Thursday, March 14, 2024

Adventure racing movie hits its marks


I’ve often asked myself the following question: If I weren’t reviewing would I bother with this or that movie? When it comes to Arthur the King, a story about adventure racers starring Mark Wahlberg and co-starring an indefatigable mixed-breed dog, the answer probably would be a resounding, “No.” But Wahlberg, who produced, and director Simon Cellan Jones turn out a sports adventure picture built around endurance, courage, and the willingness to take chances. The action sequences — competitors crossing a deep divide while hanging on a wire with mountain bikes strapped to their backs, for example — generate white-knuckle tension. Wahlberg plays Mikael Lindnord, a racer determined to win what will be his last race. He gathers some stalwarts (Simu Liu, Ali Suliman, Nathalie Emmanuel), and it’s off the Dominican Republic. About the dog:  As the adventures unfold, the team meets the dog, eventually dubbed Arthur. A wounded denizen of the streets, Arthur becomes a helpmate and companion to the team, even at one point saving their lives. He follows Mkael wherever he goes. A true story about a Swedish racer has been transferred to the US, but as depicted here, the sport seems to have a definite international flavor.  Focusing on a
dventure racing -- a competition about which most of us know little -- freshens the movie's formula. And, yes, the finale tugs at the heart strings, particularly for dog lovers. So, no, I might not have otherwise sought this one out, but I wasn’t sorry I saw it, either.

Wednesday, March 13, 2024

An introduction to samba jazz


Every music scene has its history. In They Shot the Piano Player Spanish directors Javier Mariscal and Fernando Trueba build a story around Brazilian jazz and one its premier artists, pianist Francisco Tenorio Junior. Skillfully employing hand-drawn animation, the directors introduce us to Jeff Harris (Jeff Goldblum), a fictional American journalist who travels to Brazil to research a book on bossa nova.  While there, Harris becomes fascinated by Tenorio's story. A key figure in samba jazz, Tenorio traveled to Buenos Aires where he vanished in 1976, a disappearance that was considered odd because, in a time of brutal Argentine oppression, he wasn't a political figure. One of Harris's Brazilian pals (Tony Ramos) points him to a variety of Brazilian and Argentine musicians who become the subject of interviews presented as near monologues. Harris's inquiries guide us through the music, Tenorio's mysterious disappearance, and political conditions in Brazil and Argentina in the '60s and '70s. Centering the film on the inquiring Harris creates the feel of an animated documentary that's illustrating -- often beautifully -- a journalistic quest. But the interview structure also keeps the story from evolving dynamically. Consider They Shot the Piano Player an imperfect but worthy introduction to a musical chapter with which many will be unfamiliar. 

Muscles, menace in a 'noirish' thriller

   


   It would be a serious mistake to mess with Jackie (Katy O'Brian), an Oklahoma woman who has pointed her life toward winning a Las Vegas body-building competition.
   Jackie's the dynamite that propels director Rose Glass's Love Lies Bleeding, a seamy noir tangle set in New Mexico in 1989.
  A convincing Kristen Stewart — as a woman frantically trying to control the unmanageable — plays the central role of Lou, a chain-smoker who works in the grungy gym where Jackie turns up to pump iron. 
 Lou’s duties include cleaning the toilets, which could be read as both an exercise in degradation and an act of penance for as yet undisclosed sins.
  Sex looms as Lou and Jackie tumble into a heated relationship. But Glass (Saint Maud) has more in mind than an obsessive love story; she's out to pump adrenalin into an exaggerated helping of Neo Noir while injecting it with a healthy shot of cult-classic juice.
   A well-selected supporting cast adds to the grimy atmospherics. Dave Franco portrays JJ, a bully who, early in the movie, has sex with an indifferent Jackie. She hopes he'll help her get by. A first-order sleaze, JJ later beats up his wife (Jena Malone), who happens to be Lou's sister. 
  Revenge looms, and Jackie provides it in a gripping scene made more vicious because by the time it arrives, Jackie has been shooting massive quantities of the steroids Lou provides for her.
  Watching Jackie's muscles bulge brings the Hulk to mind; her strength becomes a near special effect. Her fury can't be controlled; her spring-loaded muscles crack to attention. 
 A bit of comic relief arrives in the form of Daisy (Anna Baryshnikov), a ditzy woman with an undisguised crush on Lou and a refusal to take "no" for an answer.
  Roid rage and noir make for a combustible combination as Lou's gun-running father (Ed Harris) lurks in the background, gradually assuming a more important role in the story. 
  With stringy hair drooping over the sides and back of his bald dome, Harris goes satanic, creating a stand-out figure, the menacing calm at the center of every storm. 
  When the finale arrives, the film rockets over the top in ways that either will amuse you or put you off, perhaps an inviting mix of both. 
   Love Lies Bleeding may encourage you to expand your thoughts about female bodies, but it's firmly rooted in Glass's desire to blast her way into an overcrowded genre -- and do it with boldness and audacity. 
   


