He's determined to surf

 

   In The Surfer, Nicolas Cage plays a character who tries to surf on a thug-ruled Australian beach. If you're expecting Beach Boys music and sunny California dreamin', look elsewhere.

   So what's Cage -- known only as The Surfer -- doing in Australia? The Surfer grew up in the town where the beach is located. He was 15 when his father died and his mother relocated to LA. Now,  he's back.

   A successful investment exec teetering on the cusp of divorce, The Surfer wants to surf the beach with his teenage son. He also wants to buy the house in which he spent his early years, a gesture that suggests he's hoping to rediscover lost hope and innocence; i.e., his youth.

    The locals -- led by Scally (Julian McMahon) -- humiliate The Surfer in front of his son (Finn Little) and suggest he'd be wise to leave town and abandon his dream of home ownership.

   Not to be deterred, The Surfer endures a series of torments administered by the surfers, who behave like a cult members. These bros have created the ultimate gated community --only they're the gate. Their families sometimes join them for beachside barbecues.

   A beach bum who lives in his decrepit car (Nicholas Cassim) seems to be one of the sole townies who survives outside the surfing tribe. He blames the surfers for killing his dog. They probably had something to do with his son's death.

   Gradually deprived of his possessions (including his Lexus, cell phone, clothing, watch, and wallet), The Surfer begins to look like a vagrant who's relegated to using the beach's filthy public restroom. Forced to scrounge for food, he contemplates eating a dead rat and swallows bugs for nourishment.  

    One question underlies the tense proceedings: How much humiliation can one man stand? 

   When The Surfer finally strikes back, director Lorcan Finnegan plays his hole card, concentrating on warped notions about manhood that underlie the violent behavior of the surfers.

   Rather than deepening the movie, late-picture revelations turn the story into a kind of perverted frat-boy drama about the need, according to the surfers, to degrade those who seek their acceptance.

   Nothing wounds a movie faster than reasonable questions. It was never clear to me, for example, why The Surfer -- a supposedly savvy businessman -- didn't pursue legal recourse beyond asking a corrupted local cop for help. Hasn’t this guy ever heard of lawyers?

   For me, this undertow of disbelief kept the movie from gaining maximum impact, even when Finnegan self-consciously stirs things up with a signature line. "Eat the rat."

   Having said all that, it should be noted that The Surfer is watchable enough, less a failure than an attempt to draw from the well of fury Cage can unleash but which he does  here with moderation -- at least for him.

'Thunderbolts*' stakes out its own turf

 

   An aggressively bountiful stream of Marvel movies has created a specialized kind of viewer. Loyal fans and aficionados have become astute at parsing the intricacies that connect the numerous characters that populate the Marvel Cinematic Universe. 

   An essential question raised by every new Marvel movie, then, revolves around whether its appeal extends beyond those who have submitted Marvel dominance.

   Thunderbolts* leans toward the middle when considering its appeal for the uninitiated.  It's difficult for me to call it must viewing, but I enjoyed the movie more than most recent Marvel fare, primarily because of a solid ensemble, a few memorable comic moments, and a commitment to the idea that six misfits are equal to one superhero.

    Here's the deal: A dejected group of MCU characters has been exploited by CIA director Valentina Allegra de Fontaine (Julia Louis-Dreyfus). If the Congress learns about these assassins, de Fontaine won't survive an already contentious impeachment hearing. 

    Fearing exposure, de Fontaine contrives to gather these Marvel losers in one place and eliminate them.

    A freshman congressman named Bucky Barnes (Sebastian Stan) wants to topple de Fontaine. In addition to his Congressional day job, Bucky is trying to forget his life as Winter Soldier, an assassin with a prosthetic arm that, at one point, he pulls out of his dishwasher. Nice touch.

    Yelena Belova (Florence Pugh) becomes the standout character among those de Fontaine wants to terminate. Raised to be a deadly killer, Yelena, a.k.a. Black Widow, sees her life as empty, a meaningless blip in the encompassing void of an indifferent universe -- or some such.

    John Walker (Wyatt Russell), a bargain-basement Captain America, helps round out the group. Taskmaster (Olga Kurylenko) and Ghost (Hanna John-Kamen) also join the gang.

