To see or not to see? A critic's dilemma and two reviews: 'Ibelin' and "Lee'

 In the market where I work, two advance screenings sometimes happen simultaneously. This week's viewing dilemma arose when screenings The Wild Robot and Megalopolis were scheduled for the same evening. I chose Megalopolis because a Francis Ford Coppola opus seems a must for anyone who has been reviewing movies for nearly 40 years. Coppola invested $120 million of his own money in the movie and had been talking about it for decades. Never shy about out-sized ambition, Coppola's movie (reviewed on this blog) took precedence for me. Don't take that as any reflection on Wild Robot. As of this writing, Wild Robot boasted a 98 percent rating on Rotten Tomatoes. I'll have to catch up with it.

  Now for the rest of the week: 

 

Ibelin, a documentary from director Benjamin Ree, surprised me. Generally, when cultural critics discuss gaming, they emphasize the way gaming can isolate young people and discourage personal communication. Ree presents an alternative view, telling the story of Mats Steen, a young Norwegian man who died of Duchenne muscular dystrophy at the age of 25.  Lonely in reality and increasingly debilitated, Steen sought refuge in the World of Warcraft, where he assumed the identity of Lord Ibelin Redmore. Steen's body may have betrayed him, but online, he became a muscular character with a well-developed sense of compassion. Ree ably depicts the gap between role-playing and reality. Better, though, he shows how the gulf can be bridged, how two worlds ("the virtual" and "the real," for want of better terms) can nourish each other. Using animation to depict Steen's Warcraft journey, bits from Steen's blog, and interviews, Ree creates a moving story about a young man who couldn't beat the odds, but who did something meaningful with the hand he was dealt: He affected the lives of others.

   

Then there's Lee, a movie about the great World War II photographer Lee Miller, played by Kate Winslet. Directed by Ellen Kuras, Lee tells the story of a woman who began her career as a model and fashion photographer for Vogue before convincing the editor of the magazine's British edition to turn her into a war correspondent. You'd think that by now, filmmakers would have tired of structuring films around interviews. Lee doesn't help itself by tying a chronologically presented story to an interview in which Lee answers questions from a character played by Josh O'Connor. The movie begins with Lee's pre-war days in France, where she spent time as part of an avant-garde circle that included the editor of Vogue Paris (Marion Cotillard). In France, she also met English painter Roland Penrose (Alexander Skarsgard) with whom she developed a long-term relationship. The heart of the movie involves Lee's struggle to gain access to the fighting and later, to German death camps, where she took a career-defining series of photographs. It wasn't easy for a woman to break into the war correspondent ranks. When the Brits refused to give Lee combat credentials, she used her American citizenship to access the fighting. On the French and German fronts, Lee traveled with another American photographer Andy Stamberg's David E. Scherman, who worked for Life magazine. Difficult either to pan or praise,  Lee sheds light on an important career, but a cumbersome structure weighs it down. Winslet goes all in on playing a tough, sexually uninhibited woman who refuses to be deterred, but the movie underlines its themes and feels stuck in a biopic ghetto where its story too often feels locked in the past.

Coppola's long-awaited opus arrives

 

  

An Elvis impersonator. A chariot race. A man who sometimes wears bright red lipstick and dresses. Hamlet's "To Be or Not to Be" soliloquy. Quotes from Marcus Aurelius and Petrarch. The Statue of Liberty, and The Chrysler Building. 

  OK, take a breath.

  I've only mentioned a few of the sights and sounds found in Francis Ford Coppola's extravagant WFT opus, Megalopolis, a movie that makes its themes clear but remains jumbled in other ways.

   I begin this way because Coppola has made an amusing, risible, sometimes exhilarating mess of a movie that either can be accepted as a bold display of cinematic ambition or as a $120 million misfire. 

   Which choice you make or whether you find yourself somewhere in the middle, mostly depends on how you regard Coppola's career and Coppola himself. You never forget there's someone with a vision behind the camera.

   The director of two great American movies (The Godfather and The Godfather Part II) always gets the benefit of my doubt -- up to a point. 

   I reached that point many times during Megalopolis as I wondered what had compelled Coppola, who's now 85, to spend 40 years hoping to make this movie, ultimately financing it with his own money.

   I wish I could say that the answer becomes obvious upon seeing the movie; I'm not sure it does. 