Sunday, March 10, 2024

The Oscars score a win

    Yes, the Oscar show was better than usual. Much better.
   Some more or less random reactions. * John Cena's nude bit prior to the best costume design award provided a classic Oscar moment. * Host Jimmy Kimmel hit a few out of the park and whiffed on others. * Ryan Gosling's performance of I'm Just Ken played well with the crowd. * The In Memoriam segment might have played better for the audience than it did on TV. * Someone needs to buy Al Pacino reading glasses. He turned the best-picture announcement into a muffled anti-climax. * 20 Days in Mariupol won the Oscar for best documentary, the first ever Ukrainian film to win an Oscar. Director Mstyslav Chernov's acceptance speech was moving, direct, and properly pointed. * Director Jonathan Glazer's Gaza-referencing acceptance speech when The Zone of Interest won best international film was too hurried. I had to go back and read it online. * It was meaningful to see previous Oscar winning actors address nominees in their respective categories. * I was happy American Fiction (best adapted screenplay) won something. * I wasn't upset that Killers of the Flower Moon and Maestro were shut out. * Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse should have won best animated feature. The Boy and the Heron took the prize. It has been billed as director Hayao Miyazaki's last movie and he's a master of Japanese anime, so ..... * I'm puzzled by those who think Oppenheimer -- the night's big winner with seven awards, including best picture -- is too conventional. Does every picture need to follow in the Everything Everywhere All At Once footsteps? *  If I had an Oscar vote, I'd have voted for best-actress winner Emma Stone (Poor Things) over Lily Gladstone (Killers of the Flower Moon). That doesn't mean I didn't admire Gladstone's work, but Stone's daring performance was in a class of its own. * I look forward to the day when Mark Ruffalo, nominated in the best-supporting actor category for Poor Things, wins an Oscar. Ditto for Paul Giamatti, who didn't receive a best actor Oscar for his work in The Holdovers. And ditto, too, for Jeffrey Wright (American Fiction). * Enough. Time to move on to this year's movies. Good luck to us all.

Friday, March 8, 2024

Is this Oscar's most predictable year?


  Oscar looms and the suspense is ... well... minimal.
  Film critics usually make Oscar predictions, but this year the exercise seems superfluous. There's so much agreement among prognosticators that the evening -- should it unfold as expected -- may be one of the least surprising in Oscar's 95-year history.
  Peruse the work of Oscar's many mavens and you'll find consensus in most categories. In this case,  I see no reason to dissent.
   So here's what's likely to happen Sunday night (March 10):
   Oppenheimer will win the Oscar for best picture.     Christopher Nolan (Oppenheimer) will win best director. Cillian Murphy (Oppenheimer) will win best actor. Lily Gladstone (Killers of the Flower Moon) will win best actress. Robert Downey Jr. (Oppenheimer) will win best supporting actor. Da'Vine Joy Randolph (The Holdovers) will win best supporting actress. 
   Best original screenplay will go to Anatomy of a Fall, and American Fiction should land the prize for best adapted screenplay.
   For me, the only mild surprise can be found in the best-actress category. Until Gladstone won the SAG (Screen Actors Guild) award for best actress, I thought Emma Stone (Poor Things) was the frontrunner.
   I suppose Stone's insanely courageous performance in Poor Things still could carry the day. Am I hedging? A bit.
   Another question nags. Could Paul Giamatti's popularity bring an upset in the best-actor category? Giamatti created a memorable character in The Holdovers, and the Academy might want to honor an established pro who always delivers and who seems to be one the most unassuming people in show business.
   I hope that doesn't sound condescending. Giamatti is a terrific actor, as are the rest of the nominees in this category: Bradley Cooper, Colman Domingo, and Jeffrey Wright.
   Aside from hoping that the show, again hosted by Jimmy Kimmel, won't break the three-hour mark, I have no rooting interests. There's no need for the Academy Awards broadcast to take as long as it took Nolan to tell the story of the invention of the atomic bomb.
  One footnote: Nothing would make me happier than to be wrong on all counts. What an Oscar telecast that would be.
  Happy viewing.