     All of these characters have Marvel backgrounds but you don't need to know much more about them than you'll learn from watching Thunderbolts*. 

    Know, though, that each Thunderbolt acknowledges a personal history that includes many bad deeds and a fair measure of regret.

    It takes time for director Jake Schreier to distinguish between each of the movie's non-superheroes and, more importantly, to get them to function as a team.

    When the characters meet at the underground facility to which de Fontaine has directed them, the movie introduces an oddball character named Bob (Lewis Pullman). Bob doesn't know how he arrived in the high-tech bunker, but it soon becomes clear that he's been the subject of secret biological experiments arranged by de Fontaine.

      Pullman delivers the film's pivotal performance as a character for whom the internal battle between good and evil becomes literal. Bob, whose name becomes the subject of the movie's best joke, also must learn about the temptations of possessing extreme power. 

     Comic relief and bonhomie arrive courtesy of the bearish Alexei Shostakov (David Harbour); Alexei operates a limo service and refers to himself as Red Guardian. 

     Alexei, who once served as a father figure for Yelena, becomes a cheerleader for group activities. He likes the name, Thunderbolts, which was taken from Yelena's losing childhood soccer team. The others consider it "meh."

    Existential concerns aside, there's plenty of action, the best of it set in New York City, which at one point is shrouded in a creeping dark shadow that looks as if it might have been at home in a Cecil B. DeMille Bible epic. 

    It takes time for the movie to settle in and scenes in which the characters flashback to their formative days aren't always elegantly handled, but the actors -- especially Pugh and Pullman -- find some depth and a few scenes evoke real emotion.

    You'll note the movie's title contains an * (asterisk). You'll have to see Thunderbolts* to discover why, but as Marvel movies go this one entertains and isn't afraid to be corny when it needs to be.

     What do I mean? When was the last time a Marvel movie resolved a major problem with a group hug? It happens here.

   

      

A wan drama fails to spark

 

    Set in post-Korean War America, On Swift Horses wrings much of the life out of a story about two characters trying to find their places during a sexually repressive American moment.

    The movie begins with Lee (Will Poulter) visiting his girlfriend (Daisy Edgar-Jones) in Kansas while on leave from the Korean War. Lee hopes to return from the war before settling down with Edgar-Jones's Muriel, who agrees to marry him.

     Chances for a successful marriage seem doomed from the start, partly because Muriel ignites more sparks with Lee's brother Julius (Jacob Elordi), who also served in Korea but isn't returning to the Army.

    Director Daniel Minahan creates expectations for a tale about a love triangle but soon shifts gears, alternately following Julius and Muriel as a way of exploring gay issues against a 1950s backdrop.

    When the story moves to San Diego, Lee -- now home from battle -- tries to realize his middle-class dreams and Muriel begins suffocating under the strictures of a life she doesn't want.

    Sexual identity forms the basis of the connection between Julius and Muriel. Julius knows he's gay; he senses Muriel is attracted to women, even though she has yet to act on her desires. For a time, Muriel tries to maintain her image as a typical married woman but soon begins an affair with Sandra (Sasha Calle), a woman who lives nearby. 

    Sometimes playing hooky from her job as a waitress, Muriel also spends time at the track, socking away her winnings, presumably for the marital split she (and we) know will culminate when she begins dipping her toes into the gay world, circa 1950.

      For his part, Julius heads to Las Vegas instead of joining Lee and Muriel in San Diego as he initially had promised. Skilled at poker, he lands a job identifying cheats at a gambling joint. He also begins a romance with a co-worker (Diego Calva), a young Mexican man with more ambition than Lee and a willingness to cut corners. Danger lurks.

     Elordi doesn't seem to have shed the Elvis vibe he brought to Sofia Coppola's Priscilla (2023); his performance -- or so it struck me -- sometimes plays as if it were culled from poses of the 1950s. Edgar-Jones convinces as Muriel wobbles her way into a new life.

    Credit Poulter, whose character is stuck in a factory worker's life, for bringing depth to a role that plays second fiddle to the two main characters.

   Burdened by a structure that shifts between Muriel and Julius, a slow-moving story benefits from the supporting work of Calva and Calle. Either of their characters might have given the movie a more compelling center.

