A touching film from Colombia

 Oscar Restrepo (Ubeimar Rios) published two books of poetry as a young man and hasn't written anything since. Hapless and ill-kempt Oscar -- the main character in the Colombian movie A Poet -- lives with his mother, drinks excessively, and rants about Colombian poetry. When he's invited to read at a Medellin school devoted to poetry, he shows up too drunk to do anything but embarrass himself. As a last resort, Oscar, with a major assist from his sister, lands a job teaching at a high school. When one of his students -- Rebeca Andrade's Yurlady -- shows promise, Oscar presents her as a promising poet who deserves admission to the school where he, too, once was considered to have potential. As it turns out, the people who run the school view Yurlady as a representative of impoverished youth who'll help them raise funds and enable the school to tell a story about how it provides opportunities to young people who might otherwise fall through the cracks. Slowly, Oscar and Yurlady develop a trusting relationship, which  -- for Oscar -- may be a substitute for the estranged relationship he has with his own daughter (Alisson Correa), who's understandably wary about her alcoholic dad. Shot in 16 mm by director Simón Mesa Soto, A Poet leans heavily on Rios's shambling performance, which captures Oscar's mix of desperation and drunken bravado, but keeps the character a couple of degrees away from being pathetic. Not surprisingly, Yurlady is more interested in being an ordinary  teenager than in serving as a surrogate for Oscar's unrealized ambitions, and Oscar eventually outrages the girl's family. Soto's small-scale realism suits material about someone whose life can't, and probably never will, match the way he sees himself, but it lands gently enough to be touching. 

This dark comedy doesn't sting

  Becket Redfellow's unmarried mother was disowned by her wealthy father when she insisted on giving birth to her son. Dad evidently didn't like the situation, perhaps disapproving of Mom's choice of a mate and not knowing the poor guy would expire soon anyway.

   A Dickensian childhood ensues. Mom gives birth, and dotes on her son. She insists that he's entitled to "the right kind of life," i.e., one in which he becomes an heir to the family's vast fortune, something her father never would consider. When Mom dies, young Becket is left on his own.

   Once he reaches adulthood, Becket decides to secure what he believes to be his rightful portion, Becket (Glen Powell) thinks that it would be appropriate for him to murder all the family's heirs,  leaving him as the only remaining option.

  Ambitious and charming, Becket devises various ways to eliminate his competition, knocking off his relatives one by one, even after one of them (Bill Camp) accepts him as a member of the family's financial business. 

   Always good, Camp adds welcome humanity to the proceedings; he believes the family owes Becket some help. More considerate than the other character, Camp's Warren Redfellow even finds a way to eliminate himself as a possible inheritor.

    Others are more cunning. During his childhood, Becket met Julia, who has grown into an ambitious woman (Margaret Qualley) for whom all decisions begin and end with money. She married for money, but that didn't work out. She now believes she can cash in on Becket's journey toward riches.

  Woefully underdeveloped, Qualley's ruthlessly conniving Julia is never fleshed out. Julia becomes an  emblem of greed and not much more. 

    Becket's plan receives a bit of a setback when he falls in love with the girlfriend (Jessica Henwick) of a cousin (Zach Woods) whom he murders. 

   Woods, by the way, has a nice turn as a guy who thinks he's an artist because ... well ... because he thinks he is.

   Not especially troubled by conscience, Becket devises ways to murder his relatives that are meant to be darkly comic -- killing his aunt with a poisoned tooth whitening device or setting off a dark room explosion. But these murders aren't nearly as amusing as those found in No Other Choice, another dark comedy centering on murdering the competition.

  Where No Other Choice found thematic richness in its premise, How to Make a Killing presents a world in which the privileged rich are assumed to be indulgent, useless,  and worthy of elimination. 

   Of the major performances, Henwick stands out as a likable woman who left the highly competitive world of fashion to become a high school English teacher, hardly a job that leads to a life of luxury.

    A framing device is made clear from the outset: The story begins with Becket on death row, unfolding in flashbacks as he calmly tells a visiting priest about his criminal exploits. At various points, Becket could have quit and lived a well-heeled life, but he couldn't stifle his urge to have it all.

  Director Jay Patton Ford, who directed the much better and far more trenchant Emily the Criminal, seldom achieves the biting sharpness such a story requires, and the successive murders proceed almost by rote, as if the filmmakers were thinking out loud about what to do next.

