chase. Dylan O'Brian scores as the comically intense Dan Aykroyd; and Tommy Dewey proves mordantly funny as writer Michael O'Donoghue. 

      Kim Matula portrays Jane Curtin with come-what-may ease, and Lamorne Morris appears as Garrett Morris, SNL's first Black cast member. Morris spends most of his time wondering what he's doing on a show no one seems to have a handle on.

       So, is Saturday Night anything more than a big-screen reconstruction of some fabled and some fictionalized moments? Not really.

          For some, the movie will provide a healthy dose of nostalgic pleasure. For me, Saturday Night didn’t generate enough laughs. I didn't buy Wood's scowling John Belushi, and in the end, the movie became a mixed bag: a blur of dizzying camera work and hit-and-miss portrayals of the original SNL cast. 

       Saturday Night aside, my idea of SNL nostalgia has less to do with the show than with watching Belushi in Animal House, Aykroyd in Doctor Detroit, and Chevy Chase in Caddyshack. Those were the days.

        

'Joker: Folie a Deux' -- dread with music

 

   Director Todd Phillips' Joker (2019) plunged into the heart of the rot-infested Gotham, where Arthur Fleck became the Joker, a maniacal misfit whose life had turned into an agonized scream, sometimes disguised as hysterical laughter. The result was scary, haunting, and grim.

   To deliver a sequel, Phillips has made a bold choice.   Joker: Folie a Deux adds musical numbers as part of the soundtrack and as performances. The story also  brings Joker (Joaquin Phoenix) into contact with Lee (Lady Gaga), the character who, in other movies, will evolve into Harley Quinn. 

   If you want an alternate title for Folie a Deux, try Psychopath, the Musical.

   Phillips opens the movie in Arkham, a fortress-like prison for the criminally insane. Amid a population of bereft inmates, a skeletal Arthur awaits trial for murder -- six of them.

   In the film's early going, Arthur seems weirdly withdrawn, a canny strategy on Phoenix's part. Arthur's eerie detachment fits the dark mood established by Hildur Gudnadottir's pounding, ominous score, reprised from the first movie.

    The screenplay lays the groundwork for Arthur's trial. Arthur's lawyer (Catherine Keener) wants to employ an insanity defense. She'll argue that the vicious Joker lives inside poor Arthur's tormented psyche. Arthur doesn't connect to this alternate self and hardly remembers his murderous outbursts. Abused as a child, Arthur's a wimp who can't accept his fiendishness -- or so his lawyer says.

      Gotham's district attorney (Harry Lawtey) argues otherwise; he dismisses talk of Arthur's alternate personality as hooey.

    As a Joker fan, I was predisposed to appreciate the inventiveness Phillips might bring to this sequel, which punctuates the movie's encompassing bleakness with musical numbers that evoke memories of a bygone Hollywood era.

   Phillips pays homage to musicals when Arthur watches a scene from 1953's The Band Wagon featuring the song, That's Entertainment; a number that's later performed by Gaga to highlight a theme found in both movies: the exploitative tendency to bestow celebrity status on notorious criminals.

   Lee and Arthur meet in Arkham, where she's serving time for arson. Lee belongs to a musical club that's supposed to help broken inmates heal. A prison guard (Brendan Gleeson) arranges for Arthur to join the group. Not only is Lee a fan of the Joker, but she's a kindred spirit, a lover of chaos.

    The match may not be as fortuitous as it seems. Arthur thinks he's finally met a woman who can pierce the thick walls of his loneliness, the prison he lives in whether he's behind bars or not. The poor sap wants love; Lee craves thrills.

    Phoenix adds sorrowful undertones to Arthur's edgy unpredictability. Gaga, who delivers lovely vocals, turns Lee into a thrill-seeker looking for a playmate. 

    Phoenix sings in a reedy yet effective style that's applied to songs such as When You're Smiling, an anthem for the Joker whose face is plastered with a lipstick smeared rictus. At one point, he fantasizes about appearing on TV with Lee, giving Phoenix and Gaga an opportunity to perform a duet.

    A movie that opens with a mock Looney Tunes cartoon has no interest in settling for formula. Whatever you think of Folie a Deux, it's impossible to accuse Phillips of taking the easy way out.

     He also tries to give the movie some moral weight. Leigh Gill delivers a brief but affecting performance as Gary Puddles, a witness in Arthur's trial. Puddles testifies about the harrowing consequences faced by those who come into Arthur's orbit.

    Familiar themes -- turning violence into entertainment and the twisted narcissism that craves celebrity -- remain, but Phillips, who wrote the screenplay with Joker co-author Scott Silver, doesn't generate enough story to keep the movie from losing steam.

    Folie a Deux begins to peter out about three-quarters of the way through its two-hour and 18-minute running time. Courtroom scenes undercut the dread that festers during Arthur's imprisonment, and the film's ending ... well ... let's just say, the movie ends.

