Recommended for home viewing: The King’s Choice

Set during the three days in 1940 when the forces of Nazi Germany overran and subjugated previously neutral Norway, The King’s Choice is hardly unusual in bringing to light a previously little-known story of World War II. What is unusual about the film is that it is a frankly admiring portrait of a monarch. The king here is the tale’s hero, and the choice he makes regarding the Nazi invasion undergird a drama that is proudly and unequivocally patriotic.

Beyond that distinction, the Norwegian-Irish production deserves recognition for the excellence of every aspect of its making. Director Erik Poppe and his collaborators bring enormous stylistic vibrancy and realism to a story that benefits greatly from their skills.

The film begins by providing a brief history lesson that will be needed by non-Norwegians. In 1905, having been united with Sweden since the 19th century, Norway broke away, established its sovereignty and voted to become a constitutional monarchy. A young Danish prince was invited to become the ceremonial head of state and was crowned King Haakon VII when he arrived to assume his new role.

Flash forward 35 years and Haakon is a gaunt, mustachioed 68-year-old widower (Jesper Christensen) facing challenges from domestic and foreign sources. In Norway, Socialists would like to dispense with the monarchy. But the far more serious threat comes at the beginning of April’s second week, when the Germans make their intention of annexing Norway clear. Of course, it’s not presented as a hostile takeover pure and simple. Rather, claiming that the British have mined Norway’s coast, the Nazis essentially say they want to help the country maintain its neutrality and are open to negotiations for what will be, in reality, an outright surrender.

Much of Norway’s leadership wants to fight the invasion and the film’s first act includes a brilliantly staged scene where Norwegian coastal artillery emplacements fire on and destroy an approaching German warship. But the German war machine is simply too enormous and powerful to be resisted for long, and it only take hours for it to occupy Norway’s main cities.

As soon as the invasion approaches, King Haakon and the royal household are in motion. With Crown Prince Olav (Anders Baasmo Christiansen), his wife and small children in tow, the monarch and his retainers pile into the cars and make for Oslo’s train station, where they board a special train that quickly heads north, ahead of the advancing Germans.

Norway’s cabinet members also flee the capital, but their hasty deliberations make it clear that this is a government in shambles, confused and unsure of what to do to save the country from disaster. They look to the king almost as a totemic figure, and he does project resolve and courage, but he also needs to provide the occasional reminder that he is a figurehead, not a monarch with any but ceremonial powers.

There is one other person, though, who looks to the king as if he is indeed the man in charge: Adolf Hitler. The film’s most prominent German character, Curt Bräuer (Karl Markovics), is an envoy who wants to arrange negotiations in order to transition Norway to German control with minimal bloodshed, a desire that meets with scorn from the Nazi commander. In one scene, the envoy is on the phone to Berlin arguing his case when someone on the other end grabs the phone and tells him what to do. It’s the Fuhrer himself and he orders Bräuer to forget about the elected government and get the king’s agreement. This sets up both the envoy’s pursuit of Haakon in the third act and the choice the king must make.

While The King’s Choice has the feel of a large-scale WWII drama, we don’t actually see large numbers of soldiers on the move. Aside from the early naval engagement noted above, the main action is represented by the fighting between Norwegian defenders and German soldiers at a small outpost that’s on the king’s path. In these scenes, there’s a baby-faced soldier named Seeberg (Arthur Hakalahti) whose characterization represents the film’s one concession to old-style war-movie sentimentality.

Although at 133 minutes the film could stand some tightening, it remains gripping and well-acted throughout. With the notable help of John Christian Rosenlund’s nuanced cinematography and Peter Bavman’s meticulous production design, Poppe has fashioned one of the most handsomely realized and viscerally compelling of recent period dramas. It’s no wonder the movie swept Norway’s film awards and was its nominee for the Foreign-Language Film Oscar.

One footnote: Although the name of Vidkun Quisling, the fascist who became Norway’s puppet ruler under the Nazis, is heard in the film, the man himself — whose name became a synonym for "traitor" — is not seen.

Biography, Drama, History. Directed by Erik Poppe. Starring Jesper Christensen, Anders Baasmo Christiansen, Karl Markovics, Arthur Hakalahti. MPAA Rating: NR. Running Time: 2:13. Theatrical release: Sept. 22, 2017

Recommended for home viewing: A Fantastic Woman

Four years ago, Sebastian Lelio shook up the official competition in Berlin with Gloria, a bracingly honest, ultimately empowering study of the rocky journey of a middle-aged divorcee, stumbling toward completeness with a gradual affirmation of her self-worth and independence. True to its title, the Chilean director's extraordinary latest film, A Fantastic Woman, is a superlative companion piece. Another work of searing empathy, it traces the emergence from devastating grief of a young transgender protagonist, treated like a criminal in the wake of her older partner's abrupt death. Shocking and enraging, funny and surreal, rapturous and restorative, this is a film of startling intensity and sinuous mood shifts wrapped in a rock-solid coherence of vision. It should elevate Lelio in the rising-star ranks of international filmmakers. While it's politically charged and very much of the moment in terms of its representation of trans-rights issues, what's perhaps most remarkable is that not a word of direct advocacy is spoken. Any trace of the agenda movie is deftly subsumed in pulsing human drama.

