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.

A boy's time travel adventure

French illustrator Ugo Bienvenu's Arco tells an  environmentally conscious story that follows 10-year-old Arco through a time-travel trip. Arco leaves a calm, futuristic world, heading backward into a more turbulent 2075. The story follows a basic adventure arc: Arco (Juliano Krue Valdi) has yet to turn 12, the age at which time travel is allowed. Sensing he may have gotten more than he bargained for, Arco tries to return home. Once he arrives in the past, Arco meets Iris (Romy Fay), a girl who becomes his companion and helpmate. Natalie Portman, one of the movie's producers, Mark Ruffalo, and Will Ferrell provide additional voice work, but the movie's real star is Bienvenu, whose imaginative creations include bubble shields that protect the suburban neighborhoods of 2075 from toxic fumes and raging fires. Iris's parents are so busy working, they rely on holographic figures to interact with their kids. A robot named Mikki handles the family's parenting chores. Despite environmental threats, Arco's overall mood lacks the caustic sting of many futuristic adventures. Nominated for an Oscar in the animated-feature category, the film -- Bienvenu's first -- layers emotion into the relationship between Arco and Iris, which anchors the story in the language of more conventional animated efforts. Still, a high level of craftsmanship bolsters Bienvenu's efforts, adding plenty of artistic uplift.

Statham strikes again in 'Shelter'

    Jason Statham has become a brand. The British actor has become so associated with tough-guy action that some fans refer to his movies without mentioning titles. A Statham picture is good enough, as someone at a preview screening described the phenomenon.

   Shelter, Statham's latest, finds him playing a bearded loner who lives in an abandoned lighthouse on a tiny rock pile of an island in the Scottish Hebrides. Statham's Michael Mason drinks vodka, wanders about with his dog, and plays chess games with himself. 

   If you know Statham movies, you can bet he'll soon be on the move.

   A series of early contrivances put Statham's Mason on the run with 13-year-old Jesse (Bodhi Rae Breathnach). Circumstances make him the girl's lone protector.  

   A former Special Forces assassin, Mason was part of a super-secret group called Black Kite. When Mason refused to assassinate a good guy, he went into hiding. An agency ally with computer skills (Daniel Mays) hacked the system and faked Mason's death. But the moment Mason leaves the island, his foes will know he's still alive. He'll become a target, and one with "baggage," as he puts it. 

    The baggage, of course, is Jesse, who found herself on the island when her uncle's boat stopped to deliver supplies. She nearly drowned trying to leave, but Mason saved her. The uncle didn't survive a vicious storm that sank his boat.

   The supporting cast includes Bill Nighy as Manafort, Mason's former boss and the man who most wants him eliminated. Naomi Ackie, who plays an uncorrupted MI6 officer.  Harriet Walter takes a turn as the British Prime Minister, a character as crooked as Nighy's Manafort. 

  Waugh (Angel Has Fallen, Greenland, and Greenland 2: Migration) loads the screen with fights, gunplay, and assorted examples of genre violence that build up the movie's prodigious body count.

   I guess you could say that Statham and Breathnach give the movie some heart, but relentless action rules with Mason adhering to the school of heroism that says little, fires many bullets, and proves inventive with anything that's available to be used as a weapon. When an industrial-strength chain fells one of Mason's foes, much of the audience applauded.

   Nothing much else to add here, other than to reinforce the notion that Shelter demonstrates its competence at delivering what's expected of it -- if not much more.

    

Suspicion overwhelms a psychiatrist

 

   Speaking fluent French, Jodie Foster plays an American-born psychiatrist embroiled in a mystery set in Paris, the city where she lives and works. Directed by Rebecca Zlotowski, A Private Life strikes many seductively smart notes as it follows Foster's Lilian Steiner, a character whose inner life becomes increasingly apparent to us -- if not always to her.

   Emotionally controlled and guarded, Lilian suspects that one of her patients (Virginie Efira) was murdered by her husband (Mathieu Amalric). Could Lilian's suspicions be a cover for her inability to listen carefully? Did she miss something vital about Efira's Paula, whose death was ruled a suicide?

     As she explores the possibility of foul play, Lilian begins an atypical journey — at least for her: She begins playing detective, eventually enlisting help from her ex-husband (Daniel Auteuil). Maybe the truth can't be discovered on a psychiatrist's couch.

    A well-paired Auteuil and Foster sometimes seem to be playing a farce, revealing themselves to be rank amateurs when it comes to solving crimes.

