Racing against a deadly fire

After the release of United 93 in 2006, there was little doubt that director Paul Greengrass knew how to create vivid, suspenseful movies based on real events. With The Lost Bus, Greengrass tells another reality-based  story, this one about a daring rescue that took place during the 2018 California Camp Fire which resulted in 85 deaths and caused massive destruction in the town of Paradise. Matthew McConaughey stars as Kevin McKay, a beleaguered school bus driver who's going through a bad patch. His 15-year-old son (McConaughey's real-life son Levi) maintains a sullen distance from his divorced father. Kevin’s mom (McConaughey's real-life other Kay McCabe McConaughey) is ill. Kevin struggles to get by financially and  often finds himself an odds with his boss (Ashlie Atkinson). But let's cut to the chase: Personal issues aside, the movie quickly pits Kevin against the raging fire. When panicky evacuation begins, Kevin agrees to transport a classroom full of elementary school children and their teacher (America Ferrera) to a safe place. Ferrera and McConaughey deal with upset children, gridlocked traffic, encroaching flames, and the prospect of failure — which will be lethal. The real stars of the movie are the special and digital effects team that create the terrifying fire. The Lost Bus isn't the deepest of dramas, and Greengrass doesn't spend much time on the electrical company that was held responsible for the blaze. But Greengrass and his team know how to hold attention. At its best, The Lost Bus tells a harrowing story of behavior under extreme stress.

A look at America’s craziness

 

   One Battle After Another, director Paul Thomas Anderson's loose adaptation of Thomas Pynchon's 1990 Vineland, captures more of the novelist's feverish absurdity, incendiary comedy, and ragtag relevance than I would have thought possible. I don't think that was the case with Anderson's Inherent Vice (2014), another attempt at bringing Pynchon to the screen.

   In large part, One Battle After Another uses Pynchon as a springboard for an updated story that seems to sync with contemporary concerns about a badly fractured society that spins out one dizzying scenario after another.

   Wild and scattered, One Battle After Another takes a big dare. It's like a dinner brimming with side dishes and no main course. Don't take that as a failure but as an overriding observation about the incoherence of a time without a clear center. 

    A sprawling canvas allows Anderson to introduce a range of characters, some bordering on caricature. Looking like he's shedding the last vestiges of youth, Leonardo DiCaprio plays Bob Ferguson, a rebel who -- in his younger days  -- blew up buildings in cahoots with Perfidia (Teyana Taylor), a Black woman and bold provocateur who finds sexual kick in armed defiance. Wielding power turns her on.

    The revolutionaries -- dubbed French 75 -- rob banks and free captured immigrants, saving them from internment, deportation, or worse. In one scene, Black women rob a bank, stamping bold fury onto the screen.

    The insurrectionists are opposed by a militaristic government police force in which Sean Penn's Colonel Lockjaw serves as a chief field officer. Lockjaw's sexual desires push him into racist hypocrisy when he's aroused by Perfidia. His ramrod walk -- a rigid rooster's strut -- makes for an ongoing sight gag.

    The opening scenes offer an unsettling blur of incident without much context. Anderson leaves it to us to ride the roiling wave he creates.  The characters will become more defined when the film leaps ahead 16 years. Still active, the revolution seems to be sputtering. 

     Time remains fuzzy throughout. Characters use cell phones, but pay phones still can be found in the story's dystopian surroundings.

     After her fierce opening salvo, Perfidia disappears from the story; we learn that she was captured and saved herself by turning rat. She entered the Witness Protection Program but escaped. She hasn't been seen since. For his part, Bob has retreated to a remote rural area where he's raising Willa (Chase Infiniti), the assertive high-school-aged daughter he had with Perfidia.

     Bob lives in a marijuana-induced haze, but his paranoia seems reasonable; the military would like to find him. I won't say more about it, but doubts are raised about Willa's parenthood.

      To the extent that there's a plot, it kicks into second gear when Willa is captured. Bob gropes his way out of a drug-induced fog as he tries to rescue her.

       An emerging string of characters adds to the movie's encompassing weirdness. Among them are members of the bizarrely named Christmas Adventurer's Club, a highly selective fraternity of powerful white men who stand for racial purity. Lockjaw yearns to join their ranks.

      Benicio del Toro delivers a funny comic turn as a martial arts instructor who sides with the revolutionaries. He also shelters immigrants the government would like to expel.  