    Adapted from a novel by Shannon Pufahi, On Slow Horses struck me as a wan version of a Todd Haynes  journey into '50s sexuality (see Carol). Minahan pushes a big pile of dramatic chips onto the table but can't cash enough of them in. For a movie fueled by repression, social pressure, and awakening desire, it's a bit of a slog.

     

A familiar tale in an exotic setting

The Legend of Ochi struck me as a small film straining to be a much bigger one. The movie focuses on the relationship between a teenage girl and a mythical creature that lives on the fictional island of Carpathia. Director Isaiah Saxon builds his story around the clash between the island's residents and the Ochi, creatures that have fierce teeth but look a bit like other movie creations, something of a cross between monkeys and a squirrel with Yoda-like ears and winsome eyes. An undernourished story centers on the developing relationship between Yuri (Helena Zengel) and a baby Ochi who's separated from its mother during a hunt conducted by Yuri's vengeful father (Willem Dafoe). Dafoe's Maxim recruits young men from his village to hunt the Ochi, a species he blames for killing  humans and animals. Yuri rescues a baby Ochi and begins a relationship that turns the movie into a display of well-realized puppetry and CGI. Emily Watson appears as Yuri's mom, the woman who left Maxim for a solitary mountain existence.Yuri and Ochi search for connections with their mothers, who represent home, the preferred destination of many fantasy movies. Yuri learns she can communicate with Ochi and the story (accompanied by an aggressive use of David Longworth's score) boils down to familiar movie tropes. Saxon celebrates the mystery of the landscapes but the storytelling can seem hurried. You may admire Dafoe for pushing his portrayal of Maxim over the top or you may wonder (as I did) what attracted him to this role in the first place. Parents should be aware that from opening scenes of hunting to various shots featuring gore and a darkly forbidding tone, Legend of Ochi might be too much for younger kids but not enough for adults.

A vibrant 'Sinners' makes its mark

 

  I don't want to refer to director Ryan Coogler's Sinners as a genre-bending work, although the term might be applicable.  I prefer to think of Sinners -- a story set in the Mississippi Delta during the 1930s -- as a movie in which Coogler employs an expansive film vocabulary to create a boldly exciting foray into the Deep South.

  Described in the broadest terms, Sinners is a horror movie. Coogler, who also wrote the screenplay, introduces vampires and builds toward a violent finale that takes the movie to near frenzied levels. At the same time, Sinners marks another vibrant Cooger entry into a filmography that includes Fruitvale Station, Creed, Black Panther, and Black Panther: Wakanda Forever.

   Shock. gore and vampires aside, Sinners is the kind of horror movie that doesn't come along often, one that's culturally expressive and populated by vividly drawn characters -- horror with plenty of heart and soul.

    Set during the repressive days of Jim Crowe, the drama centers on identical twins, both beautifully played by Michael B. Jordan. Known as Smoke and Stack, the twins return to their Mississippi Delta hometown in 1932. Having accumulated funds in Chicago, they plan to open a juke joint. Independence awaits -- or so they hope.

  A young guitarist named Sammie (Miles Caton) enters the story as an aspiring bluesman who has taken possession of a guitar that may be connected to evil spirits, an evocation of some of the folkloric stories surrounding guitarist Robert Johnson.

   A preacher's son, Sammie becomes an eager mentee of Smoke and Stack, his older and savvier cousins.

   An early bit of narration tells us that certain musicians are so extraordinary that their music can pierce the veil between life and death, an idea evidently drawn from African cultures with traces of Irish and Mississippi Choctaw lore added. 

   All of these many influences become part of the cultural gumbo that Coogler serves with a visual clarity that gives the movie a bracing sharpness.

   Early on, Sinners plays like a period piece about young Sammie's foray into the world of juke joints. Sammie's choices evolve against a homegrown backdrop of religion and sin. Sammie's preacher father tells him that if he's foolish enough to dance with the devil, the devil may one day follow him home.

    Although thematically expansive, the movie takes place during the single day in which the brothers hurry to open their club.

   Smoke contracts with the owner of the town's grocery (Yao) and his wife Grace (Ji Jun Li) to provide food for the juke joint. Stack convinces a harmonica-playing alcoholic (a magnetic Delroy Lindo) to provide entertainment. 