  All of this builds toward a confrontation between Becket and the head of the family, Whitelaw Redfellow (Ed Harris). Becket improbably avoids detection by two FBI agents, but the movie's approach to its major confrontation proves even less credible. 

   Loosely inspired by the 1949 Ealing comedy classic Kind Hearts and Coronets, How to Make a Killing needed more bite, satirical sting, and genuine shock. Too often, it seems to be sticking to the surface as it advances through its plot without finding much by way of a cutting edge.

'Pillion' dominated by sex and power

 

 We live an age of initials -- from MAGA to DEI to BDSM. BDSM? BDSM, in case you didn't know, involves bondage, discipline, domination, submission, sadism, and masochism. Director Harry Lighton's Pillion may put those initials into slightly wider use, although a movie that makes sexual dominance and submission part of -- or perhaps the entirety of its concerns -- isn't likely to transcend niche viewing.

   Some have seen Pillion as a subcultural romcom, which seems a stretch to me. It has also been called a Domcom, which is too clever by half.

   To begin with, some background: The word "pillion" refers to the person who sits on the back of a motorcycle, playing second fiddle to the driver and clearly acknowledging his subordinate position.

   The movie centers on Colin (Harry Melling) and Ray (Alexander Skarsgard), the duo that lives through Colin’s drama of sexual self-discovery. Colin lives with his mom and dad, works as a parking lot attendant, and sings in a barber shop quartet. Minus his sexual explorations, he’d be one more nonentity living in a dreary London suburb, a person of little or no distinction.

   Ray spots Colin at a local pub and begins instructing him in the ways of submission. Ray obviously knows that Colin, practically a poster boy for loneliness, is an easy mark and will do his bidding. Ray, on the other hand, is cool, handsome, and composed; he’s everything Colin isn’t. 

    But here’s the twist: Colin doesn’t aspire to be Ray. He aspires to serve Ray.

   As it turns out, Ray is a cruel taskmaster. I won’t describe the demands he places on Colin, except to say that they begin when, after an early sexual encounter in an ally, Ray asks Colin to lick one of his boots. In his sleekly tailored leather outfit, Ray looks ready should anyone ever make a comic book movie that needs a superhero who’s into sexual dominance.

   As the movie progresses, the two become a couple, with Colin sleeping on the floor of Ray’s bedroom (Ray won’t allow him in his bed), shopping and cooking for Ray, and changing his appearance so that he can blend into the gay biker culture in which the nomadic Ray has taken temporary root. Ray gives Colin a chain with a lock attached, an obvious symbol of subordination.

   Colin’s parents — a befuddled dad (Douglas Hodge) and a mom who’s dying of cancer (Lesley Sharp) — accept Colin’s gayness. But Mom craves the relief of knowing that her son will settle down with a “nice” boy. Fat chance. Still, the movie gives Sharp a strong moment as a mom who fears for her son's future.

   Scenes of psycho-sexual dominance are more explicit than you might expect and aren’t easy to watch, although some see them as darkly funny. Lighton, who wrote the screenplay based on the novel Box Hill by Adam Mars-Jones, plays Skarsgard’s aloof indifference against Melling’s addled subservience. Their relationship contains the seeds of a deadpan comic burlesque.

   It’s possible to see Ray as a typical literary figure, the mysterious outsider who schools a less-sophisticated student in the ways of  life, in this case, the BDSM life, which Colin willingly enters. He’s not a prisoner. As current parlance would have it, he’s a consenting adult.

   Obvious questions evolve. How much can Colin take? Will he ever tire of watching Ray polish his motorcycle while he pines for attention? Is there a point at which Collin will want more from the lopsided power relationship to which he seems to have become addicted?

   Lighton takes us to that point and contrives for Colin to exercise a bit of self-assertion, a minor triumph but one that might be seen as the movie's redeeming raison d'etre.

   Pillion isn’t 50 Shades of Grey, another movie about dominance. Nor is it easily compared to Nicole Kidman’s Babygirl, which coated its kinky core with a glossy veneer. Let's just say that Lighton leans in the opposite direction, and leave it at that.  

   And unlike either of those movies, Pillion makes little attempt to go much beyond the world Colin and Ray inhabit, aside from Colin's impossibly awkward attempt to please his mother by bringing Ray home for dinner. 

   Melling makes a convincing schlub who begins to discover a sense of belonging, and Skarsgard conveys Ray’s intelligence, hauteur, and insistently expressed authority. 