      The humor hinges on overstatement, broadly drawn characters, shaggy detail, and unconstrained lunacy. Always a bit confused, Ferguson spends most of the movie trying to evade capture while still wearing the tattered bathrobe in which he flees the police. To make matters worse, time and drugs have obliterated the passwords Bob needs to reconnect with his former revolutionary colleagues so that he can discover where they've taken Willa.

     Action augments the gunplay and tension. A climactic car chase over rolling hills has a stomach-dropping quality that Anderson sustains for several minutes, and just about everything in One Battle After Another benefits from Jonny Greenwood's edgy score.

     Is One Battle After Another intended as a cautionary tale about where our divided country might be heading? Some may see it that way, but I didn’t view the movie as a flashing red light. Rather, it struck me as a depiction of the febrile craziness of a moment in which nearly everything seems possessed by an over-blown sense of absurdity that’s ridiculous, dangerous, and resistant to comprehension

     Of course, it’s all too much, but that’s how things often feel.

Grief and a lie in ‘Eleanor the Great’

 

June Squibb is 95 and still acting, a notable achievement in and of itself. In her first directorial outing, Scarlett  Johansson casts Squibb as the title character in Eleanor the Great, a movie about an aging Jewish woman who moves from Florida to New York when her longtime roommate (Rita Zohar) passes away. In New York, Squibb's Eleanor takes up residence with her daughter (Jessica Hecht) and grandson (Will Price). Tory Kamen's screenplay contrives to have Eleanor join a Holocaust survivor's group at a Manhattan JCC. Perhaps sensing Eleanor's isolation, a survivor invites her to participate. The twist: Eleanor isn't a Holocaust survivor. Posing as one, she tells the story of her roommate, a woman scarred by Holocaust experiences. Concocting a lie about the holocaust gives the movie a sour taste that can work against the empathy it tries to build. Though brief, Zohar's performance proves a standout, but the movie works its way toward a resolution that struggles to explain Eleanor's behavior when her lie takes on a life of its own. The plot hinges on a connection Eleanor makes with an NYU journalism student (Erin Kellyman), who's grieving the recent death of her mother. She's also trying to break through the resistance of her father (Chiwetel Ejiofor), a TV personality who won't discuss his grief. The actors do their best to convey the required sensitivity, and the movie's small moments are well-played. Still, contrivances and a strained conclusion didn't convince me that the subject matter -- the seriousness of Eleanor's ruse -- had been given enough weight.*

*I've been having difficulty with the spellcheck on this app, which insists on changing names to one's it finds more recognizable. That was the case in an early posting of this review. From now on, I will double check the postings to make sure that this hasn't happened. And thanks to those who have pointed these errors out to me. 

Analyzing ‘The Texas Chainsaw Massacre’

Alexandre O. Philippe continues his journey into cinema with Chain Reactions, a critical analysis of what many view as a seminal work of horror, 1974’s Texas Chainsaw Massacre. After devoting a film to the shower scene in Psycho (Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho) and exploring the influence of the The Wizard of Oz on director David Lynch (Lynch/(Oz), Philippe assembles a group of talkers to discuss the impact director Tobe Hooper’s raw chunk of horror had on them and on a genre that recently has grown in popularity and importance. Philippe relies on interviews with Patton Oswalt, Takashi Miike, Stephen King, Karyn Kusama, and Australian critic Alexandra Heller-Nicholas to dive deeply into the movie and its unquestionable impact on successive attempts at raw-boned horror. If you’re a devote of American horror, you undoubtedly know Leatherface, the chainsaw-wielding killer who sliced and diced those who had the misfortune of entering a world occupied by his leering, demented family. Philippe’s interviewees talk intelligently about the film, but, for me,  Oswalt’s analysis proved a standout. And who better to discuss Hooper's contribution to American horror than King? You’ll hear appreciations of a film that defined a horror aesthetic along with some consideration of whether Texas Chainsaw Massacre took a prescient look at the violent power unleashed by some of society's rejects. Is this analysis on point, or is Texas Chainsaw, to take the opposing extreme, an indulgence in cinema's trashiest impulses? To be honest, I’m not sure exactly where Texas Chainsaw belongs. Still, I love hearing smart analysis of films, and Philippe’s specificity and focus are creating an essential body of work for those of us who spend our lives in front of screens.

Horror set in the world of football

 

   Horror master Jordan Peele (Get Out, Nope) serves as producer for Him, a movie about the soul-crushing price football players are willing to pay to achieve greatness at the professional level. 