The emotionally penetrating singularity of focus on a woman alone, reeling from loss, in some ways invites comparison with the recent Jackie, directed by another bright light of Chilean cinema, Pablo Larrain, one of the main producers here through Fabula, the company he heads with his brother, Juan de Dios Larrain. While its flamboyant flourishes generally are quieter, Lelio's movie also recalls the dazzling midcareer flight of Pedro Almodovar, when he moved away from subversive comedy into psychologically and structurally complex melodramas like The Flower of My Secret, All About My Mother and Talk to Her. Some might even find echoes of John Cassavetes' great vehicles for Gena Rowlands. And few will miss the elegant strains of Hitchcock, both in themes of enigmatic female identity and the divided self, redolent of Vertigo, and in the cool visual compositions of cinematographer Benjamin Echazarreta, which capture the title figure against eye-catching features of Santiago architecture that suggest a heightened reality. Visually, the movie is a knockout from first frame — a magnificent view of Iguazu Falls, no less — to last, its use of color sumptuous.

Played by the remarkable transgender actress Daniela Vega, the central character, Marina Vidal, shows fortitude and self-possession that won't quit, regardless of the blows she's dealt. A singer in her late 20s making ends meet by waitressing, she's first seen performing in a nightclub act, tossing flirty glances at her partner Orlando (Francisco Reyes), and teasing him with song lyrics about their love being yesterday's news. But the mutual depth of feeling and sexual intoxication between them makes it abundantly clear that's not the case. Working again with Gonzalo Maza, his co-screenwriter on Gloria and earlier films, Lelio conveys the couple's loving commitment in gorgeous scenes like a birthday meal at a Chinese restaurant, a rapturous dance-floor smooch, and blissful sex back at his apartment, where she has recently moved in. Orlando, a 57-year-old textile company executive with a marriage and family behind him, pledges a gift to Marina of a trip for two to the Iguazu Falls. However, he's misplaced the actual envelope containing the tickets, which becomes an intriguing MacGuffin in Marina's odyssey.

Orlando dies suddenly that same night after suffering an aneurism. Marina is stunned and shattered, but already at the hospital, her grief is ignored amid questions about their relationship from a doctor (Alejandro Goic) who insists on using male pronouns in reference to her, as well as the male birth name on her papers. A wound and bruising on Orlando's body from a fall while getting to the hospital result in a police report. A detective from the Sexual Offenses Investigation Unit (Amparo Noguera) operates from the assumption that prostitution or rape were involved before subjecting Marina to a degrading physical examination.

That's nothing, however, compared to the hostile indifference of Orlando's family to her pain. The dead man's son, Bruno (Nicolas Saavedra), who can't even remember Marina's name, informs her he wants her out of the apartment as fast as possible, refusing to hide his disgust at his father's choices. And Orlando's ex-wife Sonia (Aline Kuppenheim), a businesswoman festooned in power jewelry, barely contains the contempt behind her veneer of cold courtesy, before offering her money to get out of their lives. Only Orlando's brother Gabo (Luis Gnecco) shows her respect, though she reads his offer to give her some of her late partner's ashes as a bribe to keep her away from the funeral and wake.

Throughout these ordeals, Marina maintains her surface composure, while a slow-building rage churns inside her. Lelio and Echazarreta effectively place her under an emotional microscope. They study her against reflective surfaces and alienating backdrops like the amusement arcade connected to the café where she works, or the sleazy backroom of a club she wanders through, seeking self-punishing release. Such moments of rawness are interspersed with others of fantastical escape, like a dance scene in which she's transformed in her mind from a wreck to a glittering star, leading a choreographed formation routine.

One of the most striking interludes follows Marina's visit to her operatic voice coach (Sergio Hernandez), a father figure who reprimands her for not being serious enough about her talent. She tacks off afterward along the street into the face of a windstorm of supernatural force, while her voice continues to be heard singing the Giacomelli aria Sposa son disprezzata, appropriately, about a scorned wife. Even when music choices might potentially have seemed too on-the-nose, like Aretha Franklin doing (You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman, Lelio uses them with audacious originality. That extends also to the strange and beautiful score by experimental British electronica composer Matthew Herbert, working here in a more orchestral but no less distinctive vein.

The supporting ensemble (loaded with Larrain regulars) is studded with incisive character work, including from Trinidad Gonzalez and Nestor Cantillana as Marina's supportive stoner sister and her sweet flake of a husband, respectively. And despite relatively brief screen time augmented by ghostly subsequent reappearances, Reyes makes a strong impression as Orlando, of a man reborn through unexpected happiness; the bitter prejudice and lack of understanding his choices sparked become evident only after his death.

The movie's stunning revelation, however, is Vega, whether Marina is enduring disrespect to which she's become almost inured; experiencing horrific violence that cruelly transforms her into the freak other people see; unleashing her inner banshee; or shedding silent tears after finally seizing the right to mourn for which she has fought so hard. It's a transfixing performance, restrained and moving, with a gut-wrenching impact in one hypnotic scene where Marina is forced to pass as a man. Vega even does her own singing, with impressive ability. No less than Paulina Garcia's astonishing work in Gloria, this is acting at its most fearless. The movie represents a huge leap in terms of trans narratives onscreen, but by any standard, it's a powerful drama of a woman whose suffering never dims her determination to keep moving forward.

Drama. Directed by Sebastian Lelio. Starring Daniela Vega, Francisco Reyes, Amparo Noguera, Aline Kuppenheim, Luis Gnecco, Trinidad Gonzalez, Nestor Cantillana, Nicolas Saavedra, Alejandro Goic, Sergio Hernandez. MPAA rating: R. Running time: 1:40. Theatrical release: Nov. 17, 2017

Recommended for Home Viewing: Walking Out

Walking Out is a tense survival thriller that offers much more than nail-biting adventure. Sure, it has plenty of edge-of-the seat suspense, but, as written and directed by Alex and Andrew Smith (The Slaughter Rule), it is just as noteworthy for its terrific, spare dialogue, stunning cinematography, stirring musical score and poignant narrative arc.