Friday, March 1, 2024

Another film occupies its own world

 


   No one is likely to accuse Julio Torres, the writer/director of Problemista, of lacking ambition. 
   In his mischievous debut film, the former SNL writer and creator of the sitcom Los Espookys, tackles the maddening complexities of emigrating to the US, the insular hypocrisies of the art world, and the coming-of-age problems of one young man.
   That's a lot and Torres’s movie can't handle it all, even with humor and bold, if often silly, displays of creativity. The movie can feel like a scrapbook of ideas set aside for another day.
   Like many immigrants, Alejandro, played by Torres, has a dream. He aspires to design toys for Hasbro, a career that might be an overreach. Consider the duplicitous Barbie-like doll with fingers crossed behind her back, for example. Or how about the truck with the flat tire, intended to teach kids a cautionary lesson?
  To support himself, Alejandro works at a company that freezes corpses for future unthawing. He soon meets Elizabeth (Tilda Swinton), a former art critic whose late husband's body resides at the facility from which Alejandro is in the process of being fired.
   Sporting an unruly crop of red hair and a badly curdled temperament, Elizabeth obsessively works to establish the reputation of her recently departed husband (RZA), an artist who specialized in paintings of eggs nestled in billowy folds of fabric.
   Thanks to Swinton's embrace of her character's fury, Elizabeth blows through the movie with tornadic force.  A sharply offensive woman, she cuts no one any slack. As a character, Alejandro can't compete with her.
   Now and again, Alejandro communicates with the doting mom (Catalina Saavedra) he left in his home country of El Salvador. She believes she can solve any problem her son might encounter, a conviction that has diminished Alejandro's capacity for self-assertion.
   Lacking much by way of ordinary reality to play against, Torres's whimsical approach swamps the movie.  And at times, the movie goes self-consciously bonkers, notably in its depiction of a character called Craigslist (Larry Owens), a surreal embodiment of the website devoted to classified advertising.
   Despite Elizabeth's scourge-like presence, the film's overall tone is only mildly satiric, a movie that too often feels as if it has taken its own idiosyncrasies as its subject.
  Torres treats the film like a playhouse for his imagination. For me, the movie’s ideas, though sometimes clever, didn't always translate into enough laughs: The net result: Problemista left me wishing Torres better luck next time.




Monday, February 26, 2024

'Dune: Part II': a stunning epic

 