    Directed by Justin Tipping and starring Marlon Wayans and Tariq Withers, Him operates on a hyper level that flirts with themes about the near-religious fervor for football, twisted masculinity, and unchecked ambition.

    Withers portrays Cameron Cade, a gifted college quarterback who's about to enter the professional ranks. Cade hopes to sign with the ridiculously named San Antonio Saviors, a Texas team whose current quarterback (Wayans' Isaiah White) has attained GOAT status. 

   On the comeback trail from an injury, White  invites Cade to train at his Texas compound. It never seems to occur to Cade that White might have ulterior motives.

    Cade's task won't be easy. Not only must he hit his stride, he also must overcome the effects of a brain injury suffered after he was attacked by a mascot-like figure in the movie's early going. The attack may not make sense, but it allows Cade to be seen with a visible series of stitches in his head, a reminder of physical horror.

    Working from a screenplay by Zack Akers and Skip Brodie, Tipping seems to be straining to find something deep, even at one point including a football-related tableau that mimics The Last Supper. The movie also suggests the possibility of threatening demons and deals with the devil.

    The movie's problem is embedded in its exaggerated approach and flashy flirtations with horror tropes as it tries it to be comically parodic and serious at the same time.  That might represent  wasted effort. Violent enough already, the world of football needs no color-drenched displays of big-screen bloodshed.

    By the time Him concludes, it has become a wild

muddle featuring a committed cast and a few striking images -- X-ray-like depictions of hard hits, for example.

    I suppose Him has ideas, but for the most part, they remain undigested or submerged in burlesque-like caricature. It neither satisfies as a sharply realized work of genre or one that transcends it. Him tries to say something, but amid its confusing embellishments, I lost interest in trying to figure out what that might be.

A great big beautiful bore

 

  Kogonada (he goes by a single name) directed Colin Farrell in a low-key helping of sci-fi called After Yang (2021), a quietly realized movie about an android who becomes a companion to a father's adopted daughter. 

   Considering After Yang's off-kilter lilt, it's hardly surprising to see Kogonada put a fairy-tale spin on a big-screen romance starring major Hollywood names, Farrell and Margot Robbie.

   From the start, it's clear that A Big Bold Beautiful Journey shouldn't be taken literally. Working from a screenplay by Seth Reiss, Kogonada abstracts the ingredients of romance into a series of scenes meant to depict stages that his characters must go through before love can blossom.

     Setting formula aside can be rewarding, but Beautiful Journey doesn't allow Farrell or Robbie to create the credibility and chemistry any romance requires, regardless of form.

     Theatrical but lifeless, Beautiful Journey plays like a series of scenes lifted from an acting class. Put another way, the movie feels self-conscious and contrived. Too often, Kogonada's fantasy flatlines.

      So how does all this happen? Early on, Farrell's David rents a car from a mysterious agency that insists he take an older vehicle with a GPS added. David drives to a wedding, where he meet's Robbie's Sarah. It turns out that Sarah has rented a car from the same agency. 

      Soaked in rain, these early scenes feature colorful umbrellas. They may not enhance the story's charm but they sure make it feel soggy.

       After the wedding, Sarah's car won't start and the two wind up taking a purportedly magical road trip on which the GPS dictates numerous stops. At several of these stops,  a free-standing door (many incongruously placed in rural settings) must be opened. Sarah and David walk uneasily  into these pre-determined spaces, revisiting moments in their pasts that have impeded their ability to form meaningful relationships.

      In scenes in which David returns to high school, he's pushed into a musical (How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying) in which he once played a starring role. The moment has some energy, but it also strains to make a point: Rejection in high school can create lingering pain.

      The point is clear: Before they can find fulfillment, David and Sarah must overcome internal barriers. Early on, we learn that David has been closing himself off from intimate relationships. Robbie's Sarah makes no bones about her resistance to love. She has a habit of cheating, thus destroying any attempt at sustained intimacy.

       None of this rings true, and instead of creating a magical aura, the movie drifts through patches of boredom.

      A supporting cast adds little. Kogonada casts Kevin Kline and Phoebe Waller-Bridge as the agents at a car rental facility that's so obviously lacking in realism, it makes us suspect more weirdness than the movie ever delivers.

       Kogonada tries for tears when he inserts when Sarah finally copes with the death of her mother (Lily Rabe), but little about A Big Bold Beautiful Movie clicks. 