Based on a short story by David Quammen, it’s a tale of a father and son who must battle the elements in the Montana mountains, but it’s also a relatable rumination on the complexity of parent-child relationships and their continuing sway over us into adulthood. Cal (Matt Bomer) is 44, divorced and living alone in Montana. He invites his 14-year-old son David (Josh Wiggins, Max), who resides in Texas with his mom, for a winter hunting trip. Cal’s plan is for the pair to backpack into the mountainous wilderness and track and shoot a moose.

David seems more interested in playing video games on his phone than in exploring the great outdoors. But, while he doesn’t articulate it, it’s clear he also yearns to be closer to his dad. For his part, Cal wants to be known and understood by his estranged son. When Cal asks David if he’s sure he wants to go on this moose hunting expedition, David answers honestly that he isn’t sure, but he wants to. And so they take off into the unknown.

Cal had gone hunting with his late father Clyde (Bill Pullman) when he was David’s age. At first it seems as if Cal wants to recreate, and perhaps relive, happy memories. Later, we learn matters are far more complicated, but Cal, nonetheless, seems intent on bonding with his teenage son through nature and responsible hunting (killing only what they plan to eat). He gives David the rifle his dad gave him on his 14th birthday. Clearly, this has great significance to Cal; David accepts it more dutifully than happily. When his dad tells him about the moose he’s seen and their regal bearing, David asks "Why kill moose if they’re so royal?" Cal begins to tell his son about his own boyhood hunting excursions with his dad: "I was you once."

Wiggins is terrific as David, perfectly embodying a typically terse teenage boy with subtle authenticity. He communicates volumes with low-key facial expressions and awkward gestures. We feel we know this boy. Unfortunately, Cal is not as fully fleshed-out. While Bomer gives the role his all and is excellent playing against type, we don’t learn enough about his character to fully understand his motivations and state of mind. We get that his own relationship with his father was fraught, and that he mourns both his loss and that of his mother, who died when he was a teenager. But we don’t know much more about Cal as an adult. Why does he live off the grid? What does he do for a living? Does he have a partner? Friends? Why is he estranged from his son? What caused his break-up with David’s mother? Individually, these questions are not essential, but taken together they amount to missing backstory.

Even with those holes in character development, the story of Cal and David’s increasingly terrifying trek is absorbing and powerful. Their present dilemma is compelling enough to make us almost forget about contextual questions. It is a testament to Bomer and Wiggins’ impressive acting and their chemistry that we believe them as father and son, and are riveted by every turn in their journey. Their expedition begins awkwardly. Initially, their relationship is distant and strained: Cal seems hard on his son. Then, his loving side prevails. The pair begins to grow closer, but all too soon they face serious peril upon encountering a mother grizzly and a dead cub. A few unwise moves and an accidentally discharged rifle turns their adventure into a life-and-death struggle. David is faced with huge decisions that affect their very survival. Their saga unfolds dramatically, with some very tender moments interwoven.

While the three main characters are grandfather, father and son, a fourth character is the mountainous landscape outside Bozeman, Montana. Working from Montana-based author Quammen’s tale, writer-director brothers Alex and Andrew Smith were raised in Montana and clearly wanted to pay homage to their home state, capturing its dramatic beauty.

The score by Ernst Reijseger (Cave of Forgotten Dreams) is hauntingly evocative, perfectly pitched for the rugged landscape. Cinematographer Todd McMullen (The Leftovers) makes the entire journey a breathtaking one, and also fashions beautifully burnished flashback sequences of Clyde and the 14-year old Cal (Alex Neustaedter).

Lily Gladstone (who’s been winning awards for her supporting turn in Certain Women) has a small, but key, role as a local who meets the two at a critical moment in their excursion. She’s that rare actress who’s memorable in the smallest part, inhabiting the role convincingly.

But this compelling film belongs to Wiggins and Bomer, and to the astonishingly gorgeous backdrop of the Montana mountains. It’s a brutal, blood-drenched story, but also a captivating and poignant generational saga that will stay with the viewer long afterward.

Adventure, drama, mystery. Directed by Alex and Andrew Smith. Starring Matt Bomer, Josh Wiggins, Bill Pullman, Alex Neustaedter, Lily Gladstone. MPAA rating: PG-13. Running Time: 1:35. Theatrical release: Oct. 6, 2017

Recommended for home viewing: Loving Vincent

Stand in front of a painting by Vincent van Gogh for more than five minutes (as I have on my many visits to the Musee d’Orsay in Paris), and your brain starts to react in strange ways. Even today, more than a century after the artist’s death, the brushstrokes pack an almost psychedelic energy, vibrating with an intensity that seems to have sprung directly from van Gogh’s tortured personal life. Now imagine staring at one of these paintings for 90 minutes straight — or crazier still, watching a series of them actually start to move.

Such was the vision Polish animator Dorota Kobiela had for Loving Vincent, a truly awe-inspiring portrait of the great Dutch artist that boasts the distinction of being "the world’s first fully painted feature film." That means every one of the nearly 65,000 frames in this near-lunatic labor of love was rendered by hand with oil paints, following a style intended to mimic that of the master — which has precisely the effect you might imagine, pulling audiences into the delirious, hyper-sensual world suggested by van Gogh’s oeuvre.

The artist himself has been dead a year when the story begins, so we aren’t seeing things through his eyes so much as in ersatz homage to his style, where bold colors and thick, energetic strokes of paint transform traditional live-action footage into living tableaux, rendered all the richer by Clint Mansell’s gorgeous score. It’s an impressive conceit, and one that allows us to float through van Gogh’s Starry Night Over the Rhone or pop in for a drink at the Café Terrace at Night — just two of nearly 130 actual paintings that Kobiela and co-writer/director Hugh Welchman weave into the relatively conventional detective story (of all things!) that frames this one-of-a-kind work of art.