 Huge in scale, long in the telling (166 minutes). and sporting arcane references from author Frank Herbert's landmark 1965 sci-fi novel, Dune: Part II has arrived. Don’t fret. Director Denis Villeneuve, who released Part One in 2023, delivers a movie with enough visionary heft and action to justify its epic scope.
  I thought Villeneuve's initial effort represented a marked improvement over David Lynch's 1984 sci-fi foray into Duneland, making the most of a drama steeped in intrigue and boasting enough bizarre-looking characters to sustain several otherworldly parade floats.
   More action-oriented than Part One and benefiting from cinematographer Grieg Fraser's stunning desert imagery, Part Two tells a story even non-fans should be able to follow as opposing planets in a vast galactic empire vie for control of melange, a rare spice that serves as an emblem of power.
   In this edition, we spend more time with the Fremen, desert dwellers of Arrakis, the planet where spice is mined and refined and where the heartless Harkonnen have become an occupying force.
    Much of the movie involves efforts by Paul Atreides (Timothee Chalamet) to earn a place among the Fremen. Paul wants to join their fight against the Harkonnen, led by the blubberous Baron Harkonnen (Stellan Skarsgard).
   Eventually, the Baron unleashes his nephew Feyd-Rautha, a sneering, sadistic villain brought to frighteningly sharp life by Austin Butler.
    Villeneuve keeps a large supporting cast from swamping the various throughlines. A dust-covered Javier Bardem adds humor to his portrayal of Fremen leader Stilgar. Dave Bautista brings bulky menace to the role of Beast Rabban, another Harkonnen sadist, and a subdued Christopher Walken turns up as the emperor who presides over a vast planetary imperium. Josh Brolin returns as Paul's one-time mentor.
    With all that out of the way, let's get to the heart of the movie, provided by Chalomet and Zendaya, who plays the Fremen warrior Chani, a young woman dedicated to ridding the Fremen of oppressive colonial rule. 
     Paul, who earns the Fremen name Usul, and Chani fall in love, allowing the movie to raise questions about Paul’s loyalties. Is he for Fremen freedom or will he use their belief in him to augment his power? Can the aristocratic Paul be trusted by the justifiably suspicious masses?
    Much is made about whether Paul might be the messiah some of  the more fervent Fremen have been awaiting, allowing the movie to touch on additional issues concerning the dangerous ways religious and political aspiration can corrupt each other.
    The stakes may be starkly drawn, but characters are nicely shaded. Rebecca Ferguson returns as Paul's mother, encouraging his ambitious side and sometimes finding herself at odds with her son.
     Part Two thrives on scale, booming set-pieces (a gladiatorial battle with, alas, a crowd that looks CIG-generated), and the summoning of giant sandworms that live beneath the surface of Arrakis and are the source of melange, the spice with near-miraculous powers.
       For all its intricacies, betrayals, and plotting, the story retains its thematic resonance. What moral prices must be paid to control the spice.
      Now, after almost six hours of movie, Dune isn't finished. Questions remain for Paul, Chani, and the entire empire. Expect Part Three. I find that a bit dispiriting. If a story can't be told in six hours, maybe it's a miniseries.
      But the world of Dune remains intriguingly complex, full of characters whose roles shift and evolve. Credit Villeneuve with filling the screen with enough exotic flavor and bold action to keep Dune vividly alive through two helpings. 
      There's no reason to think he couldn't do the same in a third.


Thursday, February 22, 2024

A disappointing 'Drive-Away Dolls'

 


   I'm not sure how to classify Drive-Away Dolls, a solo directing effort by Ethan Coen, half of the great Coen Brothers team. The brothers are now working separately. Coen wrote the screenplay with his wife Tricia Cooke.
   Drive-Away Dolls almost feels like a Coen Brothers movie, maybe the rough draft for one. Remember, I said almost. Intermittently amusing in a deadpan way, Coen's episodic comedy drifts toward disappointment.
  Coen has described Drive-Away Dolls as a "queer" movie, a caper tale centered on two unabashedly gay women, the flamboyant Jamie (Margaret Qualley) and the more reserved Marian (Geraldine Viswanathan). 
  When the movie opens in 1999, Jamie has just dumped her girlfriend, a uniformed cop played by Beanie FeldsteinJamie departs the apartment they shared as Feldstein's character sobs hysterically and pries a dildo (a gimmicky gift from Jamie) off one of the walls. 
  The story then leaves Pennsylvania, taking to the road as Jamie and Marian head for Tallahassee in a drive-away vehicle they obtain from a low-rent business run by Curlie (Bill Camp).  
   The dour Curlie insists on not being called “Curlie” even though his name is embroidered on his shirt. First names are too familiar for a first meeting, Curlie insists.
  That should give you an idea about the humor.
  Unbeknownst to Jamie and Marian, a suitcase has been placed in the trunk of the Dodge Aires they're driving. A suave gangster (Colman Domingo) wants the suitcase back. He dispatches two goons  (C.J. Wilson and Joey Slotnick) to retrieve the goods.
  What's in the suitcase? The contents of the suitcase constitute one of the movie's surprises, a joke that you'll have to discover for yourself.
  Qualley dominates as a woman who dedicates herself to freeing the spirit of the more sensible Marian, encouraging her to approach sex with libidinous abandon.
  For the most part, sex is presented with raunchy comic flare as the movie looks to find its footing. A digressive story works its way through stops at lesbian bars, a make-out session with a girls' soccer team, and an eventual face-off with the women's inept pursuers. 
   Matt Damon shows up toward the end as a senator with an interest in acquiring the suitcase.
   Coen's willingness to indulge in the ridiculous offers a degree of fun as he goofs on B-movie tropes, but, in sum, Drive-Away Dolls comes off as a ragged, 84-minute helping of comic overreach.
     The main characters are up-front about their lesbianism or “queerness,” if that’s more appropriate. But like it-or-not assertions of sexuality aren’t enough to keep much of the rest of the movie from feeling stale.
    