      As for that sound you hear in the row behind you, It could be someone sighing over the movie's poignancy or it might be light snoring.

       

'Swiped': Strictly a surface affair

 Lily James gives an energized performance in Swiped, a movie in which she portrays Whitney Wolfe, the woman who helped design the dating app Tinder. After being pushed aside by Tinder’s execs, Wolfe went on to found Bumble, a female-centric dating app that made her a billionaire. Director Rachel Lee Goldenberg falls prey to a common problem in stories about rapid-fire successes followed by a fall and then renewal. The rise usually proves more engaging than the fall.  In this case, the story's second half charts the sexism Wolfe experienced at Tinder, a business where a “bro” culture seemed to prevail. The atmosphere is so toxic, Wolfe fails to support a loyal female co-worker (Myha’la). Ben Schnetzer portrays the charming tech whiz and Tinder co-founder who bets on Wolfe’s marketing savvy. Jackson White portrays Justin, another Tinder co-founder, but one who turns on Wolfe when their ill-advised romance sours. Dan Stevens portrays Russian-born Andrey Andreev,  the head of Badoo, an international dating site. Andreev becomes  Wolfe’s corporate savior, but ultimately proves to be another supporter of bad-boy behavior. I’m a bit put off by movies that tell real-life stories because I’m never entirely sure of what liberties might have been taken to enhance the drama. I’m assuming Goldenberg’s storytelling is accurate enough, but her movie tends toward superficiality. It’s a gloss on female issues in a male-dominated tech world that could have dived deeper. For the record, if you're looking for info on Whitney Wolfe, you'd do well to look under her married name, Whitney Wolfe Herd. She was married after most of the events in the movie took place.

A look at the making of 'Megalopolis'

   Francis Ford Coppola invited director Mike Figgis to chronicle the making of Coppola’s ambitious Megalopolis, a film that had been percolating in Coppola’s mind for 30 years. Whether you saw Magalopolis as an explosion of visual genius or an inscrutable mess, Figgis’s Megadoc makes for an intriguing foray into the mind and personality of a director whose ambitions operate on a grand scale. 

 For Coppola, movies are a canvas on which to realize individual dreams. An artist who has directed some of cinema’s greatest narrative-driven films (The Godfather and The Godfather II), Coppola nonetheless views himself as an experimental artist who has never entirely forsaken his theater background.

    So it’s hardly surprising to see Coppola rehearsing his actors with a series of games that look as if they were left over from an acting class. Figgis also shows Coppola going against trendy grains, preferring practical effects to computer-generated imagery.

    Oh, and by the way, Coppola spent $120 million of his own money to finance Megalopolis, selling off a portion of his wine business to raise the funds. 

     If nothing else, Coppola is a romantic when it comes to art. What would matter if he died broke if his spending resulted in something beautiful?

     Interviews with Jon Voight and Shia LaBeouf show how different actors respond to Coppola’s approach. It’s hardly surprising that Coppola occasionally expresses his irritations with LaBeouf, who can’t get in synch with Coppola’s methods.

      Coppola presides over a massive production, often seen sitting in a chair, an emperor who understands that some may think he's encouraging chaos. He assures us that he’s looking for meaningful moments within a fluid atmosphere many directors wouldn’t tolerate. 

       A couple of comments in Megadoc tell us something about Coppola’s sense of himself and his work. At one point, he says (wrongly, I think) that he’s a “second-rate director.” He quickly revises the statement to say that he’s a “first-rate second-rate director.” In another telling scene, he encourages his actors and himself to put themselves at greater risk.

      Because movies require many varied talents, putting a singular vision on screen is no simple matter, something Coppola’s late wife, Eleanor Coppola, documented in her 1991 work, Hearts of Darkness: A Filmmaker’s Apocalypse. Eleanor Coppola makes a set visit during the film, some of which takes place in a hotel Coppola bought so that he could create a tightly knit community.

         Eighty three at the time of the filming, Coppola seems a mellowed visionary who has spent much of his life trying to create the ideal conditions for making cinematic art; i.e., ensuring that, as one interviewee puts it, no one can say “no” to him.

         Of course, bumps in the road still appear. At one point, Coppola fires and replaces the film's visual effects supervisor. He can’t always hide his frustration. 

         Megalopolis struck me as a mixture of brilliance and incoherence fused with a call for a global conversation about the future of humanity. Some day, I’ll watch it again and check my initial reactions because I’m an admirer of Coppola and always remain hopeful about his work. 