  But with or without Colin's consent, Ray’s behavior tips close to sadistic abuse, and Lighton's unwillingness to flesh out Ray’s character presents us with a conundrum. It makes him a man of mystery, but also raises questions. We have no idea how Ray sustains himself or how became the man he is.

   Lighton and his cast surely knew that Pillion wouldn’t be everyone's tub of popcorn. Yes, there’s humor here, and yes, the performances are well-adapted to the material, but I don’t know how much can be gained from its collection of abuse and degradation, even if the movie's characters are eager to immerse themselves in it. 

A tasty heist movie set in LA

  Chris Hemsworth sheds Thor's hammer, and Halle Berry gives one of her best performances in the new heist thriller, Crime 101. In adapting a 2021 novella by Don Winslow, director Bart Layton delivers a throwback caper movie that knows its business and pretty much sticks to it.

   Set in present-day Los Angeles, Crime 101 centers on Mike Davis (Hemsworth), an accomplished diamond thief who targets jewelry stores positioned along the 101. The freeway provides a convenient escape route for Mike's meticulously planned robberies.

   Like many thieves, Mike is looking for the final heist that will allow him to start a new life -- albeit with a fortune at his disposal.

    Of course, someone stands in Mike's way.  Mark Ruffalo plays Lou, the rumpled but good-humored detective who's more interested in catching the man he dubs "The 101 Thief" than in keeping his bosses happy.

     Layton weaves others into his LA tapestry. Berry's Sharon sells insurance to high rollers who fear the loss of their big-ticket belongings, not all of them legally acquired. Barry Keoghan arrives as Ormon, a scary loose cannon motorcyclist who becomes a threat to Davis. 

     In a small role, Nick Nolte adds flavor as Money, the gravel-voiced guy who finances Mike's efforts and ushered him into the crime.

      Layton seasons the screenplay with a few side issues. At 53, Berry's Sharon is supposedly losing the eye-candy glow that helped her sell insurance. That's probably why her male-dominated firm has been dragging its feet on a long-promised partnership.

     Sexism makes for a trendy issue that Layton allows Berry to forcefully denounce, but the movie doesn't climb on a soapbox, and Layton efficiently introduces the elements necessary to keep the plot flowing. He also  includes shots of LA's homeless to remind us that the city's glamor isn't all-inclusive.

     Mike's strictly business approach is challenged when he meets an attractive young woman (Monica Barbaro). He begins to feel an attachment, not a good thing in the thieves' trade. 

    Hemsworth has a steady hold on the role of a criminal who can't totally bury his humanity. Mike carries a gun but never uses it. He has never hurt anyone during his work. He's a thief who tries to be decent about it.

     A complicated screenplay slowly pulls the various characters into the same story, which includes several well-designed, stomach-tightening car chases and a cameo appearance by Jennifer Jason Leigh. Leigh plays a woman who's dumping Lou, mostly because guys like Lou don't have happy home lives.

     You may find plot holes along the way, the movie needn't have extended to 145 minutes, and its LA gloss can feel vaguely familiar. But Layton's screenplay teases us with a nice collection of conflicting rooting interests, and its characters are interesting enough to keep Crime 101 on track. Nice job.

     

A misguided 'Wuthering Heights'

    In the 1847 novel Wuthering Heights, Emily Brontë painted a Gothic picture drenched with complex characters, class conflict, calculated cruelty, obsessive love, and haunting landscapes.

   Now, we have director Emerald Fennell’s version, which uses the novel as a springboard for a story that includes domination and submission and masturbation as a famed literary duo — Heathcliff (Jacob Elordi) and Cathy (Margot Robbie) — again play out their disastrous connection.

   More sensual than sensible, this Wuthering Heights includes a moment in which Heathcliff licks the wallpaper in Cathy's bedroom. How could he resist? The wallpaper had been designed to mirror Cathy's lustrous skin, including even her veins.

  Apart from the novel, my favorite Wuthering Heights adaptation remains director William Wyler’s 1939 version starring Laurence Olivier and Merle Oberon. Devotees of the novel complained that Wyler had softened Bronte's story of insanely possessive love. It was a fair criticism. The novel never was an exaltation of romantic love, as has sometimes been proclaimed.

   In the 2026 version, Fennell performs open-heart surgery on the story in an attempt to reveal the gooey ooze of its innards and palpitating passions. 