   So what's Megalopolis about? Here's a laundry list of themes: time, creativity, power, hubris, Roman history, urban planning, the role of artists in society,  the fate of the United States, and possibly all of humanity. I'm sure I've omitted something important, but I'll note that in an interview shown before a preview screening, Coppola said that the United States is Rome.

     You can pick that apart while I try to condense a tangled plot. Cesar Catilina (Adam Driver) serves as the movie's main character, an ambitious architect with megalomaniacal tendencies and a belief that his high level of intelligence entitles him to disparage others.

     In a commanding prologue, Catilina tentatively steps onto the rooftop of the Chrysler Building. A vertiginous sequence follows and we learn that Catalina has the power to stop time, a sci-fi element explained by Catalina's invention of the substance Megalon.

    No need to memorize, it won't be on the quiz.

    Cesar's ability to freeze time reflects his power as an architect and artist. Artists can stop time -- or at least to freeze it with images, stories, etc.

    Presented in the broadest of strokes, the story centers on the conflict between Catilina and Frank Cicero (Giancarlo Esposito), the mayor of New Rome, an imaginary city that resembles New York.  Deeply skeptical about those who want to create utopias, Cicero speaks the language of pragmatic politics.

     Megalopolis, by the way, is the utopia Cesar wants to build within the borders of New Rome, a "futuristic" city  in which the police cars look like they came directly from 2024, print editions of tabloid newspapers can be seen, and cigarette smoking hasn't vanished.

      Among New Rome's residents, we also meet Cicero's daughter Julia (Nathalie Emmanuel). Early on, Julia seems more interested in partying than artistic vision, but she's drawn to Cesar, and they eventually fall in love. 

     Dad objects. So does Wow Platinum (Aubrey Plaza), a character who enters the movie as a well-known TV reporter and Cesar's mistress.

     A striver of the first order, Wow eventually marries Crassus (Jon Voight), perhaps the richest man in New Rome. Shia LaBeouf plays Clodio, Crassus' treacherous grandson. Late in the movie, he seals a conspiratorial pact with Wow by having sex with her. He calls her Auntie Wow, suggesting a bit of incestuous creepiness.

     A large cast weaves its way through a visual showcase that mixes dreams, special effects, and diaphanous dissolves in which one image peeks through another. If there were such a thing as visual indigestion, Megalopolis could give it to you.

     I can't single out any of the performances but will note that Driver works his way through an arc that includes Cesar's arrogance, moral collapse, and rebirth as, let's say, a true artist or, in the movie's terms, a man who finally can love.

     Plaza seems totally committed to her role, as does LaBeouf, who delivers a major helping of craziness.

     Laurence Fishburne portrays Cesar's driver, a loyalist who also provides occasional narration.

     It's difficult to discuss acting when the characters function as archetypes that represent the story's conflicting values. Crassus stands for capitalist greed, for example.

     Coppola's screenplay, by the way, draws on a real bit of history, the Catilinarian conspiracy of 63 BC. You can look it up. But characters' names are linked to Roman history, and Coppola presumably sees parallels between the Roman Republic on the cusp decline and ... well ... I don't need to spell it out for you.

     Coppola does that with dialogue -- often presented in form of bromides, aphorisms, and quotations from philosophers. Many lines have on-the-nose clarity, and the film's ending borders on agitprop as Coppola invites the audience to engage in a conversation about what kind of future it wants, topping it off with a greeting card flourish: We owe it to the children.

     Megalopolis can be as baffling as it is engaging; it may serve as a kind of exclamation point to Coppola's long-standing commitment to cinematic daring, as well as an expression of hope for a chaotic world.

      Whatever it is, it left my head spinning.

       

He's 'A Different Man' for sure

 

  Lately, movies seem preoccupied with the fluidity of identity, particularly when it's based on gender or appearance. A Different Man enters the “transformation” fray with a story that, like The Substance, links physical metamorphosis to larger themes.

  A heavily made-up Sebastian Stan plays Edward, a man with neurofibromatosis, a disfiguring condition that turns him into a contemporary Elephant Man. Writer/director Aaron Schimberg’s screenplay presents Edward with a miracle cure to remove the tumors that bubble across his face. He’ll be ordinary, one more anonymous face in New York's teeming crowd.

   Stan ably defines the pre-treatment Edward as a lonely, awkward, and reclusive fellow who lives in a dilapidated Brooklyn apartment with an ugly, threatening leak in the ceiling of its living room. Edward, who wants to act, appears in public service videos that offer instruction about how to treat those whose looks can be startling, perhaps even frightening.