         If you share that sentiment, you’ll be interested in watching an 83-year-old man take a shot fulfilling a life-long dream that might have been a culminating work, a glorious merging of all of his talents.

       That may not have happened, but Megadoc proves a fascinating look at the effort.

 

‘Spinal Tap II’? Oh hell, why not?

 

 I saw Spinal Tap II: The End Continues with a contingent of committed fans who attended an IMAX showing of the movie followed by a Q&A conducted by the movie's principals in character. 

 I can't think of a better way to have experienced this long-delayed sequel to a 1984 comedy that has acquired cult status. Steeped in nostalgia, the movie finds the band reuniting for a concert they're obligated by contract to perform. A ridiculous contrivance? Of course, but this is Spinal Tap.

  Despite abundant references -- musical and otherwise -- to the first movie, it's unlikely that the uninitiated will revel in Tap’s mixture of idiocy, improvisation, and rock delivered by director Rob Reiner and his principal cohorts (Michael McKean, Christopher Guest, and Harry Shearer). 

  McKean, Guest, and Shearer are gifted improvisational artists. Watching them work has its own rewards. Reiner, who fills the role of straight man, reprises his portrayal of  Marty DiBergi, the documentarian who initially followed “England’s loudest rock band” on its disastrous US tour. 

   For the record, Guest plays guitarist Nigel Tufnel; Shearer appears as bassist Derek Smalls; and McKean portrays band frontman David St. Hubbins. The names point to the presumptions and self-consciousness of a bygone British heavy-metal era and stand as small satirical gems.

   To spice things up, Reiner adds celebrity cameos from Paul McCartney and Elton John. John, by the way, finds himself at the center of the movie's grand finale, delivering a rousing version of the band's signature tune, Stonehenge, and participating in a smashing, if expected, sight gag.

   The original signaled the onset of a comedy trend, a proliferation of "mockumentaries" that still hasn't entirely faded. Guest, by the way, became an undisputed master of the form with comedies such as Best in Show, A Mighty Wind, and Waiting for Guffman. 

   The Tap sequel might be best appreciated for its comic details. Separated by time, geographical distance, and bad feelings, each band member is living a new life. Smalls has found post-rock meaning running a glue museum. Tufnel operates a combination cheese and guitar shop, and McKean makes occasional appearances with a mariachi band.

   Among the additional celebrities making drop-in appearances are Questlove, Metallica's Lars Ulrich, and Chad Smith of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Drummer Valerie Franco plays Didi Crockett, the latest in a long line of ill-fated Tap drummers.

     Chris Addison adds bite as tour promoter Simon Howler. A font of bad ideas, Howler suggests a merchandising gimmick called Tap Water and wonders whether greater impact might be achieved if one of the band members drops dead on stage.

      Tap’s music is presented more seriously than the lyrics might suggest in songs such as Big Bottoms and Listen to the Flower People.

    Spinal Tap perfectly met its moment in 1984. The same can’t be said of this sequel. Showy glitz can seem out of whack in a Spinal Tap movie. A rift between St. Hubbins and Tufnel feels too familiar. And IMAX for a Spinal Tap movie? Really.*

    Still, the sequel offers enough laughs to justify its existence, even if it's a bit shocking to see the long-haired versions of this group as men in their 70s. Shearer is 81.

   Age becomes part of the movie's reason for existing. Sags and wrinkles create a contrast between reality and memory. These guys show the mileage of the 40 years since the original was released, but they're still ticking. Good for them -- and for us, as well.

   Stay for the end credits, interviews that include some of the movie’s best improvisation.

*The movie is available in standard formats, as well.

   

Paramedics: burnout and skill

 

   Movies about paramedics don't exactly roll off the Hollywood assembly line, but we’ve had a few. Remember Martin Scorsese’s Bringing Out the Dead, a 1999 movie that waded into lurid New York City territory with Nicolas Cage playing a burnt-out paramedic?

  We’ve also had nonfiction entries,  including the BBC series Ambulance and Honorable But Broken: EMS in Crisis, both of which can be viewed on Amazon Prime.

  Because paramedics engage in high-stress work, their lives bristle with life-and-death dramas in which their skills constantly are tested. Dealing with a body that has been pried out of a wrecked automobile doesn’t exactly qualify as an activity most of us would consider part of a dream job.