    It's not always easy to determine what Zlotowski has in mind as she mixes thriller tones, comedy, serious drama, and at times, absurdity. 

    At one point, for example, Lilian -- not a likely person to believe in reincarnation -- spins a wild fantasy about her grown son's former life as a Nazi supporter during World War II, an odd display of imagination considering that Lilian and all the members of her immediate family are Jewish. 

    Lilian's loss of control becomes apparent early. After learning of her patient's death, she begins to shed tears. She visits Auteuil's Gabriel; conveniently, he's an ophthalmologist. Gabriel's ability to help people see (literally) contrasts with Lilian’s ability to apply the same skill -- at least metaphorically.

    An encounter with a hypnotist (Sophie Guillemin) makes for a diverting scene. Lilian tries hypnotism to cure her of the involuntary tears that roll down her face. It’s inaccurate to call it “crying” because Lilian’s tears seem disconnected from any emotional state.

    Lilian learned about the hypnotist from an irate patient (Noam Morgensztern), who insists that he's wasted money on therapy after the hypnotist helped him stop smoking with one visit. So much for eight years of analysis, not the only swipe the movie takes at Freudian psychoanalysis.

    Working from a screenplay she co-wrote with Anne Berest and Gaelle Mace, Zlotowski adds an element that points to Lilian's ability to wall herself off from her patients. She records all her sessions on an outdated mini-disc system, allowing the discs to do the work of note-taking and perhaps dulling her attention.

    It's wonderful to see Auteuil (Manon of the Springs and Jean de Florette) as a devoted former husband who never totally lost his love for his wife. He creates a character who handles himself with wit and intelligence. Foster and Auteuil generate appealing chemistry as they flirt with the idea of renewing their characters' relationship. 

   A Private Life stands as a bit of an oddity, a film that's alternately involving, amusing, and, at times, confounding in its attempts to play in so many different registers. The movie's complexity can become a puzzle that feels unsolved, but Zlotowski, Foster, and a distinctive supporting cast create pieces that amuse, intrigue, and keep the story percolating.

A five-year-old's heartbreaking story

  

  Whatever you think about what has happened and is happening in Gaza, you'd do well to consider The Voice of Hind Rajab, Tunisian director Kaouther Ben Hania's dramatic reenactment of the true story of a five-year-old girl who was trapped in a car in the midst of fighting.

  Hind Rajab and members of her family -- an aunt, uncle, and cousins -- had been trying to escape Gaza City when their vehicle was hit by tank shells during operations that took place in January of 2024. 

    For much of her ordeal, Hind -- surrounded by a total of six already dead relatives -- was on the phone with volunteers at the Palestinian Red Crescent Society, the organization that aids people in need of emergency medical services and other forms of assistance. 

  Hania wisely focuses on the call center where volunteers, often frustrated and angry, try to reassure Hind. The film makes no attempt to reconstruct what happened in the car, relying on the often plaintive voice of a frightened five-year-old to convey the emotional impact of what's happening.

  The complexity of organizing a rescue was no simple task. Red Crescent workers had to consider whether ambulance drivers had a reasonable chance of surviving in a war zone. An ambulance was eight minutes away from Hind, but time meant less than the battlefield obstacles the ambulance drivers would face. 

   Attendant bureaucratic issues involving the need for Israeli approval for the ambulance to enter a combat zone added another level of anxiety. Moreover, the volunteers don't always agree on the most effective way to proceed.

  Recordings of Hind's phone call were posted online almost immediately after she was stranded. Her story received considerable media attention, so it's hardly a spoiler to say that the movie reaches a heartbreaking conclusion for her and for the two paramedics who tried to save her.

  Although Hania's movie takes place in one setting, it's deftly assembled, and a strong cast recreates the intense efforts of harried volunteers who remind us that innocence, even that of a child, offers no protection from the violence of war. 

The Voice of Hind Rajab has been nominated for an Oscar in the best international feature category along with Sirat, The Secret Agent, It Was Just an Accident, and Sentimental Value.

'Mercy': Lost in a digital daze

   In the movie Mercy, Rebecca Ferguson portrays a character named Judge Maddox, an AI creation that operates with algorithmic rigidity.

   Mercy benefits from a bit of topicality as it tries to determine whether AI is capable of gathering data, assessing facts, and determining the probability of guilt or innocence faster and better than any jury could. 

    Considering its attempts to be thematically weighty, it's disappointing that Mercy quickly devolves into one more scattershot thriller. A potentially rich premise becomes an excuse for a fragmented, digitally enriched collection of familiar plot elements and intermittent action.