   I admired the audaciousness of Fennell’s previous work (Promising Young Woman and Saltburn) but found her Wuthering Heights to be a sometimes silly attempt at giving a 19th-century novel some contemporary spin. 

   Moreover, the movie’s preoccupation with production design and costume prove distracting. The costumes, particularly Cathy's ridiculously ornate dresses and jewelry are presented as emblems of ostentation, snarky, overstated jokes. The same goes for the preposterous decor of the upscale manse where Linton (Shazad Latif), a landed aristocrat, cloisters Cathy. 

   When Linton becomes Cathy's husband, the marriage provides the main reason for Heathcliff -- Cathy's poor unrefined soul mate -- to vanish from the West Yorkshire moors for five years. He returns as a wealthy man who purchases Wuthering Heights, the place where he and Cathy grew up,  a downscale slide from Linton's carefully manicured Thrushcross Grange estate.

   I’m not going to rehash the story here, but Fennell, who also wrote the screenplay, presents it in outline form, establishing a bond between Robbie’s Cathy and Elordi’s Heathcliff early on and carrying it through to what’s presented as a tragic conclusion for two people who are treated as symbols of an enduring link that can't be broken.

  Many characters from the book have been excised. Among those that remain: Hong Chau plays Nelly Dean, Cathy’s devoted and perhaps cunning companion; i.e., a servant. Martin Clunes portrays Cathy’s father, a debauched, alcoholic gambler, a gaseous human belch of a man.

  Then there’s Isabella (Alison Oliver), Linton’s bird-brained ward, who — in this version — consents to being abused and demeaned by Heathcliff as part of his vengeful manipulations. Who knew? Isabella’s into degradation. Heathcliff's marriage to her is an undisguised act of revenge.

   The movie begins when Cathy and Heathcliff (Charlotte Mellington and Owen Cooper) are children who witness a public hanging, an event that establishes Cathy as a grinning, untamed child who seems to enjoy the brutal moment.

    Soon after the hanging, Cathy's father rescues Heathcliff from the streets and decides to raise him. Cooper, who delivered an amazing performance in the series Adolescence, suggests depths that the screenplay never plumbs when the adult Heathcliff arrives. I half-wished the movie had remained in Cathy and Heathcliff's childhoods.

   As for the main actors, Robbie turns Cathy into a woman of bratty insistence. I wasn’t sure what Elordi was doing as Heathcliff. At times, he seemed to be posing for a Hunks of the Moors calendar.  His Yorkshire accent proves variable. 

   In the novel, Heathcliff is described as dark of complexion, and some have argued that Heathcliff should have been played by an actor of color. Heathcliff's skin tones aren't all that define him, though. Rejection and mistreatment have bent him toward obsession and longing. 

   Fennell has taken a classic story and tried to burnish it with a variety of outre flourishes that play like italicized statements. The riches of Thrushcross Range contrast obviously with Wuthering Heights, the decaying house in which Cathy and Heathcliff were raised, and which here looks as if it might double as a set for a Texas Chainsaw Massacre remake.

   So, no, this is not your grandmother's Wuthering Heights. Heathcliff and Cathy eventually consummate their relationship to the accompaniment of much heaving breath. Cathy and Heathcliff are often caught standing in downpours; they're awash in nature or maybe they don't have enough sense to get out of the rain. 

    But such melodramatic touches, Anthony Willis' brooding aggressive score and the use of tunes by Charli xcx suggest that Brontë’s work needed boosting, perhaps due to 19th century period constraints. If so, it's a misguided choice: Bronte's resonant themes should have been enough to provide some insight into our wealth-gap dominated moment.

   Fennell has put the movie's official title in quotations, a signal that her interpretation will be, to put it mildly, "liberal."  Purists may see this 2026 version more as vandalization than interpretation, but it's probably too much to say that Fennell has made a Wuthering Heights in name only. Still, it’s close enough to let the idea roll around in your mind before moving on.

Luc Besson's bite of 'Dracula'

  If nothing else, director Luc Besson deserves high praise for turning the title character of his Dracula into a supremely ridiculous sight. This Dracula's rotting face is topped with a crown-like mound of white hair. White locks droop down the sides of his face. 

 We probably don't need another Dracula movie, but Besson, who broke onto the scene with 1985's Subway and who released La Femme Nikita in 1990, has never been one to shy away from stylish overkill that, in this case, sometimes borders on grand indulgence.