    Each of the brothers also connects with a love interest from the past. Mary (Hailee Steinfeld) is a light-skinned woman who's perceived by some as white. Stack left her  because he thought outsiders would ruin Mary's life for taking up with a Black man.

   Smoke renews his relationship with Annie (Wunmi Mosaku), a woman with whom he shares a tragic past and who knows her way around Afro-influenced spiritual practices. Jordan and Mosaku create memorable chemistry as the second helping of their relationship develops.

    Not to be sidelined, Sammie crushes on Pearline (Jayme Lawson), a woman who refuses to be confined by an unfulfilling marriage.

    At times, Sinners takes the shape of a musical with production numbers staged in the abandoned mill in which the brothers open their juke joint. These episodes operate on a surreal cultural continuum, mixing characters from different time periods, adding an anachronistic deejay, as well as African dancers and local revelers. All become part of a raucous explosion of energy.

   Jordan, who has appeared in all of Coogler's movies,  creates two characters who differ but share plenty of history. More adamant than Smoke, Stack is not one to be messed with. But both brothers have plenty of grit. Jordan makes them a dynamic duo, commanding the screen as men who've done their share of living.

    Oh yes, the vampires.

   A terrific Jack O'Connell portrays Remmick, the chief vampire who turns two farmers (Peter Dreimanis and Lola Kirke) into vampires, enlisting them in his efforts to convert (i.e., bite) every reveler at the juke joint. 

    Charming, insightful, and menacing in equal measure, Remmick offers his victims a deathless future that he portrays as utopian. Money never will give Smoke and Stack enough protection to realize their dreams of independence, he argues. 

    Perhaps to broaden the movie's palette, Remmick and his vampires sing a haunting Irish tune that contrasts with the music of the juke joint, yet seems entirely appropriate.

    The supporting performances bristle and come alive, and Coogler gives all the players stand-out moments during a day tinged with dread and desire.

    I'm sure all reviewers will advise audiences to remain through the end credits. Be sure to listen to them. Stay put and let the movie sit with you for a minute -- and allow Coogler to offer one last word.

      

     

    

Cronenberg tackles grief -- in his way

 -- A blind date in a trendy restaurant hardly seems odd, until you realize the restaurant sits in the middle of a  cemetery.

--  In the same cemetery, tombstones are equipped with video screens that allow relatives to observe the deteriorating bodies of their loved ones.

   You probably won't be surprised to learn that The Shrouds -- the movie in which this cemetery serves as a major backdrop -- was directed by David Cronenberg. 

   Cronenberg made his feature debut in 1970 with Crimes of the Future, a title he used again for an entirely different movie in 2022. 

  Known for movies such as Eastern Promises, Spider, A History of Violence, Naked Lunch, The Fly, Videodrome, and Scanners, Cronenberg has become a  recognized master of body horror, an artist who transforms ordinary realities into dreamscapes rich with bizarre possibilities.

   I was late seeing Cronenberg's second Crimes of the Future. I never reviewed the movie but reacted negatively to a work in which Viggo Mortensen played a performance artist whose body grew strange new organs that became part of an art exhibit. 

   In The Shrouds, Cronenberg employs three principal actors for a chilly exploration in which grief and technology make strained connections. 

    Vincent Cassel plays Karsh, an entrepreneur who owns a cemetery that boasts his technological innovations.  Karsh, we learn, abandoned his career making industrial videos, opening the cemetery after his wife died of cancer. He couldn't bear to part with her. Ergo, the cemetery where he could visit her corpse by using an app that, on command, peeked into the high-tech shroud that encased her decomposing body.

  Diane Kruger does triple duty as Karsh's wife (seen in flashbacks), as his sister-in-law Terry, and as the voice of Hunny, the Avatar who serves as Karsh’s secretary.

  A disheveled-looking Guy Pierce turns up as Maury, Karsh's tech-savvy brother-in-law; he helped design the movie's futuristic cemetery.

   Oh yeah, I forgot Sandrine Holt, who plays Son-Min, the cucumber-cool wife of a dying Hungarian industrialist who wants Karsh to open one of his signature graveyards in Budapest.