A collection of "Perfect Days'


 I’m late to the party reviewing director Wim Wenders' Perfect Days, which had its premiere at last year’s Cannes Film Festival, traveled the fall festival circuit, and finally found its way to theaters. 
   Simply put, as it should be in this case, Wenders tells the story of Hirayama (Koji Yakusho),  a middle-aged man who cleans amazingly well-kept and beautifully designed public toilets in downtown Tokyo.
    The idea of clean public restrooms proves a revelation. Who among us hasn’t submitted to pressing bathroom needs despite serious reservations we may have had about the available facilities?
   Wenders wrote a minimalist screenplay with author Takuma Takasaki and adopts a style that many critics have compared to Yasujiro Ozu, the great chronicler of family life in Japan who died in 1963. 
  Perhaps so, but Wenders seems to gravitate toward an outsider's view. He's an outsider here, as he was to American culture in Paris Texas (1984) or even in 1987's  Wings of Desire, set in Wenders' home country, but still reflecting Olympian distance from its characters.

   Perfect Days is about noticing the unnoticed. If you were to see a person meticulously cleaning toilets would you ask yourself, "What is the totality of this person’s life?" 

     Subsequent questions might follow: Is this person humiliated by what might be regarded as  “lowly” work? Is he ever disgusted by it? Does he aspire to more? Does his work breed contempt for those who create the dirt he strives to eliminate?

   Wenders applied his imagination to the task, and, in so doing, has created a movie that only hints at answers. Hirayama is a bit of a blank, a character defined by a series of small actions and routine.

 Hirayama awakens at the same time everyday. He trims his mustache before leaving his small apartment, furnished with bookshelves, a sleeping mat and not much else. The plants he waters are his only companions.

  Each morning, Hirayama buys a drink from a vending machine, boards his truck, and drives to work. En route, he listens to tapes of rock from the ‘60s and ‘70s. He lives in a world of oldies.

   On the job, Hirayama has minimal interactions with a more voluble co-worker (Tokio Emoto). When he breaks for lunch in a surrounding park, he takes photos of the swaying tree tops. 

  Contrary to expectation, Hirayama isn’t a hermit or misanthrope. He’s a loner, taking his evening meals  in an underground mall restaurant. He bathes at a public bathhouse. He doesn't seem lonely.

  When the film brings Hirayama into contact with a niece (Arisa Nakano), he's unexpectedly open. He later meets with the sister from whom he’s estranged. It's clear that she represents something he wants no part of.

   Whatever the reasons for Hirayama's rejection of his earlier life,  he has reduced his days to repetition and pattern. Rather than presenting him with suffocating constriction, his choices seem to have made life manageable, maybe even deeper.

   Consider: There's much to be gained by simply observing the same trees every day, watching light bounce around their leaves or observing how wind changes their posture. If Hirayama were an artist, no one would find his behavior odd.

   Maybe all we need to know is this: Hirayama had one kind of life. Now, he has another. He lives with concentrated attention in a city that affords him the anonymity he seems to need.

  We can't fully understand what all this means to Hirayama, and Wenders mostly keeps it that way. If he's an outsider, so, too, are we. 

   Or maybe I'm overthinking this. Maybe all Wenders is doing is answering a simple question: How does one man live? It's enough for a movie that resists the usual dramatic touchstones, opting instead for singularity, an undiluted look at a man thoroughly committed to the choices he’s made.