Most people know that van Gogh cut off his own ear, but fewer recall — and no one knows for certain — the precise explanation for his death. In 1890, while staying in Auvers-sur-Oise, France, the tormented artist died of complications from a (likely self-inflicted) gunshot wound to the stomach. Van Gogh is reported to have taken credit for shooting himself, insisting, "Do not accuse anybody, it is I that wished to commit suicide," but there have always been doubts: Was he covering for someone else? Could the curious injury have been an accident? And if it truly had been a suicide attempt, what pushed him to such a desperate act?

Needless to say, Kobiela and Welchman won’t be the ones to solve this mystery, and yet, they enlist a handsome young man — Armand Roulin (Douglas Booth), son of the postmaster with the wild-bramble beard (Chris O’Dowd), both of whom sat for several van Gogh portraits — to serve as a sort of amateur detective. Clad in the same bright yellow blazer forever immortalized on canvas, Armand becomes improbably infatuated with the case, setting out to answer the question, "How does a man go from being absolutely calm to suicidal in six weeks?"

Traveling from Arles (the French city where van Gogh’s madness nearly got the better of him) to Auvers-sur-Oise (where he died) to interview anyone who might have insight into the artist’s death, Armand has been tasked with delivering an envelope from the artist to his brother, Theo van Gogh, though the tragedy deepens when he learns that Theo also passed away. Although history immortalizes Vincent van Gogh as a kind of mad genius, the filmmakers literally try to craft a more nuanced and sensitive portrait of the artist, who often signed his letters, "Your loving Vincent" — from which the movie’s title derives.

But Loving Vincent could just as easily describe the state of runaway fanaticism it takes to inspire such a tribute, which demanded nearly seven years of painstaking work to pull off. The resulting portrait playfully reinterprets the idea of Impressionism, synthesizing the often contradictory angles from which his acquaintances saw the artist (or vice versa) into a kind of composite that ranges from the wild, fantastic colors used to capture paint supplier Pere Tanguy (John Sessions) to the delicate pastels he used to render the enigmatic young Marguerite (Saoirse Ronan), daughter of Doctor Gachet (Jerome Flynn), the man Armand is most desperate to interview. (Actor Bill Thomas plays another physician, the borderline-silly Dr. Mazery, who introduces biographers Steven Naifeh and Gregory White Smith’s controversial theory that someone else shot van Gogh.)

Mere photography couldn’t possibly capture van Gogh’s paradoxical nature, and indeed, previous biopics have tended to pick one facet and stick to it. By contrast, this one embraces his complexity, withholding a clear view of Vincent (played by Robert Gulaczyk) until the very end — a tactic that reinforces the notion that we can only truly understand him through the work he left behind.

And yet, lovely as the animated-painting technique is to behold, the way they go about it introduces a peculiar problem: The filmmakers have cast real actors, many of them recognizable, to bring these characters to life, and because their approach involves a kind of rotoscoping (where the frames are painted over live-action footage — a variation on the way Richard Linklater tackled Waking Life, or Walt Disney modeled Snow White’s dancing), the style of painting it requires is philosophically the opposite of van Gogh’s.

Although this technique isn’t "cheating" per se, it shackles the crew of 120-odd oil painters to what the camera sees, functioning as a kind of high-end PhotoShop filter as the individual artists are tasked with applying a van Gogh-like impasto to the underlying reference footage. In so doing, the directors settle for superficial texture, while sacrificing the playfulness that van Gogh applied to framing, perspective and capturing the luminous, almost radioactive aura of his subjects. Even stranger are the flashback scenes, which are painted in shades of black and white, when another approach — such as loose, draft-like pencil sketches — might have been more intuitive.

With any luck, viewers won’t dwell overly on the particulars of how the effect was achieved, concentrating instead on the content of the story, which brings a poetic sense of tragedy to the last act of van Gogh’s life, and fresh insight into the kind of man he was. Loving Vincent may exist as a showcase for its technique, but it’s the sensitivity the film shows toward its subject that ultimately distinguishes this particular oeuvre from the countless bad copies that already litter the world’s flea markets. To the extent that van Gogh’s style permitted him to capture a deeper sense of truth, he makes a noble model for the filmmakers to follow.

Animation, biography, crime. Directed by Dorota Kobiela, Hugh Welchman. Featuring the voices of Douglas Booth, Chris O’Dowd, Saoirse Ronan, Jerome Fkynn, John Sessions, Bill Thomas, Robert Gulaczyk. MPAA Rating: PG-13. Runnng Time: 1:34, Theatrical release date: Sept, 22, 2017.

Recommended for home viewing: God’s Own Country

The hardscrabble lives of traditional farming families and the harsh splendor of the isolated West Yorkshire landscape provide the evocative backdrop to a poignant story of love and self-discovery in British writer-director Francis Lee's accomplished first feature, God's Own Country. Graced by its refreshingly frank treatment of gay sexuality, its casually expressive use of nudity and its eloquent depiction of animal husbandry as a contrasting metaphor for the absence of human tenderness, this is a rigorously naturalistic drama that yields stirring performances from the collision between taciturn demeanors and roiling emotional undercurrents.
 
While it's too easy to predict Lee's film being simplistically dubbed Brokeback Moors, that comparison to Ang Lee's modern classic of gay drama isn't entirely facile, even if the social context, the contemporary setting and the highly specific sense of place make this heartfelt yet unsentimental film quite distinct. For one thing, God's Own Country ends not with the lingering music of tragedy but on a note of hopeful wholeness. It deserves to find a receptive home viewing audience, even beyond the core gay constituency.