     When Ingrid (Renate Reinsve of The Worst Person in the World) moves into the apartment next to Edward's, he's offered a connection to the outside world. Vivacious, friendly, and sporting short shorts, Ingrid treats Edward without prejudice, although she may have ulterior motives. She's an aspiring playwright looking for a subject.

     Schimberg takes full advantage of Edward’s facial alterations; after being treated with experimental drugs, Edward experiences nausea and pain. Bit by bit, he begins to peel diseased layers off his face, a sight that’s not for the squeamish.

      It takes time, but the movie eventually leans into Pirandellan territory, tackling questions of illusion and reality and examining Edward's growing disconnection from his former self.

      Schimberg accomplishes all this by introducing a play that Ingrid has written. She’s directing a production of her drama in a small theater way off Broadway, basing her story on Edward’s meager existence.

      Edward, who changed his name and vanished from Ingrid’s life after his transformation, stumbles upon the theater and auditions for a part he was  “born to play'' -- himself.

      He lands the role, but another challenge arises. 

      Enter Oswald (Adam Pearson). Pearson, a British actor who really has neurofibromatosis, brings  charisma to the role of Oswald, who charms everyone he meets. Oswald may represent what Edward could have been had he not allowed his disfigured face to turn him inward.

       Oswald impresses Ingrid, and begins to take over the role Edward was “born to play." Pushed to the sidelines,  Edward becomes unhinged in ways that can be darkly amusing but don’t always compute during the movie’s somewhat disjointed third act.

        Cinematographer Wyatt Garfield perfectly captures New York fringe living: bad apartments, shot-and-a-beer bars, and the subway rides in which everyone strains not to look at anyone else. Schimberg also seems familiar with the aspiring “creatives” who occupy this world. In that sense, A Different Man can be viewed as a movie that only could have been made in New York.

      Schimberg can’t entirely manage all the themes and twists he introduces. Still, A Different Man hits too many strong notes to ignore. It contains one great cameo, and its vividly drawn characters etch their way into memory.

On the tyranny of youth and beauty

 

   I haven't left a horror film with a grin on my face in a long time. That was the case with The Substance, a freshly minted chunk of body horror that ends with so much unrestrained wildness, I found it impossible not to smile, even if I winced a bit. 

  Director Coralie Fargeat delivers a boldly stylish movie that doesn't flinch when it comes to satirizing female obsession with looks and aging.

   Demi Moore plays a nationally known celebrity, the smiling host of a TV aerobics show. But wait. A career based on a streamlined body has an expiration date. So it's no surprise when an aging Elisabeth learns that she's been fired by her callous boss, Dennis Quaid in a broad, clownish performance as Harvey, an unashamed misogynist with boorish table manners.

     Watching Harvey gobble shrimp is enough to put off your popcorn.

    An early-picture auto accident lands Elisabeth in the hospital, where she's approached by a young man who tells her that she's a candidate for a new treatment. All she has to do is call a number she's been given. After a bit of waffling, she phones.

    The call sets up the movie's major twist. Sparkle learns about The Substance, a fluid she'll inject into her body to produce a younger, better version of herself. This new self,  which emerges from an agonizing split along Elisabeth's spine, is named Sue. She's played by a youthful, vibrant Margaret Qualley. 

    Sue, of course, takes over Sparkle's show, becoming the aggressively exuberant star of Pump It Up With Sue.

     Elisabeth's rebirth comes with rules. Sue only can function in the world for a week at a time before Elisabeth returns. They’re supposed to alternate weeks. 

    Both are constantly reminded that, despite appearances, they're the same person. One can't escape the other.

      Absurd? Of course, but Elisabeth's bitterness eventually clashes with Sue's ambition, and ... well ... it doesn't much matter what happens next. 

      What matters is the slickly realized environment Fargeat creates; she invents an encompassing reality, establishes its rules, and flows her story through a cascade of exaggerated close-ups, highly stylized interiors, and, yes, blood and gore.

      She also alludes to earlier masters such as David Cronenberg and Stanley Kubrick. Film references aside, The Substance feels freshly imagined as an in-your-face exploration of the perils of vanity and the society that seems to demand it.