    Shackled to a chair throughout most of the movie, Chris Pratt plays Chris Raven, a Los Angeles cop accused of murdering his wife (Annabelle Wallis). Given 90 minutes to prove his innocence, Raven has access to all the information Mercy, the movie's digital justice system, has gathered.

    Aside from an understandable desire to avoid execution after his 90 minutes expire, Raven wants to convince his teenage daughter (Kylie Rogers) that he didn't murder her mother.

    Director Timur Bekmambetov, working from a screenplay by Marco van Belle, uses Raven's agitated inquiries to weave his way through segments that provide hurried tours of Raven's troubled marriage, his alcoholism, and his troubles with anger management. 

     The plot also loads up on red herrings, introducing the possibility of massive damage thanks to stolen chemicals, a potential bomb attack, and the revenge-seeking suspects who populate an overly complicated plot.

    Mercy unfolds in a near future that includes flying motorcycles and assorted techno junk. A crime-riddled Los Angeles has been divided into sectors where the city's law-abiding residents are separated from those who might threaten them. Just what we needed, more dystopia.

     Watching the immobilized Pratt act from a chair from which Raven sees the judge and the projections the system shows him eventually becomes repetitive. Most of the time, Raven seems to be sifting through evidence to prove his innocence. It almost feels as if he's watching the same movie we are -- only he squirms more than we do.

    Themes about the oppositional struggle between AI and humans are swallowed by a plot that relies on a surfeit of twists that feel arbitrarily introduced during the movie's third act, which suggests that maybe humanity and AI can coexist.

    Neither gut instinct nor logical rigor is required to conclude that Mercy, which moves quickly through its 100-minute running time, squanders its chance to be taken seriously.

         

A grieving academic and a hawk

    In H is for Hawk, Claire Foy plays a grieving woman who adopts a goshawk as a way of reconnecting with nature, and, just as important, avoid a return to the normalcy of life before her father's sudden death.

    Director Philippa Lowthorpe bases her movie on a well-recieved memoir by Helen Macdonald. Lowthorpe's story requires Foy's Helen, an academic studying and teaching at Cambridge, to spend much of the movie carrying the hawk while wearing a cumbersome protective glove. 

   When the hawk, though tethered to Helen's arm, flaps her wings, a sense of nature's uncontrollability becomes palpably present. Hawks are natural-born hunters, and much of the movie involves Helen's attempts to allow the bird, which she names Mabel, to hunt before returning to its perch on her arm.

   I've read that bird specialists were used and that numerous hawks were employed for the filming, but that doesn't make the feat any less impressive. Maybe it's just my skittishness, but I felt a sense of imminent danger, as if the hawk might strike at any moment. 

    Added emotional weight derives from Helen's slide into a severe depression that cuts her off from her academic life and turns her into a bit of a recluse. She shares her apartment with Mabel. Her Cambridge colleagues don't always approve. Some are indifferent. Some do their best to indulge her passion.

   Helen understands that goshawks aren't affectionate creatures. Still, she develops a connection, perhaps one-sided, with the bird. 

    Wisely, Foy makes little attempt to ingratiate herself with viewers. The movie's warmth is generated in large part by Brendan Gleeson, who appears in flashbacks as Helen's idiosyncratic news photographer father. His love for his daughter includes chiding humor and acceptance. Clearly, the two operate on the same wavelength.

   A strong supporting cast includes Lindsay Duncan as Helen's mother, Josh Dylan as her brother, and Denise Gough as Helen's devoted friend.  

    And, of course, there's Mabel. 

   Lowthorpe captures the liberating beauty of Mable in flight, but never loses sight of the fact that the relationship between Mable and Helen contains an element of unease. That edginess allows the movie to sidestep any sentiment that might have undermined the sense of irreparable loss, which the movie ably captures and sustains.

 

A three-part take on family relations

 

  Director Jim Jarmusch's Father Mother Sister Brother offers a trio of short films, each with the texture and open-ended quality of a carefully crafted short story. 

   Avoiding big events and shocking plot twists, Jarmusch smartly explores situations that invite us to consider the unseen past that informs nearly every moment. 

  Jarmusch begins in New Jersey, where two siblings (Adam Driver and Mayim Bialik) visit their widowed father (Tom Waits), who lives in an isolated home at the end of a dirt road.

   Little is said, but much is suggested. Awkwardness prevails.

   Dad, for example, has a sizable collection of serious books but doesn’t seem particularly interested in ideas. Dad's house is disheveled, suggesting Dad isn't financially flush. Driver's Jeff has sent Dad money. Bialik's Emily once sent funds. When her husband objected, she stopped.