At the story's center is Johnny Saxby (Josh O'Connor), a repressed gay man in his early 20s who anesthetizes his loneliness with nightly drinking binges and the occasional cold bout of casual sex. He lives a joyless existence with his grandmother Deirdre (Gemma Jones) and father Martin (Ian Hart), who has suffered a debilitating stroke that leaves Johnny responsible for the considerable workload on their sheep farm. It's suggested that, along with his physical condition, Martin's bitterness is as much the result of being abandoned by his wife, who couldn't take the rigors of rural life. Nan isn't exactly a fount of great warmth either, and their disapproval of Johnny's boozing adds to the general mood of dourness.

With subtle strokes and subdued revelations, Lee's screenplay lays out the development of an unexpected relationship that changes Johnny in ways that are painful, profound and ultimately freeing. At first, he's resistant to his father's insistence on hiring a temporary worker to help during lambing season. And he makes no effort to be friendly when Gheorghe (Alec Secareanu) arrives, taunting the handsome Romanian migrant by calling him a gypsy. But when the two young men are sent off to work a paddock up on the remote moors, requiring them to camp out overnight in a stone shelter, hostility gives way to physical attraction.

Lee and cinematographer Joshua James Richards make skillful atmospheric use of the rugged hill country, which looks gloomy even in spring, creating a melancholy mood and a somber canvas for the spontaneous eruption of desire between the two strangers. Their first sexual tussle is combative, angry, their naked bodies smeared in grass and mud, like animals. But while they revert to a circumspect mutual distance during the long daylight working hours, their nights together gradually give way to gentler sexual exploration.

O'Connor is terrific at conveying Johnny's guardedness and bruised solitude; the lingering stares he shoots at Gheorghe reveal not just attraction but also an intuitive emotional response to the Romanian's soulful way with the animals, the land, even the stone fencing. Secareanu is equally effective. Without a lot of over-explanatory dialogue, a beautiful, almost silent exchange happens, in which Gheorghe reveals his deep-rooted ties to rural life while Johnny starts reevaluating his own inheritance in a less resentful light.

When Martin has a second, near-fatal stroke, Deirdre remains at the hospital with him while sending Johnny and Gheorghe back to the farm to "see to the beasts." That spell alone in the house becomes an interlude of easy domesticity and affection that further expands Johnny's understanding of himself. But when his Nan makes it clear that Martin will not sufficiently recover to resume farm labor, the pressure causes Johnny to act out in damaging ways, putting everything he's gained at risk.

In addition to the very fine work from O'Connor and Secareanu that anchors the drama, stage and screen veteran Jones brings quiet complexity to a role in which silences count as much as words, while an almost unrecognizable Hart gives a moving performance as a hardened man who shows surprising reserves of sensitivity when it most counts. Scenes late in the film in which Johnny takes a more active role in his father's care are among the most affecting moments, albeit while never surrendering director Lee's defining restraint.

That characteristic extends to the sparing use of music, from ambient duo Dustin O'Halloran and Adam Wiltzie, who record as A Winged Victory for the Sullen; and to the muted color palette and elegant framing of Richards' cinematography. God's Own Country announces Lee as an assured new voice, his own personal ties to the setting reinforced in gorgeous colorized vintage farm footage over the end credits.

Drama, Romance. Directed by Francis Lee. Starring Josh O’Connor, Alec Secareanu, Gemma Jones, Ian Hart. MPAA Rating; Not Rated. 1:44. Theatrically released Oct. 25, 2017.

Recommended for home viewing: The Other Side of Hope

Early in The Other Side of Hope, Finnish writer/producer/director Aki Kaurismaki's latest, Syrian refugee Khaled (Sherwan Haji) arrives at a Helsinki police station to present himself to authorities and claim political asylum. He hesitates for a moment outside the precinct and lights a cigarette. The camera cuts to show to Finnish cops, themselves enjoying a cigarette. Then Khaled proceeds inside the station, where the cop jockeying the front desk is also puffing away.

In Kaurismaki's films pretty much everyone is always smoking. Indeed, smoking is inextricable from the gentle, funny, world-weary, always deeply humanist worldview that the Finnish filmmaker, himself a prodigious smoker, has been developing on screen for more than three decades. Cigarettes come to signify social bonds, like a great, cancerous leveller. And more than this, they express a guiding fatalism which Kaurismaki's movies both indulge and resist: The world is a pit, we're all doomed, so we might as well smoke. As a vice, a hobby, a mere thing to do, smoking is a way of taking ownership of destiny.

Like Kaurismaki's previous film, 2011's Le Havre, The Other Side of Hope deals primarily with the ongoing immigrant crisis in Europe. The contemporary relevance of this issue makes The Other Side of Hope feel topical. It's a rare feat for a director whose films, from their muted humor and dated-seeming mise-en-scène, to their use of flat, unexpressive, Bressonian close-ups of characters, have always seemed weirdly outside of time.

The film follows the young, stone-faced Khaled from his arrival on a cargo ship, his face and clothes blackened with soot, through his struggles assimilating in Finland. When his asylum request is denied by gormless bureaucrats willfully oblivious to the severity of the political violence in Syria, Khaled ducks deportation and finds under-the-table work in a restaurant. He's taken in by Wikstrom (Sakari Kuosmanen), a recently divorced salesman who enters the food and drink sector following a particularly profitable night at the card table. "A profitable business," he's told. "People drink if times are bad. Even more if things go well."