     In Code 3, Rainn Wilson plays Randy, a paramedic teetering on the edge of burnout. Set during the course of a single 24-hour shift, the movie teams Wilson with Lil Rel Howrey, who plays Randy's ambulance-driving partner.

     Laced with rueful humor, a series of California-based episodes put Randy through physical and emotional challenges as he wonders about the meaning of his life. Can he make a real difference in a job that’s constantly overwhelming?

    Aimee Carrero portrays Jessica, a trainee thrown into the mix. Uncorrupted by over-exposure to tragedy and untarnished by the cynicism of veterans, Jessica approaches her job believing she can help.

     Director Christopher Leone, working from a screenplay credited to him and Patrick Pianezza, a former paramedic, draws on the real-life experiences of those who ply the paramedics trade. Safe to assume, then, that we're watching reality-based drama.

     Some of the movie's tension arises from recurring conflicts between the paramedics and the staff of an already-packed emergency room where sick, wounded, or drugged-out patients are transported.

    Dr. Serano (Rob Riggle), a smug emergency room doc, makes no attempt to conceal his disdain for paramedics, viewing them as nuisances who add to emergency room glut. Overdone? Maybe, but every movie seems to need a resident jerk.

     Yvette Nicole Brown portrays Shanice, the harried supervisor of the city’s paramedics. She insists that Randy finish his shift, even though he’s landed a lower-stress job with an insurance company and plans to leave the EMS world.

      Office veteran Wilson gives Randy a convincing mix of skill and loathing, sometimes breaking the fourth wall to talk directly to viewers. The rest of the cast is equally game.

      Individual calls made by the paramedics — including one in which they're attacked by a shotgun-wielding woman — are compelling, although the story's overall arc feels predictable, which means Code 3 seldom feels freshly imagined. A richer story would have helped.

     Code 3 gets its points across, and it makes us grateful for those who toil in fields few of us would want to till. That's almost -- if not quite -- enough.

 

Walking in the shadow of death

  Francis Lawrence, who directed four films in the Hunger Games series, plunges into Stephen King territory with The Long Walk, an adaptation of the first novel King wrote.  Notably, the book appeared after Carrie (1974), King's first published work.

  Set in a dystopian world that resembles the present, the story focuses on 50 young men chosen by lot to participate in a lethal competition. They must walk at a brisk pace of three miles-per-hour. Those who quit or collapse will be executed on the spot. Only one will survive to reap the amazing rewards that have been promised to the winner.

 With help from a youthful cast led by Cooper Hoffman and David Jonsson, Lawrence and writer J.T. Mollner adopt a minimalist approach that concentrates on the walk through depleted rural American landscapes that suggest a forlorn, declining America. 

    The walkers develop relationship but they're shadowed by doom. They know they woh't all make it to the end. Their banter sometimes reminded me of the way soldiers relate to one another in war movies. 

  The characters work their way through moments of  bonhomie, competitiveness, cruelty, and budding friendship. Many of them help and encourage one another, but they know that, in the end, their efforts will be futile. Some are bitter and cruel, notably Charlie Plummer's Barkovitch.

   Of course, the young men are being exploited. The officer supervising the walk (Mark Hamill's the Major) claims that these brave young men will inspire a sluggish population to overcome its laziness. Neither we nor they believe that the walkers want anything more than to be granted the prize, fulfillment of anything they wish for -- money, women, safety.

    Although he includes flashbacks involving Hoffman's character's mother (Judy Greer), Lawrence wisely sticks to the road, where we see those who violate the contest's rules shot by soldiers who accompany them in armored vehicles. 

   After hundreds of miles, some begin to stagger.

   Personal secrets are revealed as the characters get to know one another, but Long Walk works better the less you try to understand the logic of the world that created this exercise in competitive torture. 

    Those expecting a "big" King adaptation may be taken aback by the movie's lack of paranormal garnish. This is King in a minor key.

   Still, The Long Walk makes for an intense,  economical one-hour and 48-minute journey into a world where walkers seek to preserve their humanity in a country that seems intent on depriving them of it.

Downton Abbey's very fond farewell

 

  There are at least two ways of looking at Downton Abbey: The Grand Finale, the culmination of two previous big-screen efforts to repackage the long-running TV series for multiplex audiences. Six seasons on PBS encompassing 52 episodes evidently weren't enough to sate the appetites of those who like their soap operas burnished with caustic wit and class differences as manifested in the aristocratic Crawley family and the servants who toil on their behalf.