   Jarmusch saves a revealing flourish for the end, and we begin to sense a theme: Family ties persist, but it's unclear how much anyone ever knows anyone else. We feel the strain of situations in which everyone seems a bit trapped by the roles they think they should be playing, or maybe they use these roles as a method of concealment.

  That idea carries into the next episode, which takes place in Dublin. Charlotte Rampling portrays a successful author who's about to be visited by her two daughters (Cate Blanchett and Vicky Krieps). Once a year, they all gather for tea, a ritual the three seem to approach warily. Still, they do as expected.

   A woman of precise expression, Mom has carefully organized the table with carefully arranged small  cakes. We sense she may have been a mother who held her kids to high standards, the kind that result either in intimidation or rebellion. 

   Again the conversations are strained, the performances, revealing. Blanchett's Timothea appears timid and insecure; Krieps' Lilith behaves more freely, yet she lies about her accomplishments and relationships. 

   The last episode takes place in Paris. The discomfort of the previous episodes gives way to a more natural flow. Billy (Luka Sabbat) and Skye (Indya Moore) play twins who meet in Paris after their parents die in a plane crash. 

   Dad was flying a small plane in the Azores. Billy wonders if their parents might have survived had Mom been at the controls instead of Dad. Clearly, the twins have ideas about their parents' personalities. Whatever caused the crash, we sense that Mom and Dad approached life as adventurers.

    Billy and Skye have been apart for a while, but they know each other in the way only twins can. They're relaxed in each other's company, freely expressing affection.

    But did they know their late parents? Mom was white; Dad was Black. The twins let us know that their parents had a penchant for being unconventional, but they're seem to be talking about style. They were, after all, a couple who left the US for what they may have seen as the freedom of Paris.

   We also learn that Billy cleared the apartment where the twins grew up before Skye's arrival: The  mementos of the past have been sent to storage, perhaps to be forgotten. When the twins visit the apartment, it's empty. The emptiness feels poignant.

   Rich in subtexts that illuminate the gap between parents and their adult children, each episode includes a touch that's repeated throughout. Among them: mentions of Rolex watches (real or fake) or use of the British idiomatic phrase "Bob's your uncle," which means something like, "Well, that's that." 

   Father Mother Sister Brother begins with Anika Henderson's rendition of the song, Spooky, a great mood setter for a movie that serves as a welcome antidote for the frenetic rush that characterizes so many current movies, even the good ones. 

   Jarmusch, who hasn't made a film since 2019's The Dead Don't Die, doesn't hurry or dot every "i." He doesn't hide behind ambiguities but leaves it to us to search for the complicated history that underlies each of the movie's mini-dramas.

 

A tense look at one man's revenge

  Basing his movie on a true story, director Gus Van Sant returns to the 1970s with Dead Man's Wire, a movie about an aspiring entrepreneur who takes a mortgage company executive hostage. Tony Kiritsis (Bill Skarsgard) blames the mortgage company for crushing his chance to grab the brass ring. He wanted to develop a shopping center but defaulted on his loan.

  Some have seen Dead Man’s Wire as Van Sant’s ode to ordinary men whose ambitions are thwarted by those who hold the purse strings. Kiristis accuses the mortgage company of preventing him from signing prospective tenants.

   Whatever happened, one thing is clear: Dead Man’s Wire owes its success to the tension created by a device the kidnapper employs. 

  Kiritsis strings a wire around his captive’s neck, connecting it to the trigger of a 12-gauge shotgun. Errant movements or sudden jerks of the head will lead to the hostage’s death. For those moments when he can't keep his finger on the trigger, Kiritsis rigs a system that will do the job for him.

   Skarsgard plays the aggrieved Kiritsis as a “justice” seeker who's sometimes at war with his own decency. Kiritsis winds up taking his hostage to his apartment, where he treats him like a guest — albeit one who might not survive his visit. Kiritsis doesn’t seem to know whether to act like a host or a kidnapper.

    Early on, Kiritsis spells out his demands. He wants a public apology from the head of Indianapolis-based Meridian Mortgage (Al Pacino employing a Southern accent in a small role), $5 million in compensation for the profits he could have reaped, and immunity from any charges stemming from the kidnapping.

   For all his careful planning, Kiristis makes a major mistake at the outset. He didn't know Pacino's character, his original target, was vacationing in Florida. Kiristis had to settle for taking the man's son (an effective Dacre Montgomery).