The prophecy doesn't exactly augur well. Wikstrom inherits a mess of a restaurant, with much of the film's comedy arising from the bungling staff's desperate efforts to keep things afloat. In one hilarious sequence, the Finnish staff dresses in brightly colored kimonos, attempting to rebrand as a sushi place — an incisive comment on the desperate cultural desire to embrace globalization, while ignoring its political victims, such as Khaled.

In Khaled, The Other Side of Hope finds a rare expression of the refugee experience that defiantly bucks the mawkish and the maudlin. But it's in the hard-nosed wannabe-restauranteur Wikstrom that Kaurismaki creates his definitive character. He again expresses that idea of pushing back against fate and the flooding cruelty of humankind, despite being himself pretty much wholly unpleasant: curt, brusque, impenetrable and perpetually frowning. We first meet Wikstrom as he leaves his wife, packing up a simple suitcase and unceremoniously placing his house keys and wedding band on the kitchen table, like a renegade cop turning in his gun and badge. He is, in short, no hero. He's not even particularly likeable.

But then that's the thing, isn't it? In Kaurismaki's films, being good and decent isn't a matter of heroism or bold, transparently "selfless" gestures. In La Vie de Bohème, a starving artist shares a piece of fish with another, despite their being strangers. In The Match Factory Girl, a family disowns their daughter, but offer her an orange (her favorite) as a parting gift, despite their anger. The guiding ethic of The Other Side of Hope is as much topical as it is universal: that altruism is not especially brave or courageous, but just the basic principle governing relations between human beings. It can be something as grand as stowing an asylum-seeker away in your restaurant's storage closet. But most of the time, it's something as simple as sharing a cigarette.

Available for home viewing: Truth or Dare ★

With a studio as prolific as Blumhouse, whose mission is to prioritize profit over quality, there are bound to be occasional duds. To date, however, nothing with producer John Blum’s name attached has been quite as creatively bankrupt as Truth or Dare, a godawful teen-magnet utterly devoid of entertainment value beyond the lure of its popular, photogenic cast and the dubious attraction of playing the "guess who gets it next" game. The little bit of cleverness that ends the film comes far too late to save this movie.

Truth or Dare scores with the perfect trifecta of incompetent writing, bad acting, and indifferent directing. Unable to elicit even an occasional shock with its predictable roster of poorly-executed jump-scares (all of which rely almost entirely on the musical stinger), the film fails to make it over the low bar set for the PG-13 variant of the genre. (Note: the level of sex argues that this may have at one time been envisioned as an R-rated product.) The most "frightening" aspect of the movie, characters’ faces twisted to resemble The Joker (or Willem Dafoe), is more laughable than freaky. And it doesn’t help that none of the characters, not even plucky heroine Olivia, can claim development or multi-dimensionality. They exist so there can be a respectable body count.

The premise cribs from the Final Destination franchise with its sense of inevitability. As difficult as it may be to believe, however, that series, which exhausted its limited promise in the first film, was a beacon of creativity compared to Truth or Dare. Maybe this movie would have been better if the PG-13 handcuffs had been removed. Or if the actors had been able to utter a line of dialogue with conviction. Or if the dialogue had been worth uttering with conviction. Who knows? Who really cares?

The nonsensical premise takes a group of high school seniors (played by actors who range in age from 21 to 32) on a Spring Break trip to Mexico where drinking and dancing leads to an ill-advised game of Truth or Dare conducted in an old monastery. An uninvited demon crashes the game and, when the friends return home, they find that the game has traveled with them. Now, they’re haunted by text messages and visions that demand they continue to play. The rules are simple: refuse to tell the truth and die, refused to do the dare and die, refuse to play the game and die. The "truths" are, of course, deeply personal. The "dares" are life-threatening or painful. And, as an added twist, there’s a limit to the number of "truths" that can be chosen before a "dare" is forced on a player. There should be some kind of award for viewers who correctly pick the order in which the characters die.

Since Blum rarely works with seasoned (i.e., "expensive") actors, the cast has been cherry-picked from TV. As such, while adults over 25 may not recognize a singe performer in Truth or Dare, many of the stars will be familiar to the younger viewers populating the target demographic. Lucy Hale, with the largest role as do-gooder Olivia, has the most impressive resume, primarily due to her involvement in the series Pretty Little Liars. For someone with as many credits as she has, her performance is shockingly bad. Still, it’s better than that of either of her co-stars, Tyler Teen Wolf Posey (who plays Lucas) and Violett Beane (as Markie, the blond with daddy issues). There are other people in the movie but they leave such a minimal impression that they’re not worth mentioning.

The sad truth about this film is that, even as bad as it is, it’s guaranteed to make a profit. With rock-bottom production costs, the marketing campaign alone will bilk enough teenagers out of their hard-earned cash to allow Universal to pocket a nice chunk of change. The premise, a reasonably well-made trailer (far better made than the actual movie), and a hunger for PG-13 horror will combine to elevate the film’s profile and obscure any negativity that arises in the critical community. For inattentive viewers, it can be argued that Truth or Dare delivers; you can watch in a state of perpetual distraction and not miss anything while maintaining the illusion that you were scared. For anyone who cares about the things that make horror worthwhile (and which another film currently available for home viewing, A Quiet Place, provides a primer on), Truth or Dare isn’t just a misfire, it’s a travesty.

Available for home viewing: 211 ★½

211 (the name refers to the police code for a robbery) is a frustrating crime thriller that incorporates too many plot threads into the overall narrative at the expense of character identification, suspense, and emotional heft. Despite a high body count and the expenditure of extraordinary amounts of ammunition, 211 is inert. It provokes little reaction. The characters are as artificial as the setup and, on those occasions when the movie does something unconventional, it serves to illustrate how painfully unimaginative most of the story is.