      You'll find ample helpings of nudity from Moore, who's now 61, and Qualley, who's 29. The nudity is bold but free of erotic cliches. When the camera zooms in on Sue's butt (during her show), it feels as if we're looking at curves that have been cast in polished plastic. 

      We know the Substance code will be violated. When  that happens, Elisabeth begins to age in punishing ways, becoming a grotesque crone in bits and pieces. 

     As for nudity, Moore seems to be saying that her body belongs to her and she'll show as much of it as she wants. Rather than pandering to it, her nudity challenges the male gaze.

      Elisabeth and Sue square off, but Fargeat, whose movie won best screenplay at last May's Cannes Film Festival, has the final word with a Grand Guignol of a finale that refuses to allow either character to wriggle off the hook.

      A bizarre riff on the price of pursuing impossible goals, The Substance barges its way through a whirl of imaginative images, but it only can go so far: It's not easy to make a "deep" film about a movie that’s preoccupied with surfaces.

       Still, Fargeat gives her film a shockingly vivid presence, and her two actresses turn their performances into boldly assertive statements about the tyranny of youth, beauty, and the unappeased hunger for both. 

        

   

An animated edition of ‘Transformers’

    I admit it. I've never spent a second wondering how an ordinary bot could become Optimus Prime. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you can stop here. If you do, I’ll tell you that I’ve enjoyed a couple of Transformers movies, but would resist rending any garments should the series fade into the mists of memory. 

   That, of course, isn’t going to happen. The new animated Transformers One not only charts a path for sequels, it boasts enough inventive animation to push noise-weary watchers past its loud, repetitive battles. 

    Chris Hemsworth, Brian Tyree Henry, and Scarlett Johansson lead the voice cast, and director Josh Cooley (Toy Story 4) adds enough cheeky humor to stave off Transformers fatigue. 

    Hemsworth provides the voice for Orion Pax, a bot who’s subjugated to the oppression that consumes the planet Cybertron. Orion and his pal D-16 (Henry) work as miners, drudges who are expected to revere Sentinel Prime (Jon Hamm),  the autocratic Transformer who runs the place. 

     The story centers on Orion’s attempt to reach Cybertron’s surface. Once there, he and a trio of bots that includes D-16, Elita-1 (Johansson), and B-127 (Keegan-Michael Key) try to win freedom for Cybertron's downtrodden. 

     Elita adds assertiveness, and B-127 brings humor. Whatever the situation, he won't shut up.

      Eventually, the quartet revives an older bot (Laurence Fishburne) who remembers the time before Sentinel enslaved ordinary bots, who lack the power to transform.

      In a welcome addition, Steve Buscemi gives voice to the treacherous Decepticon Starscream,

     Transformers One takes shape as a buddy movie, an action onslaught, and a story about underdogs who triumph. Perhaps to add political spin, the screenplay pits the dedicated unity of rebellious bots against Sentinel’s selfish authoritarianism.

     Cybertron puts the team's visual chops on display -- both above and below ground.

      I’m always a little put off by movies that require glossaries. Transformers, of course, has its share of ear-challenging names. To take one example, Cybertorn worker droids mine a substance called Energon, which provides the planet’s energy. Ordinary bots lack the “cogs” that allow for transformation, the key to power on Cybertron. Qintesson invaders add to the problems the defiant bots face.

      And, oh yeah, our quartet of  bots searches for the Matrix of Leadership, the object that serves as the movie’s MacGuffin.

      Who'd have guessed that anyone could get this much mileage from a Hasbro toy? Not me. But that’s the world we live in, and if we can’t change it, we should at least appreciate attempts to give it humor, visual invention, and a simple ethos.

     That’s the transformation audiences deserve. Credit Transformers One for trying to provide it.

          

A teenager meets her older self

 

     If you could go meet an older version of yourself, what would you want to ask? If the question intrigues you, you may find amusement in My Old Ass, a fantasy movie in which an 18-year-old (Maisy Stella) meets herself when she's on the brink of turning 40.

     Aubrey Plaza plays the older version of Stella's Elliott. The older Elliott appears when the younger Elliott drinks hallucinatory tea made from mushrooms. 

    Stella and Plaza don't look alike, but director Megan Park dodges the issue, focusing more on emotional dynamics than appearance. 

     For me, the main attraction here is Plaza, who has evolved into an interesting actress. But Plaza's presence in the story is limited by a plot that focuses mostly on young Elliott.