    Pacino’s presence and the movie's premise have spawned comparisons to another hostage drama, Sidney Lumet’s brilliant Dog Day Afternoon (1977). For me, that's a stretch because Dog Day reflected a feverish cultural moment, revolving around a confused character whose motives were deeply personal. 

   Dead Man's Wire doesn't quite work as a broadside against capitalist greed or as a portrayal of a signature 70s moment . Kiristis didn't want to topple the system; he was keen to join it. Absent that, he wanted a payoff.

    A small supporting cast rounds out the tale. Colman Domingo serves up a sampling of '70s cool as a local DJ to whom Kiritsis looks for wisdom. Cary Elwes plays a local detective who tries to reason with Kiristis. The two have crossed paths before.

    Taken as a small, tautly strung story built around Skarsgard’s jittery performance, Dead Man’s Wire catches you up. Let’s call it a footnote of a movie that keeps you watching -- even if it doesn't prompt much by way of further consideration.

    

   

More wild, weird dystopian horror

  

 I admired 2025's 28 Years Later, a vividly realized foray into dystopian horror from director Danny Boyle and screenwriter Alex Garland. Director Nia DaCosta takes the reins for 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple, a continuation of the unsettling story Boyle effectively told.

   Sorrowful and keenly attuned to issues of mortality, 28 Years Later introduced Dr. Ian Kelson (Ralph Fiennes), an isolated physician who built a bone temple from skulls as a memorial to those taken by ravenous, growling zombies who arrived thanks to the spread of the horrible Rage Virus.

     The first movie, an extension of 28 Days Later (2008), revolved around 12-year-old Spike (Alfie Williams), a kid who was learning how to hunt zombies outside one of many heavily protected "safe zones."

      Bone Temple begins with young Spike’s induction into the gang that rescued him from a zombie swarm at the end of the last chapter. Williams' Spike quickly learns that gang leader Sir Jimmy Crystal (Jack O’Connell) is no savior; he’s a Satan-worshiping sadist who leads seven followers intent on torturing and killing everyone they encounter.

      If Earth has become hell, it's no wonder someone has emerged to do the devil's bidding.

     The plot eventually brings Jimmy and his followers into Dr. Kelson’s orbit. More on that later.

    More gory and graphic than the previous movie, Bone Temple leans heavily into its violence, including a sequence in which the gang invades the home of settlers and stages an assault that may bring the tortures of Texas Chain Saw Massacre to mind. Da Costa (Candyman) establishes a no-mercy approach to the bloody horrors inflicted by the Jimmys.

     For the record, Crystal ignores real names, calling everyone in his group "Jimmy."

     As the leader of the ruthless Jimmys, O’Connor gives an intensely gripping performance. Intelligent as he is twisted, Crystal radiates charismatic menace. Evil intentions and cleverness make him scarier than any zombie. 

    Meanwhile, Dr. Kelson tries to subdue an imposing Alpha zombie (Chi Lewis-Parry). Refusing to kill, Kelson hopes to demonstrate that the creature he dubs "Samson" can be dissuaded from ripping the heads off others and munching on their brains. 

   Kelson hooks Samson on morphine as he tries to develop a drug that will prevent the infected giant from killing without remorse. 

   Whacky as all this sounds, the budding relationship between Samson and Kelson provides some welcome tenderness, even a bit of eloquence.

     The screenplay by Boyle and Garland also finds dissension within the Jimmy ranks. Erin Kellyman portrays Jimmy Ink, a youngster who befriends Spike. She doubts the authenticity of Crystal's  claim to be the son of Satan. 

    It’s difficult to describe the movie’s most riveting, over-the-top sequence without spoilers. DaCosta puts on one hell of a show with what might be called a "bizarre production number." A substantial portion of a preview audience applauded the sequence's twisted comic energy, which is abetted by Fiennes, who serves up a display so crazed, it's difficult not to chuckle. Hildur Guonadottir's score deserves credit, as well.

    I don’t think Bone Temple, the second in a proposed trilogy, matches its predecessor, but it stands as a wild and weird sequel that holds its own, providing you like your horror served with a helping of gore.

This chimp knows how to chomp

  Primate, an early-year hunk of horror centering on the rage of a rabid chimpanzee named Ben, might be a victim of success. Not its own, but of recent horror movies that have taught us to expect a bit of thematic depth along with the expected helpings of gore.

  The same can't be said for Primate, which moves from one bit of deranged chimp violence to another, generating tension in rote fashion. Where's the deadly chimp? When will he pounce? 