  Besson's approach to Dracula can be called semi-serious, probably more "semi" than "serious." I chuckled at some of Besson's conceits and at the richly garnished melodrama he presents, treating Dracula's story as a journey toward an exalted  expression of sacrificial love.

 Romanticism or schmaltz? Maybe both.

 Caleb Landry Jones, who starred in Besson's Dogman (2023), takes on vampire duties, which, in this case, extend over four centuries. Dracula's story begins in 1480 when we see him romping sexually with his beloved Elisabeta (Zoe Bleu).  Still in pre-vampire mode, Drac seems enthralled, but his sexual marathon is disrupted when he's summoned to war. The Ottomans must be vanquished.

  A reluctant Dracula agrees to battle for God’s cause — so long as the local archbishop guarantees that Elizabeth will not die during the fighting, a promise no one can fulfill and which would have to be broken anyway, if the story is to proceed.

   When Elisabeta is killed during the fighting, Drac slips into a long period of inconsolable mourning. He searches for Elisabeta's reincarnated self, recruiting an army of vampiric followers to help with his quest. His lovelorn yearning obliterates other concerns. The guy knows how to focus.

  Most of Dracula takes place in Paris in 1889. A priest (Christoph Waltz) appears, bringing  a large stock of vampire expertise with him. A church-sanctioned vampire hunter, Waltz's character meets a member of Dracula's legions who has been captured, a writhing prisoner played by Matilda de Angelis. 

   But Waltz's character has his eye on bigger game; he wants to drive a silver stake through Dracula’s heart, perhaps even with Drac's consent.

  Dracula, by the way, has concocted a special and irresistible perfume that makes him irresistible, which is how he catches his prey. At one point, he visits a convent to test his seductive wiles on a group of nuns. He may look like a decaying corpse, but he smells great.

  Eventually, the film introduces the reincarnated Elisabeta, who turns up as Mina, the fiancee of a lawyer (Ewens Abid) who arrives at Dracula's castle to discuss a property matter. Drac recognizes her and swoons.

  Besson doesn't go heavy on gore, but he includes weirdly playful touches, notably gargoyles that spring to life in Dracula's castle, adding a cartoonish flourish. 

  I appreciated Besson's refusal to mire Dracula in pseudo-seriousness. He's not looking for deep meanings in the way of Guillermo del Toro's Frankenstein. He displays no particular reverence for Bram Stoker's 1897 novel, which he could have treated as holy writ that shields secrets only he can reveal.

   The cast yields to Besson's playfulness and his penchant for overdoing things. The movie's costumes, color, and intermittent amusements add to the spectacle of a movie that doesn’t always seem to know whether it’s trying for parody or romance.

    Whatever the case, Dracula runs out of steam before the vampire takes his last bite. Too bloody bad, but excess has a way of tiring itself out.

Charli xcx's 'Brat' mockumentary

   In the summer of 2024, Brat -- an album by Charli xcx became a global phenomenon -- or so I've read. Look, I'm not a Charli xcx aficionado, fan, or even a casual listener. So, I approached The Moment, a "mockumentary" in which Charli xcx plays herself, with wariness. I may not be part of the target audience, but I figured the movie would, at minimum, clue me in about Charli xcx.

  I chuckled during The Moment, but was more interested in the dichotomy at the heart of a movie about a fast-rising star torn by a desire to extend her "moment" and wanting to destroy everything about it.

   That probably sounds deeper than the ways in which the movie explores issues of control and stardom, but The Moment deserves credit for raising such issues, even if they're punctuated by strobe-light explosions, flashing images, and pop-cultural frenzy.

  In the film, Charli xcx's career is pushed by the head of her record company (Rosanna Arquette), a no-nonsense executive who wants to sustain the eruption of cash Charli has unleashed.

  Among the absurd ideas that are floated and adopted without much thought: A Charli xcx credit card aimed at young queer people. It's an amusing jab at niche marketing, but the joke eventually leads to an awkwardly expressed plot development. (A word on that later.)

   Management also decides to film a Charli concert. Enter Johannes (a spot-on Alexander Skarsgard), a director who speaks the language of accommodation and co-creation but wants to control everything. He pushes aside Charli's creative director (Hailey Benton Gates) in an attempt to smooth out Charli's rough edges. His mass-appeal mind is put off by Charli's abbreviated skirts, bold show of panties, unabashed sexuality, and cigarette-smoking. In short, her act.