  Never my cup of tea, Downton Abbey nonetheless accumulated legions of fans under the guidance of Julian Fellowes, a writer who developed Downton Abbey as an outgrowth of Gosford Park, another series that ran on PBS.

   The late Maggie Smith appeared in both series and in Downton movies as the beloved Dowager Countess Violet Crawley, whose wit sometimes curdled into sarcasm. Fair to say, Smith became the face of Downton Abbey.

   Although Downton Abbey: The Grand Finale leaves the door ajar for the series to continue beyond the 1930s, it serves as a farewell tour for its characters, themes, and, most importantly, grand appointments in set decoration, costumes, ladies' hats, and fine jewelry.

    About those two ways of seeing The Grand Finale: 

    First, Grand Finale can be regarded as the fondest of possible farewells for beloved characters and the actors who play them, a major helping of well-crafted fan service designed to ease devotees into a Downtonless future.

   If you’re in this group, you may wish to stop reading here because I'm about to shift gears.

    Let's pause for a bit of business, though: The roster of Downton actors includes: Hugh Bonneville as the Earl of Grantham, Elizabeth McGovern, as his countess wife, Cora, Michelle Dockery, as Lady Mary Crawley, Laura Carmichael, as Lady Edith Crawley, Charles Carson as Mr. Carter, the butler, Sophie McShera, as Daisy Mason, a kitchen worker en route to becoming head cook, and on and on and on through a teeming roster of roles.

    Paul Giamatti has been added to the latest edition as Harold Levinson, Lady Grantham's wayward American brother. Another newcomer, Arty Froushan, appears as Noel Coward. Alessandro Nivola plays Gus Sambrook, the self-proclaimed genius entrepreneur who helped Levinson squander a good deal of the family fortune.

    For the record, Dominic West reprises his role as Guy Dexter, the smiling film star who worked his way into the previous film.

    Now, about the second way of regarding The Grand Finale. Fond farewell? Yes. But this example of fondness easily and often becomes saccharine, sentimental schmaltz decked out in top hats and formal ware. 

   The movie also is marked by gently presented social conflict. Winds of social change are rocking Britain: the decline of the aristocracy, the rise of the middle class, long-standing convention abrading against modern attitudes, and the emergence of Lady Mary as an independent woman.

    No sooner does Grand Finale open than Lady Mary’s recent divorce turns her into a social pariah who eventually must be reabsorbed into the fabric of Yorkshire life.

   The family also brushes against the shady money ethos represented by Sambrook's Americanism, greed dressed up in an attempt to become part of the aristocratic wallpaper.

   All of this is accompanied be emergence of a new form of status: celebrity. Coward's reputation as a playwright and actor, trumps (you'll pardon the expression) nobility; he ignites the enthusiasms of both the rich and of their loyal servants.

    All of these conflicts are stated obviously and each is resolved without too much ruffling of anyone's ascot; i.e., the script leaves no loose ends dangling, politely closing the book on every potentially fraught page it opens. Rather than gathering force, the winds of change flutter like a soft breeze.

   The movie even borrows a line from T.S. Eliot's The Hollow Men. Upon confronting the London apartment that will replace the grand London house the family sells to meet expenses, Lord Grantham coos,  "This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper." 

   Giamatti and Nivola stand out like mismatched pieces of a jigsaw. Maybe that's the point. Americans don't easily fit into a world built for anglophiles.

   And with 49 credited roles in Grand Finale, it's a small miracle that director Simon Curtis saves Fellowes' screenplay from hopeless confusion.

     Even for those of us who aren’t enthusiasts, there are pleasures to be found in watching horses race over beautifully tended green downs or in the familiarity of the Grantham home. Anna Robins' costumes underscore the series' ongoing  commitment to pleasing the eye.

     Moreover,  Dockery gives the movie the spine it needs without making too much fuss about it.

    And, yes, the movie finds ways to honor the late Smith for her role in the series. Of course, it does.

    Make of it what you will, but for me, the whole Downton business ended with neither a bang nor a whimper, but, if you will, with a sigh. This lavishly appointed addendum gracefully drifts into the soft embrace of a cultural comfort zone.

 

   

   

   

'The Cut' fails to fulfill its promise

 Boxing movies are a Hollywood mainstay. They can include underdog hits such as Rocky or they might be classified as redemptive character studies a la Raging Bull. 