Perhaps a decade ago, snagging Nicolas Cage for the lead would have been a coup. Recently, however, Cage has been accepting anything with an attached paycheck. For that reason, director York Alec Shakleton is able to get a name to headline an otherwise anonymous cast. For his part, Cage sleepwalks his way through the part but even his comatose performance is light years better the ones provided by his co-stars. They vary from adequate (Sophie Skelton, Michael Rainey Jr.) to over-the-top (snarling bad guy Ori Pfeffer) to awful (Dwayne Cameron, whose line delivery is consistently awkward). Job No. 1 of any director is to draw an audience into the world in which his film transpires. The level of artifice in 211 is so high that we never believe anything that’s happening. It’s not immersive, involving, or particularly entertaining.

The movie opens with an extended, superfluous prologue that shows how a group of ex-Special Forces mercenaries come to possess information about the location of $1-plus million in cash they believe to be rightfully theirs. So they travel to this bank in small-town America and stage a heist. It’s well-planned and involves a mock "terrorist attack" to distract the local cops. Unfortunately, Officer Mike Chandler (Cage) and his partner, Steve MacAvoy (Cameron), don’t respond to the call because they have a "ride along" in the back seat — high school student Kenny (Rainey) — and they don’t want to put him in harm’s way. So, instead of going terrorist-hunting, they approach an illegally parked car. However, since this is related to the bank robbery, Mike and Steve soon find themselves involved in a shoot-out where they are outgunned. By the time support arrives, the bad guys have fortified their position and taken hostages.

There’s a vague Die Hard vibe to all of this but it’s indistinct and poorly developed. Lacking in particular is a forceful villain. The bad guys are generic with only the color and length of their facial hair to distinguish one from another. Cage makes for a poor Bruce Willis. He’s too serious and there are no wisecracks forthcoming. After making first contact, Mike becomes little more than an observer as a SWAT team attempts to storm the bank.

Instead of focusing on the heist and spending time developing the crime, 211 throws in a bunch of half-baked, poorly developed secondary plotlines. Mike and his daughter, Lisa (Skelton), are on the outs because he was emotionally unavailable during his wife’s fight with cancer. Lisa, who is married to Steve, is pregnant. Kenny, the ride-along, is bullied in school and, when he fights back, he falls afoul of the institution’s "no tolerance" violence policy. Finally, there’s a female Interpol counter-terrorist expert (Sapir Azulay) who appears randomly with no apparent purpose except to issue dire warnings about how dangerous the bank robbers are.

211 includes the ingredients for a solid (if unspectacular) crime thriller but, as with any recipe, the difference between a palatable dish and a stomach-churning mess is in how those ingredients are combined and cooked. This movie is unappealing and stale, a barely-watchable combination of clichés and irrelevant tangents. The inclusion of Cage is more of a reminder of how far he has fallen than how high 211 has climbed.

Available for home viewing: Rampage ★★

Technically, Rampage fits into the "based on a video game" category but, as with most products from the ‘70s and ‘80s (when games weren’t exactly narrative-based), significant changes were applied to make the concept viable for the big screen. The result, which owes more to ‘60s monster movies than its ‘80s arcade namesake, is a perfect vehicle for The Rock, assuming he’s trying to fashion himself into the Schwarzenegger of the 2010s. The movie may also provide us with a sneak peek at what filmmakers have in store for the big 2020 smackdown when we’ll get a new version of King Kong vs. Godzilla. If this is the case, there’s not much reason to get excited about the future production.

The problem with Rampage is that it’s not content to be mindless fun. There’s too much exposition and too many needless human villains. Plus, the tone is more lugubrious than the flippancy suggested by the trailers. Yes, Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson has a few one-liners and there are isolated bits of humor but the production often takes itself way too seriously, including one moment near the end where we are solemnly shown clips of survivors who owe their lives to … well, that would be telling. Most of Rampage’s first half is devoted to explanation. All the chit-chat serves two purposes: exposing the idiocy of the premise and threatening to put viewers to sleep. In fact, things don’t get really interesting until the 90-minute mark or, in other words, 15 minutes before the movie ends. Watching at home, I can envision a lot of fast-forwarding.

Much as I love King Kong, I’m growing bored of him. Okay, so the giant gorilla in Rampage is named George (not Kong) but a rose by any other name … George doesn’t start out big. When we first meet him in the care his misanthrope keeper, primate specialist and poacher killer Davis Okoye (Johnson), he’s seven feet tall and weighs 500 pounds. Then he has an unfortunate close encounter with the remnants of an exploded space station that contain a weaponized DNA splicer and suddenly he’s growing out of control while showing signs of uncontrolled aggression. He’s not the only one — also affected are a wolf in the Wyoming wilds and an alligator in the Everglades. News reports lead Dr. Kate Caldwell (Naomie Harris) to Davis’ San Diego locale. She’s the scientist who developed the formula that has resulted in the animals’ mutation. She claims it was misused by her former boss, Evil CEO (TM) Claire Wyden (Malin Akerman), who now intends to sell it on the black market to the highest bidder. She also suggests there may be an antidote. Around that time, George goes ape-shit and has to be tranquilized. Enter alphabet (FBI? CIA? OGA?) agent Russell (Jeffrey Dean Morgan), who relishes chewing on his lines and decides that taking George on a plane would be a good idea … Yeah, right. Of course, all this is merely a prologue to the disaster porn grudge match among the three monsters with Chicago standing in for Tokyo (where these things always used to take place).