  After a quartet of young women leaps into a swimming pool to save themselves (the chimp can't swim), the movie doesn't exactly overindulge on imagination. 

  Humans aside, Primate leans heavily on the drooling chimp to satisfy its blood list. (Movement specialist Miguel Torres Umba plays Ben.) 

   And, yes, Ben's a badass. Among other things, he rips the face off his vet. He also dislodges the jawbone of a crude young man who's probably in the movie to fill out its victim roster.

  At a fleet 89 minutes, the movie can be commended for efficiency and an attractive setting (a cliffside home in Hawaii) and for ... well ... I'm not sure what else.

  The screenplay explains how Ben came to live in the home of a family in which Dad (Troy Kotsur) writes popular novels. Early on, Dad welcomes Lucy (Johnny Sequoyah), his college student daughter who's on semester break along with a couple of friends (Jessica Alexander and Victoria Wyant). 

 Younger sister (Gia Hunter) becomes involved when Dad leaves to promote his latest book, and Ben continues his shift from sweet to sour.

   Kotsur, the deaf actor who won an Oscar for his work in CODA (2021), adds some plausibility, signing with his daughters. His character's deafness is used to up the tension in the late going. 

  Director Johannes Roberts' streamlined hunk of mayhem may appeal to those craving some no-frills horror. Otherwise, this slick offering follows a blueprint that offers jolts, gore -- and not much else.

The neighbor who might be a Nazi

 

Director Leon Prudovsky’s My Neighbor Adolf sets a story with Holocaust roots in Colombia in1960. Early on, we meet Polsky (David Hayman), a Jewish recluse who lost his family during the Holocaust. Polsky lives a solitary life outside a small Colombian town, but his bitter existence is disrupted when a new neighbor (Udo Kier's Herr Herozg) moves next door. Herzog’s arrival brings a major dose of seriousness to a movie that often sketches its moves lightly. Annoyed by his neighbor's dog, Polksy fumes. To make matters worse, Herzog's beloved German Shepherd  threatens the dark roses Polsky nurtures. A brief meeting between the two men convinces Polksy that Herzog might be none other than Adolf Hitler. Despite widely acknowledged reports of his death, the Nazi Fuhrer might be hiding in Latin America. Polsky, who claims to have seen Hitler in person at a Berlin chess match, goes to great lengths to validate his suspicions. For his part, Prodovsky creates an air of mystery around Herzog. Olivia Silhavy portrays Frau Kaltenbrunner, an authoritarian woman Polsky regards as Herzog's protector, a woman who might be helping to conceal Herzog's murderous past. The two men begin playing tense games of chess as part of Polsky's plan to expose his neighbor. My Neighbor Adolf  works hard to squeeze sentiment into its story about two lonely old men, eventually revealing the truth about Herzog's past. Both actors do their best to keep the story on track, but a Grumpy Old Men quality seems misplaced, and the screenplay becomes increasingly implausible.

Cruelty at a water polo camp

 

    Recently, I posted my l0-best list of movies for 2025. The Plague,  a vividly made and disturbing plunge into the lives of boys, was on that list and now is making its way around the country. 

Here's what I said: 

   Director Charlie Polinger’s The Plague sets its story at a camp where teenage boys establish a culture of camaraderie and cruelty. In tone and texture, The Plague resembles a horror film, but its ability to unsettle stems from its deeply rooted understanding of adolescent boys. Polinger’s imagery adds an unexpected eeriness to a story that focuses on 12-year-old Ben (Everett Blunck), a new arrival at a water polo camp where one of the boys (Kenny Rasmussen) is rejected for having the plague, a concocted story the boys take seriously. Rasmussen's character becomes an outcast. Steeped in anxiety, The Plague features a small performance from Joel Edgerton as a water polo coach. Credit Polinger with deftly depicting a part of youth most men would prefer to forget. 

    Some additional observations and notes on the movie: Kayo Martin gives a memorable performance as Jake, the malicious leader of the boys who taunt Rasmussen's character. Johan Lenox's  score enhances an ominous quality that mirrors and heightens feelings of anxiety. Edgerton's down-to-earth performance avoids the cliches that might have turned him into a savior of troubled boys.  Steven Breckon's cinematography offers underwater perspectives that help define the disquiet of an atmosphere that can turn chaotic. 

  Technical artistry aside, The Plague stands as a classic about cruelty and estrangement that's perfectly embodied in Blunck's performance as a boy struggling to manage the conflict between basic decency and the need for peer acceptance.