 In my view, the best boxing movies sweat with seedy atmosphere, exposing the boxing world as one full of traps. Fighters often become victims of their egos, scrappers making last-ditch attempts to preserve what's left of their self-respect. (Body and Soul, 1947).

  Don't take the above as anything more than an outline of my preferences re: boxing movies, but know that The Cut tends toward the latter category. Although far from a classic, the movie gives Orlando Bloom an opportunity for a deep immersion performance that pushes him past his work in movies such as Lord of the Rings or Pirates of the Caribbean.

    Aided by a hefty make-up job, Bloom sheds the trappings of big-screen fantasy, playing an Irish pug who blew his chance for ring glory, perhaps because he couldn't muster the will to win.  Bloom's emotionally damaged character wants to challenge fate, reclaiming his shot at a life-changing moment he failed to meet.

    When we meet The Boxer (that's how he's listed in the credits), he's working at a gym with the woman who once trained him (Caitriona Balfe). They teach kids to box and live modestly until a slick promoter (Gary Beadle) offers The Boxer a chance to substitute for a fighter in a Vegas match. He's flown to the US and begins his short-notice preparation for the bout.

    For most of the movie, The Boxer battles his own body. He arrives in Vegas weighing more than 180 pounds. To compete as a lightweight, he must hit 154 pounds. He has a week to make weight, to make himself lean.

    Enter Boz (John Turturro), a maniacal specialist in helping fighters shed pounds. Boz's arrival sets up a conflict between the unethical Boz and Caitlin, whose love for The Boxer means she'd rather not see him endanger his life with insane workouts, rigorous dieting, sweat sessions,  drugs, and other forms of bodily torment.

     Bloom tries to wring every ounce of determination, doubt, and persistence from a role that's probably his grittiest to date.

     Grabs for atmospheric authenticity only carry the movie so far, and the narrative is disrupted by quick flashbacks to the boxer's childhood relationship with his prostitute mother. 

    Director Sean Ellis avoids showing us the climactic battle for which The Boxer has been preparing.  Ellis may have wanted to keep his movie from being decked by genre cliches. Instead, he relies on a disturbing bit of weight reduction that underscores The Boxer's already established mania. 

    The Cut carefully details The Boxer's bodily tortures, but scenes of his punishing physical regimen also tend to wear the movie out, like a boxer with a limited repertoire  of punches. Considering all the food deprivation The Boxer experiences, the whole thing could have been called  "Starving Bull."

      

Twins, identify -- and terrible loss

 

   Can a sexual fling change lives, particularly if one partner overwhelms the other, implying a continued  intimacy that never materializes? You'll find an engaging answer to the question in Twinless, a smartly contrived and affecting comedy framed with some darker edges.

  First, the major contrivance: The story centers on Roman (Dylan O’Brien) and Dennis (James Sweeney), troubled men who meet at a support group for siblings mired in a particular form of grief; they’ve each lost a twin brother or sister. 

  As played by Sweeney, who also wrote and directed, Dennis seems to have well-honed coping mechanisms. Roman, on the other hand, is the straight brother of a dead gay sibling, the outgoing and socially adept Rocky.

   For reasons that quickly become apparent, Dennis becomes obsessed with Roman, a typical "bro" type, both in manner and attitude. But Roman's no bigot, although he's prone to violent outbursts, perhaps the only way he can express his anger.

  Based on shared experiences with grief, Roman and Dennis become friends. I can't say more about plot without revealing twists that should be discovered in a theater. I'll note, though, that the movie offers cleverly placed surprises and encourages reflection on the tangled relationship between twinship and identity.

    O’Brien gives a notable performance as Roman, and also plays Rocky in flashbacks that, in this case, elucidate both plot and character.

    An able supporting cast helps sharpen the film’s themes, often rescuing their characters from cliche. 

    Marcie (Aisling Franciosi), one of Dennis’ co-workers,  develops a romantic relationship with Roman. Franciosi grounds Marcie's sunbeam smile with timely applications of common sense.

     Lauren Graham's portrayal of Roman’s embittered, grief- stricken mother,  provides a welcome counterpoint to the movie’s youthful flavor. Portland settings — with additional scenes in Seattle — add up-to-date varnish.

     Though clearly motivated, I wondered whether Roman's violent outburst had been adequately explored, but “wondering’’ isn’t the same as giving up on the entire movie. For the most part, Twinless blends grief, identity issues, and loneliness into an engaging portrait of characters grappling with all of the above.