   If you've ever seen Cronenberg, you can't help but notice how much Cassel has been made to look like the director whose wife died in 2017. Similarities aside, Cronenberg doesn't deserve to have his film seen only through a personal lens, even if the movie began -- as he has said -- with his reaction to his wife's death.

    Both Kruger and Pierce bring energy to their roles. Cassel, on the other hand, creates a character whose subdued demeanor plays against an inner life mired in grief and obsession.

     As I watched The Shrouds, I weighed what I was seeing against horror notions about the body. Forget the soul, we’re nothing but accumulated flesh, bone, and blood -- or so the argument goes.

     When Karsh says he misses his wife's body, it's as if he's saying that her physicality encompassed the totality of her being, thought and emotions included. Don't take this as a sexist expression: In the body-horror canon, men are subject to the same existential condition. 

      All of this has a sexual component: Mired in desire, the body craves other bodies, and gives their loss the force of an addiction that can't be shaken.

     Of course, The Shrouds can't entirely be measured by any theory, partly because the movie extends a variety of other thematic tentacles: paranoia-inducing political theories, issues involving ecology and techno-tyranny (Karsh sometimes puts his Tesla into self-driving mode), and social taboos: A sexual scene between Karsh and Terry, his late wife's sister, brims with libidinal hunger.

     All of this begins when Karsh's high-tech graveyard is vandalized. The mystery behind the vandalization runs throughout the movie, but generates little intrigue, and a mostly chilly tone can make it difficult to tell when Cronenberg is serious or mocking the genre in which he's working. Maybe both are happening simultaneously. In any case, feel free to laugh.

      You can sense the presence of a complex intelligence at work in The Shrouds, but the movie suggests more than it delivers.  Cronenberg plays with many ideas that don't seem fully imagined, and the movie's many tangents sometimes obscure the unbearable grief that puts Karsh into an emotional shroud he can't seem to escape. 

      Someday, I may look at The Shrouds again. For now, I take it as the faltering work of a director I admire. 

           

     

     

     

Deneuve charms as a president's wife

 

For me, The President's Wife, a movie about the wife of French president Jacques Chirac, has less to do with recent French history than with the presence of Catherine Deneuve. The movie belongs to Deneuve, who's now 81, and director Léa Domenach wisely lets her claim it. Together, Deneuve and Domenach tell the story of a woman who steps out from behind her husband's shadow to establish herself as a prominent figure in French political and social life. As portrayed by Michel Vuillermoz, Chirac -- a conservative who held the presidency from 1995 to 2007 -- doesn’t welcome his wife's attempts to chart her own course. Bernadette decides she’s deferred to her philandering husband long enough when his affair with an Italian actress generates embarrassing headlines. With help from her PR adviser (Denis Podalydès), Bernadette becomes recognizable and respected on her own. Sara Giraudeu plays Claude, the Chirac daughter who serves as one of her father's principal advisers. Maud Wylerportrays Laurence, the daughter who suffers from an eating disorder and largely is kept out of view -- until her mother decides to talk publicly about her problem.  As a female empowerment tale, The President’s Wife proves predictable, yet the tone remains light and Deneuve charms as a woman of wit, spine, and intelligence. An early title card warns against taking everything in the story as factual. I don't know enough about Bernadette Chirac to know where fact yields to fiction, but The President's Wife proved amusing enough to keep me from fretting too much about questions of pin-point accuracy.

A movie that brings war close

  In 2006, a platoon of Navy SEALs entered a two-story apartment building in Ramadi, Iraq. One apartment was still occupied.

  Through an interpreter, the SEALs informed the civilians that they wouldn't be hurt. The SEALs then  set up a post from which they observed the street, possibly preparing for trouble. They weren't sure what awaited them.

  In the new movie Warfare, the SEALs begin their mission after whooping it up in manic fashion while watching an exercise video featuring women in skimpy outfits. Like everything else in the movie, which chronicles a real incident, the scene is based on the accounts of SEALs who fought in the Iraq war.

   It doesn't take long for macho ritual, if that's what we're seeing, to give way to a forceful portrayal of relentless combat during the course of a single day.

    Director Alex Garland (Civil War) and co-director Ray Mendoza, who served as a Navy SEAL and advised Garland on the battle sequences in Civil War, team for a movie that eventually concentrates on SEAL efforts to evacuate the platoon from the besieged house, and more importantly, to save the lives of  two badly wounded SEALs.