   Director Aidan Zamiri's hand-held cascade of images recreate the dizzying attraction of celebrity for a young woman who has come to represent the Brat ethos, which proposes something on the order of "I do me and don't give a shit what you think. I'm proudly imperfect and musically brash."

  A third act built around a catastrophe with Charli's credit cards seems too contrived for a movie that's best in its incidental moments, such as when Charli meets Kylie Jenner at a posh resort in Ibiza. 

  The Moment benefits from Charli's wild-child presence, but the movie's mockumentary, fly-on-the-wall approach can feel a bit old hat, and I would have appreciated a deeper dive into her music. 

   If Charli xcx has the adventurous talent many rock critics have praised, The Moment doesn't quite match it, which isn't to say that her fans won't enjoy it or that it can't be entertaining or that Charli xcx won't have a post-Brat life no matter how her movie fares.

What -- if anything -- 'Melania' reveals

    Yes, I’ve seen it. And, no, I probably don’t need tell you what I’m talking about.

    By any critical standards I’m familiar with, I’ll tell you that Melania isn’t much of a documentary; it's more like a plush Life Styles of the Rich and Famous episode that bleeds into a chorus of booming triumphalism centering on Trump’s inauguration. The movie covers 20 days preceding Trump's second ascendance to the Oval Office.

    Because Melania produced the film, it’s fair to assume that it tells a story that she wanted to tell. It's no off-the-rack effort but one that gives her a well-appointed showcase. This is the version of Melania she wants viewers to see. And, yes, it’s a pretty picture, life under glass.

    To begin with, the movie introduces the Slovenian-born former model as a detail-oriented arbiter of taste when it comes to fashion, a collar that’s too low or a dress that’s not tight enough in the right places. She doesn't put on clothes; she's dressed by others.

    The early parts of the film focus on matters such as Melania’s plans for the pre-inaugural dinner and for moving back into the White House. She’s shown talking to designers, event planners, and others who play a role in realizing a vision she sees as her own. It’s as if she’s creating a fantasy of elegant abundance.

    Her vision seems grounded in style, not conviction, or maybe it's a case of style becoming conviction. 

     Given the film’s plush trappings — none of it to my taste — it feels fair to say that the tone can be nearly imperial, or someone's idea of what that might be. Caviar served in a gold-colored egg at a dinner stands as one emblem of frivolous indulgence. 

   Given the ornate quality of Trump’s apartment in Manhattan’s Trump Tower, where some of the movie takes place, it’s difficult not to think that Melania is  aiming for a 21st century Versailles vibe.

     Wherever she finds herself, Melania demonstrates a thorough lack of informality. Her towering heels and high-beam smile are treated as statements. Should she venture outside, I wondered whether the wind would be allowed to touch her hair.

     The only person who seems to have escaped a glamor makeover is Aviva Siegel, a former Israeli hostage, who meets with Melania in hopes that the incoming Trump administration will help free her husband, still a captive at the time.

     At 55, Melania’s face, often seen in close-ups, reveals little. We never see the kind of casual grimace or winking expression that might have made her more relatable, the sort of things you’d find in a film less obviously dedicated to image buffing. 

     Or maybe what we see is the real Melania, which might be even more disconcerting.

      The movie reminded me of a professor of mine who once said that the subscribers to high-end yachting magazines were not the people who could afford to buy yachts. They were folks who wanted to dream, to peep behind the curtain that separates the coolers-on-the-beach crowd from the those with real money.

     Causes? There are a few. Melania says that she’s dedicated to helping children, and we see her Zoom calling Brigitte Macron, wife of the French president, to ask for support. She meets in person with Queen Rania Al Abdullah of Jordan to discuss issues. Her concerns are broadly expressed, online bullying of kids, for example. 

    What we don’t see is Melania rubbing elbows with kids who need help or visiting facilities where such help is offered. 

    Melania attends Jimmy Carter’s funeral with the incoming president but spends most of the time delivering a voice-over narration about the pain of losing her mother. Carter’s funeral occurred on the one-year anniversary of Melania’s mother’s death, so she’s understandably motivated to remember her mom. But didn't Carter or the grief his family might be experiencing deserve a passing nod?

      Trump? Remember him? 

      He’s a supporting player until the end when the film bathes him triumphal light. To me, Trump, who habitually pumps a clenched fist as a sign of victory, looks out of place in Melania's vision. He jokes about leaving a big tip for workers at Blair House, where he and Melania spend the night before the inauguration. He breaks out his smile when he's posing for group photos, as if responding to a cue.