       Teenage Elliott identifies as gay, but develops an increasingly affectionate relationship with Chad (Percy Hynes White), a young man who's spending the summer on a nearby farm. The relationship occurs after the older Elliott warns her younger self not to fall for anyone named Chad. 

     As Maisy discovers the world of gender fluidity, she wonders what her attraction to Chad means; the movie suggests that people don't always know who they are or who they might become.

    Stella portrays Maisy as a young woman trying to find her footing as she prepares to leave her Canadian home, a cranberry farm where she lives with her mother (Maria Dizzia), father (Alain Goulem), and two brothers (Seth Isaac Johnson and (Carter Trozzolo). 

   The film includes a big reveal, and Park easily shifts to sentiment without allowing the film to become cloying. Ultimately, My Old Ass overcomes Elliott's more annoying tendencies and delivers a message about gathering rosebuds before reality creates its inevitable ambush. 

   Deep? Not really, but the message nicely fits a  slender piece of work.

   A footnote: For many, the idea of viewing a 39-year-old ass as "old" might seem a stretch mark too far. 

'Speak No Evil' thrives on anxiety

 The first thing to know about the horror film Speak No Evil is that it’s a remake of a nasty 2022 Danish thriller directed by Christian Tafdrup. The second thing: Writer/director James Watkins (The Woman in Black, Eden Lake) softens the film’s edges while sustaining the heightened level of discomfort such pictures need.

 James McAvoy provides the film’s major performance as the brash, intimidating Paddy, owner of a remote British farm where he and his wife (Aisling Franciosi) are raising their young son (Dan Hough), a kid, whom we’re told, can’t speak because of a congenital defect that affected his tongue.

  The movie opens with a scenic Italian vacation during which Paddy and his wife befriend an American couple (Scoot McNairy and Mackenzie Davis) who's  traveling with their daughter Agnes (Alix West Lefler). 

  A troubled marriage between McNairy's Ben and Davis' Louise and the anxieties of a 12-year-old daughter who’s about to leave childhood, give the story a bit of psychological texture.

  You’d have to never have seen a movie to miss the signs that Paddy and his wife are hiding menace behind facades of amiability.

   Watkins delivers numerous forebodings. That's part of the point. We know what's happening, but, for reasons that eventually become clear, Ben and Louise ignore or minimize obvious warnings.

   Watkins adds a woman-power spin, showcasing Louise’s increasing assertiveness in the face of Ben’s chronic ineffectuality. But it's McAvoy who revs the movie's engine: He takes a big bite out of his role, loading up on gleefully expressed aggression.

    Both young actors are good, and McNairy and Davis, who worked together on TV's Halt and Catch Fire, hit the right notes.

    At various points, the screenplay demands healthy suspensions of disbelief, and the ending probably will disappoint fans of the original, which offered a different kind of shock. Otherwise, Speak No Evil builds enough suspense and anxiety to support McAvoy’s performance as the screen’s latest charismatic lunatic.

An old friendship hits the road

 

   Will & Harper, a chronicle of a 16-day cross-country road trip made by Will Ferrell and Harper Steele, deals with two old friends adjusting to a challenging new development in their lives. In 2022, Steele came out as a transgender woman.

   Previously, Steele had been Andrew Steele; he and Ferrell had been friends since 1995 when they met as new members of the Saturday Night Live family. Steele wrote for SNL and championed Ferrell, who didn't immediately fit the SNL mold.

    After reading an email in which Harper, who has two children from a now-dissolved marriage, discussed his identity as a transgender woman, Ferrell thought a cross-country trip might be in order. The two travelers would determine how they might continue to relate to each other.

   For Steele, the trip also became a test run for a shifting persona, a chance to be seen in public in the kind of places she frequented as Andrew. While traveling solo across the country, Andrew indulged his fondness for dive bars, places not usually associated with gender diversity. 

   Could Harper bring a truck-stop sensibility to her  transgender evolution?

   Inevitably episodic, Will & Harper includes poignant and revealing moments. Ferrell approaches his friend with sincerity, and Steele responds in kind. The two share memories and laughs, as they navigate waters that aren't always comfortable. 

   Harper talks about the despair she felt prior to transitioning, but she approaches some of Ferrell’s questions with openness and good humor.

Her boobs? She says she loves them.

   At one point, Ferrell and Steele -- both sports fans -- attend an Indiana Pacers' game where they encounter Republican Governor Eric Holcomb, who's cordial even though he'd just signed legislation imposing restrictions on gender-affirming care for minors.  