    We don't know these men as fully developed characters, but as part of a team. Garland resists further elaboration. Early on, the dialogue consists mostly of military information related to the job. 

    The SEALs are well-equipped and have high-tech gear at their disposal. Yet, Garland makes us aware that beneath helmets and body armor, these men are made of flesh that can be torn apart and blood that can be spilled.

   Garland often allows the action to unfold in real-time, and sound designer Glenn Freemantle recreates the shock of explosions and their impact on woozy SEALS.  At one point, the SEALs request what's called "a show of force," and a jet buzzes the street with ear-shattering intensity. It's meant to distract the enemy.

    When one of the SEALs (Cosmo Jarvis) is severely wounded, his sustained screams are chilling. Another wounded SEAL (Joseph Quinn) begs for morphine.

    For most of the film, Garland almost makes us forget that innocent civilians, including children, remain in the house.  Maybe that's the point: The SEALs don't want the building's occupants to be hurt but they're busy fighting for their lives, tending to the wounded, and communicating with the SEALs who ultimately will come to their aid. They continue to function.

   Garland, Mendoza, and a cast that includes D'Pharaoh Woon-A-Tai and Charles Melton bring considerable skill to the task of making us feel the desperate urgency of a combat situation.

   So what to make of all this?

   I'm not sure how to process the movie beyond acknowledging its experiential power. Warfare isn't concerned with the rights or wrongs of the Iraq War. It's not about the policy decisions that led to the SEALs to combat; it operates on a narrower gauge, immersing us in a specific and dangerous moment in the Iraq War.

   If there's a conclusion to be drawn from all this, it may involve recognizing the stark gap between unseen policy makers and on-the-ground combatants. Who bothers with political thoughts when an IED delivers its shocking blow or when a friend and fellow SEAL is on the verge of bleeding out?

   Brutally effective, Warfare brings a vivid helping of Iraq war realism to the screen. Maybe that's enough of an accomplishment for a movie that reminds us that whatever else we might think about war, there's nothing abstract about it -- not for those who have to fight and possibly die.

'Drop' has some edgy kick

   

    Some movies practically demand not to be thought about. Such movies stretch their basic premise to the breaking point but still manage to hold attention and create suspense. Brimming with red herrings and creating one of cinema's most bizarre first dates, Drop qualifies as such a movie, an entertaining genre effort.

  The premise is simple: A widowed mother and victim of domestic abuse (Meghann Fahy) decides to dip her toe into social waters after making an online connection through a dating service. Fahy's Violet, a professional counselor for abused women, agrees to meet Brandon Sklenar's Henry, a photographer.

   The two arrange a date at an upscale Chicago restaurant located on the top floor of a skyscraper. Violet's sister (Violett Beane) agrees to babysit Violet's five-year-old son (Jacob Robinson). She also coaches Violet through first-date jitters.

   Once settled into the restaurant, Violet begins to receive what the movie dubs DigiDrops, ominous messages from a sender who knows her every move. From that point on, director Christopher Landon heightens the suspense because we learn that the sender of these hostile texts is in the same restaurant.

   The major threat: If Violet doesn't do the texter's bidding, he'll have her young son killed.  He's rigged cameras in Violet's home to show her that an intruder is ready to carry out his menacing orders.

   Violet's distracted response to her nice-guy date fuels Fahy's performance and leaves us wondering how much Henry will tolerate before deciding he's had enough.

   Landon effectively puts us in Violet's position as she surveys the room, hoping to identify her tormentor. Maybe the couple's aggressively cheerful waiter (Jeffrey Self) is responsible for the many alarming digital drops. Everyone becomes a suspect.

   The texter's messages appear on the screen as Violet attempts to carry on two conversations, one with Henry and the other with her antagonist. 

   No fair telling more or revealing what Violet has been ordered to do, but know that the movie remains involving -- at least it did for me -- until its ending goes too far over the top.

   Landon seems to bet that by the time the movie concludes, we'll be game for violent mayhem, having already forgiven the movie's implausibilities and contrivances. I'd have preferred a finale as clever as what preceded it, but sometimes you take what you can get: For much of its one hour and 40 minutes, Drop offers plenty of edgy kick.