      The use of pop music by director Brett Ratner (songs ranging from the obvious YMCA, to James Brown’s It’s a Man’s World, to Michael Jackson’s Billie Jean, to Aretha Franklin’s version of Amazing Grace) struck me as self-conscious needle drops designed to goose an often dull film to life.

      Lip service is paid to American ideals such as individual rights, but the film doesn’t feel small "d'' democratic. It creates an impenetrable world. 

     Increasingly arduous at one hour and 43 minutes, Melania felt to me as if it were unfolding in an alternate reality, one in which Melania is always ready for her close-ups, where people travel only in motorcades or private jets, where St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York closes so Melania can light a candle for her mother, and where life takes on the  polished sheen of a coffee-table book. Whatever you do, don't spill coffee on the pages that have been strategically left open to create whatever impression Ratner wants to convey.

     All presidents and First Ladies do some role-playing when it comes to presenting themselves as ordinary people, plain folks who'd be happy to put their feet up in your living room. That may be another kind of sham, but I prefer it to this helping of helping of gold-plated pomp.

     Enough. The one thing the film inspired me to do was to move on having already spent enough time considering Melania and her vision.*

*I struggled with myself about whether even to see the film, which wasn't screened in advance for critics. My reluctance derived from some of the same reasons I avoid most faith-based movies. They're not made for me, and they're likely to appeal to people who don't distinguish between criticism of the movie and criticism of their faith. I plunged ahead because Melania wound up being widely reviewed and because it became a news story. And, yes, I'm aware that it occasioned a snark festival of major proportions. A movie made by a public figure about herself isn't like other films, and I know of no one who expected that the movie’s self-serving veil would be lifted for objectivity or insightful perspective. Melania wasn’t going to trip over those high heels. But I saw the film and reacted to it as best I could. That's all I knew how to do.

No paradise on this tropical island

 Avoiding almost all suggestions of glamor, Rachel McAdams headlines director Sam Raimi's Send Help, a boldly entertaining mashup of horror, comedy, and survival adventure. 

 Raimi (The Evil Dead and three Spider-Man movies) begins by introducing McAdams' Linda to a rotten rich-kid boss (Dylan O'Brien). O’Brien’s Bradley has taken over the company where Linda works after the death of his father, the previous CEO. There goes the promotion Linda had been promised.

    Despite rejecting her for a VP job, Bradley invites Linda to join his boys-only executive team on a private flight to Bangkok. She's supposed to crunch numbers for an impending merger while the men guzzle champagne and make fun of her.

    To augment Linda' s torment, the men watch a tape one of them found online. It's Linda's audition for Survivor, a show she watches religiously. The video cracks them up, but not for long. The private jet comes apart in a vividly presented crash sequence, and, lo, boss and Linda are stranded on a desert island in the Gulf of Thailand. The others — so obnoxious we hardly care — don't survive the crash.

   On the island, the script flips. The injured Bradley finds himself dependent on Linda, whose survival skills are real. Hungry for protein, she kills a wild boar (CGI), an encounter that leaves her splattered with the beast’s flesh and blood, not the last time the movie happily challenges those who might be squeamish.

   It's clear that this is the moment Linda was made for. She's finally getting a chance to exact revenge on a world that scorned her for eating tuna fish sandwiches at her desk (too smelly) and making no attempt to elevate her fashion style: office frump. Why wouldn't Linda want payback for humiliations inflicted by a boss who finds her repulsive?

    From the start, Raimi commits to a movie that takes a variety of surprising turns while bypassing sentiment. At times, Bradley and Linda seem to be coexisting but sinister twists await. Their relationship has a seesaw quality, friendly, then hostile.

   The movie itself proves canny: Sure, it includes some devilish behavior and sometimes revels in its twisted ways. I found it hard not to laugh at a scene involving projectile vomiting. But Raimi smartly wraps the story in a glossy, mainstream package that can be inviting, even reassuring. It's almost as if Raimi doesn't want the movie to tumble into a niche ditch.

    Some of the movie's reveals won't surprise seasoned viewers, but Raimi concludes with a sly  crowd-pleasing coda that serves as a giddy exclamation point to all that preceded it. Makes sense, Raimi concocts an upbeat ending for a movie that might have been unbearable had it taken itself more seriously.