    Reservations aside, I want to conclude with an addendum. This edition of Joker may not entirely work, but it's daring, ambitious, and ungainly in crazy  ways. Phillips' bold choices don't all pay off, but they beat the fan-serving rehash that might have been.

     

Diving into one woman's alcoholism

 

    Saoirse Ronan's deeply realized portrayal of a 29-year-old alcoholic struggling to conquer her addiction might be reason enough to see The Outrun, a movie based on a 2017 memoir by Amy Liptrot. 

   In the hands of German director Nora Fingscheidt, the movie can feel bleary-eyed, almost inebriated. Shifting back and forth in time, The Outrun brims with rue and regret, unfolding in piecemeal fashion on the Orkney archipelago off Scotland's northern shore. 

   Forget notions of island idyls; the island we see become studies in desolation. Waves crash against forbidding cliffs, powerful reminders of the devastations that follow alcohol-fueled trajectories . Dizzying heights smash their way toward self-destructive lows.

   Ronan's Rona gives the movie its twisted spine; Rona equates alcohol with happiness. Her drunkenness mixes barroom bonhomie with embarrassing, fall-down stumbles.  Her good times usually turn sour.

   The story provides telling glimpses of Rona's island upbringing with a bipolar father (Stephen Dillane) and a devoutly religious mother (Saskia Reeves). The movie doesn't blame Rona's upbringing for her alcoholism; her mother may be a staunch believer, but she's also kind and caring.

   During Rona's childhood, her father's mental illness added to the domestic turmoil; in yoyo fashion, he dropped in and out of institutions.

   Paapa Essiedu portrays Rona's boyfriend, a young man she pushes away when she becomes abusive. He's forgiving -- until he reaches his breaking point.

   Living a bare-bones existence, Rona is tasked with monitoring the movements of the corncrake, a threatened species of bird. Flingsheidt seems interested in watching Rona try to synch her internal life with the surrounding natural world.

    Not everything about The Outrun leaves a mark. At times, the movie climbs the 12-step ladder. We may have seen too many confessional scenes to find much that feels fresh about Rona's participation in meetings.

   The movie's time shifts require constant  adjustment, and The Outrun can't quite reach the poetic heights Fingscheidt strives for, particularly with references to Selkies, mythological creatures that can morph from seals into humans. 

   Still, Ronan’s brave, uncompromising performance carries the movie through the raging journey of a damaged soul seeking repair. 

Bob's Cinema Diary: Oct. 1, 2024 -- 'The Wild Robot' and 'Wolfs'

Here are two quick, catch-up reviews of two movies that I couldn't review on their opening days. Blame scheduling conflicts and movie overload. The Wild Robot, which has won favor with both critics and audiences, has the potential to become an animated classic. Wolfs, on the other hand, a disposable feel of familiarity, a comic thriller in which Brad Pitt and George Clooney break little new ground.

 

The Wild Robot. Can a robot develop emotions? Can that same robot bond with an orphaned gosling and become its surrogate mother? Can the robot, an automaton that lives apart from other robots on a wooded island, be accepted by the island's natural denizens?  Based on 2020 bestseller by Peter Brown, The Wild Robot provides a stylish and often poignant response to these questions. Rozzum Unit 7134, voiced by Lupita  Nyong'o, becomes the movie's centerpiece as the robot develops relationships with Fink, a sly fox voiced by Pedro Pascal. Kit Connor does the voice work for Brightbill, the gosling. Director Chris Sanders (Lilo & Stich, How to Train Your Dragon) offers a mixture of cartoonish action, layered meaning, and appealing characters as both Roz and Brightbill struggle with issues of belonging and connection. Eventually, Roz's maker sends a more strident robot (Stephanie Hsu) to retrieve the wayward bot and wipe its memory. Skillfully animated by Brown's team, The Wild Robot stands as family entertainment that avoids the worst pitfalls of such fare, notably unearned sentiment. Although it leans heavily toward children, adults may appreciate the way the movie balances the predatory instincts of animals with their need to achieve common goals.

Wolfs

Brad Pitt and George Clooney team for a comic thriller about two men with unusual jobs. For handsome fees, they dispose of bodies that otherwise might lead to murder indictments. As loners who've never met before, Pitt and Clooney's bickering fixers are pushed into an uneasy alliance; they must get rid of the body of a young man (Austin Abrams) who had been taken to a high-end New York hotel by a politician (Amy Ryan) looking for a fling. Nothing like a body on the floor to ruin a reputation. Pitt and Clooney deliver the expected banter, but the story, which unfolds during the course of a single night, doesn't feel nearly as offbeat as might have been intended. Undeniable star power boosts director Jon Watts's (Spider-Man: Homecoming) effort, but Pitt and Clooney can't make this stale vehicle shine.