    After the meeting, Ferrell learned about the ban. Oops.

    During a later stop, Steele and Ferrell visit an Oklahoma bar sporting a confederate flag and an impolite anti-Biden sign. Steele enters first; the bar’s patrons become friendlier once Ferrell makes his entrance. I guess celebrity presence opens doors.

     Steele talks about his masculine face and voice, and tries to learn new rules of the road. As a transgender woman, it might be ill-advised for Harper to walk alone down alleys, something Andrew might have done without giving it much thought. Such gender-related recalibrations add another layer of interest.   

   Director Josh Greenbaum (Barb and Star Go to Vista Del Mar) offers a goofy scene in an upscale Las Vegas restaurant that seems overly contrived, and in a trip that can't entirely avoid road fatigue, not every observation proves fascinating.

   But Ferrell and Harper risk a level of exposure that many would avoid, and the movie ultimately tells a story about an enduring friendship. Without calling attention to the fact that Ferrell and Steele are accompanied by a film crew, Will & Harper serves as a testament to a shared history that both want to preserve, even in the face of radical change.*

*Now in select theaters, Will & Harper begins streaming on Netflix on Sept. 27.

After a long rest, Beetlejuice returns

  It’s easy to see why Beetlejuice Beetlejuice, director Tim Burton’s follow-up to the 1988 classic, opened the 2024 Venice Film Festival. By the end of its high-spirited one hour and 32 minutes, the film has established itself as a celebration of the original. 

   Some might call that fan service, but I prefer to say that Burton, who’s now 66, treats Beetlejuice Beetlejuice more as a belated encore than a sequel.

  I'm leaping ahead but, for me, the best thing about the movie arrived at the end. A finale built around Donna Summer’s rendition of MacArthur Park — lip-synched by two of the film’s characters — gives Burton's second helping a near lyrical lift, a small triumph of silliness.

    Generally, though, Beetlejuice Beetlejuice provides intermittent amusement built around a few veterans of the original cast, most notably Michael Keaton as Beetlejuice, the scuzzy demonic dead guy with a wiseass show business flare and an uncontrolled libido.

    Other returnees include Catherine O’Hara as the narcissistic self-proclaimed artist Delia, who’s also stepmother to Lydia Deetz, the returning Winona Ryder. Once a sullen teenager, Lydia is now the widowed mother of Astrid Deetz (Jenna Ortega), this edition’s skeptical teen. 

    As if to goof on the monetization of horror, the screenplay makes Lydia the host of a popular TV show called Ghost House, which purportedly investigates hauntings. Justin Theroux serves as the host’s producer, a self-aggrandizing sleaze ball who wants to marry Lydia. 

    The joke fizzles. Theroux’s Rory is so obviously phony that his sincerity becomes a one-note gag.

    The plot consists of a variety of contrivances that connect the movie’s set pieces and introduce new characters such as Willem Dafoe’s Wolf Jackson, a TV actor whose afterlife existence consists of acting out tough cop roles. 

   Monica Bellucci plays Delores, a soul-sucking corpse who reassembles her severed body parts with the help of a staple gun. Delores once was married to Beetlejuice and now seeks vengeance for no better reason than he chopped her into little pieces. It's an old story; some people can't take a joke.

    Arthur Conti appears as Jeremy, a young man who seems to connect with Astrid until the movie adds a dark twist.

      The 1988 original -- which I saw in a long-gone theater in a long-gone mall -- certified Burton as a director to watch. Beetlejuice felt like a breakthrough, an outrageously inventive second film from the director of Pee-wee's Big Adventure. 

       In the new edition, Burton smooths out rough edges with an animated sequence about the death of Lydia’s father, a healthy application of gook, and the addition of Beetlejuice’s mini-spawn, a flesh-chomping baby. A brigade-sized horde of ghosts in large suits sport heads that have been shrunk to the size of grapefruits. 

       Don't look for Alec Baldwin and Geena Davis, the original ghosts. Their characters have moved on in their afterlife journeys.

       It's hardly surprising that the feeling of discovery has waned, but there’s still some fun left in a movie with a plot that can feel as stitched together as Bellucci’s Delores.    

       Besides, with Keaton fully embracing Beetlejuice’s slimy ways, Burton finds enough comic life among the dead to keep his movie from foundering.

       

  

On saving a beloved attraction

 

    For some folks who were raised in the Denver area, the restaurant Casa Bonita evokes fond memories of childhood. Once called the Disneyland of Mexican restaurants, Casa Bonita opened in 1974 and quickly became the star attraction of a Lakewood, Co., strip mall.

   Among those smitten by Casa Bonita were Trey Parker and Matt Stone of South Park fame. The restaurant appeared in a South Park episode, a touch of nostalgia garnished with the series' satirical hot sauce.

  In 2021, Parker and Stone purchased the dying restaurant  for $3.1 million. They then embarked on a restoration project that wound up costing $40 million, a major leap from an initial estimate of $6 million.

  Casa Bonita Mi Amor! documents the restaurant's history while providing a lively and entertaining chronicle of what initially looks like one of history's worst investments. 

   More guided by passion than spreadsheets, the South Park creators stuck with their venture, reopening the restaurant in 2023. They brought back a 30-foot indoor waterfall and restored other signature attractions that make the current version seem less like Disneyland than something on the order of Meow Wolf with Mexican food.

   It wasn't easy. The restaurant Parker and Stone purchased might be likened to a corpse left to fester in the desert sun. Pipes oozed ... well ... ooze, and the building's infrastructure was so deteriorated, it had become gross and dangerous.

    Anyone who has ever been caught in a cycle of escalating costs during a home renovation project will recognize the problems Parker and Stone faced. At one point, they wondered whether it might be wise to pull the plug and cut their losses. 

    Like most possessed people, they proceeded with their outlandish pursuit of resurrecting the past while giving it contemporary polish and a new infusion of imagination.

    Was it insane? Probably, but director Arthur Bradford understands the passion, commitment, and, yes, love, necessary to achieve a cockeyed goal.

     Casa Bonita Mi Amor! put me in mind of collectors who remain undeterred by the oddity of their quests. I once met a woman who prided herself on her collection of doors. (Don't ask about storage.) 

      A large dose of idiosyncratic passion explains why Parker and Stone's nostalgia trip was more inspired by Elvis's 1963 movie, Fun in Acapulco, than anything that might be called authentically Mexican. To yearn for Casa Bonita, at least as it was during its heyday in the 1970s and '80s, meant reveling in a collection of unashamed kitsch.

   To me, there's something irresistible about folks who pursue eccentric ventures; Casa Bonita Mi Amor! thrives on the contagious fondness for the place displayed by Parker, really our guide through the story.

   Casa Bonita wasn't known for haute cuisine, but Parker and Stone hired Dana Rodriguez, a multiple James Beard award nominee, as the restaurant's executive chef. I've read mixed things about the food since the restaurant's opening.

  But food was never the entire focus: The Casa Bonita experience created ardent devotees, including Stone and Parker, two exceptionally creative guys who refused to let the embers of childhood delight smolder. 

   Parker and Stone indulged a heartfelt belief that some dreams don't deserve to die -- no matter how crazy they might seem or maybe because they are too crazy to abandon.

The abused kids of Sugarcane Reserve

Julian Brave NoiseCat and Emily Kassie direct the quietly compelling Sugarcane, a documentary that exposes the horrific treatment of children from the Sugarcane Reserve in Canada. The directors deal with the consequences of a Canadian government policy that in the late 1800s established some 139 boarding schools run by the Catholic Church. Thousands of indigenous children found themselves in these schools, which resulted in separation from family and culture, physical and sexual abuse, and, in some cases, suicide. In part, the directors focus on NoiseCat's father, who was a "student" at the St. Joseph's school, which was founded in 1886 and housed children from the Williams Lake First Nation people. The most shocking detail: the incineration of babies born to female students who were sexually abused by priests. Yes, you read that right. Incineration. Although the account sometimes becomes muddled, significant details remain clear and the emotional impact of the various stories is undeniable. One of the film's principal interviewees, for example, learns that his father may have been a priest at the school.  A visit made by some of the Sugarcane Reserve people to Rome resulted in a meeting with Pope Francis. No apology was forthcoming.  But, then, the past can't be undone and apologies, though essential, can’t address the wrongs committed by the church and the Canadian government. Previously ignored mistreatment of children set off an inquiry which the film tells us uncovered 159 burial sites at St. Joseph's. Although the school was closed in 1981, the emotional scars of abuse and neglect continue in the present, and that makes Sugarcane an ongoing and essential story.