Sadly, Rampage isn’t a pleasant surprise. In fact, in the wake of Johnson’s hugely entertaining and profitable Jumanji, it’s a disappointment. Had it adopted a similar jokey, nudge-nudge-wink-wink tone, it might have worked. But if that was the filmmakers’ intention, only Morgan and Akerman seem to have gotten the memo. They play their roles like cartoons come to life. Unfortunately, Johnson and Harris are invested in fleshing out the nonsensical plot. I wish there had been a lot more wtf? moments like the one when Davis sees the giant wolf perform an aerial maneuver and he deadpans: "Of course the wolf flies."

The creative team behind Rampage is comprised primarily of the people who made San Andreas with Johnson: director Brad Peyton, screenwriter Carlton Cuse, producers Beau Flynn and Hiram Garcia, editor Bob Ducsay, and composer Andrew Lockington. To their credit, they didn’t go ahead with a sequel to the 2015 natural disaster adventure but I’m not sure Rampage is an improvement. It takes the things that made San Andreas bankable — widespread carnage and epic catastrophe combined with Johnson’s biceps — and ups the ante by adding a King Kong-wannabe and a pair of ugly beasties. Ultimately, however, the film’s appeal is the same and the deadness between "money shots" is no less stultifying. The A-level special effects can’t elevate Rampage above its B-grade aspirations.

Available for home viewing: Red Sparrow ★★★

Red Sparrow is a deliciously perverse, unflinchingly violent thriller — a modern-day espionage tale that breaks with the tradition of making the spy business the purview of suave and debonair characters. With a story that argues that the Cold War may not have thawed much in the intelligence world, director Francis Lawrence and his leading lady, Jennifer Lawrence, take us on a journey that might cause even James Bond to flinch. The film is an unapologetically hard-R, with Lawrence taking chances she has never before entertained. By turns high-octane and slow-burn, it manages to hold the viewer’s attention for its nearly 140-minute running time, although there are instances when the narrative gets bogged down in subplots and there’s a sense that some additional fleshing out of key relationships (something that could only have been accomplished in a mini-series format) might have resulted in a more satisfying ending.

Red Sparrow’s electric prologue cross-cuts between two seemingly disparate storylines that won’t intersect until nearly an hour into the proceedings. Prima ballerina Dominika Egorova (Jennifer Lawrence) is performing in front of a packed house for the Bolshoi Ballet when the unthinkable happens — an ugly accident that leaves her dancing dreams as twisted and broken as her leg. Meanwhile, in Gorky Park, CIA operative Nate Nash (Joel Edgerton) is meeting with his informant when the police arrive. A chase ensues and, although Nate escapes capture by getting across the barrier at the entrance to the U.S. Embassy, the agency censures him and suspends him from field operations.

With her Bolshoi career behind her, Dominika must find a new way to earn the money necessary to pay for her mother’s medical care. Enter not-so-kindly Uncle Vanya (Matthais Schoenaerts), a high-ranking Russian intelligence officer who offers to shepherd her through what amounts to a "spy school" run by the nameless Matron (Charlotte Rampling). Although initially reluctant to go "all the way", Dominika eventually immerses herself in the training and catches the attention of her uncle’s boss, Director Zakharov (Ciaran Hinds), and the taciturn General Korchnoi (Jeremy Irons). They give her an assignment: seduce Nate — who is now back in the field — by any means necessary and learn the identity of his source. Of course, Nate (not being stupid), knows immediately that she’s playing him and tries to turn the tables by offering her the opportunity to become a double agent. Triple-crosses ensue.

By far the most interesting aspect of Red Sparrow is the game of seduction and counter-seduction that goes on between Dominika and Nate. Lawrence and Edgerton share sufficient chemistry for the relationship to work and Lawrence’s performance, which is by turns inscrutable, tough, and vulnerable, keeps us uncertain how sincere Dominika is at any moment.

It’s evident that Jennifer Lawrence has reached a high level of comfort with director Francis Lawrence, who worked with her on three of the four Hunger Games movies (the only one he didn’t helm was the first one). In addition to performing her first nude scene, Lawrence is depicted being brutally tortured in a sequence that skirts the edge of NC-17 violence. The camera is as relentless as Dominika’s questioners, refusing to look away and, unlike with (for example) equally graphic scenes in the Lethal Weapon and Mission: Impossible series, there’s no satisfying rescue in the offing. Throughout Red Sparrow, Dominika spends a lot of time applying makeup to cover up cuts and bruises. The film presents her not as a victim, however, but as someone with the inner strength and fortitude to overcome and bend circumstances to her liking.

One constraint Red Sparrow is unable to overcome is the running length. In order to keep things moving, Francis is forced to gloss over exposition that might have been clearer if given more time. The "spy school" sequences are fascinating but that part of the film is over too quickly. And the give-and-take interaction between Nate and Dominika, as the two vie to get the upper hand while developing genuine feelings for one another (or do they?), could have been extended. There’s enough in the movie to provide an appetizer but it’s not sufficient to fill the belly.

Red Sparrow provides an effective contrast to Charlize Theron’s Atomic Blonde. The latter, based on a graphic novel, was more interested in visual razzle-dazzle than intricate plotting. This movie, based on the book written by ex-CIA operative Jason Matthews, is more hard-core and down-to-earth. Although no less visceral than Atomic Blonde, it’s better grounded and the characters feel less like comic book creations than real people. The underlying uncertainty gives the movie a hook and an edge and there are enough mandatory twists to keep viewers unsure about where the resolution is headed. On balance, Red Sparrow is a reasonable choice for those who don’t mind a fair amount of graphic sex and violence mixed in with the spying, back-stabbing, and double-dealing expected from this genre.

Available for home viewing: Beirut ★★★

Beirut is, without a doubt, an imperfect thriller. The narrative is at times too dense, some aspects of the ending are too pat, and there are some internal inconsistencies the movie never explains. But, damn, is it good to watch a movie that expects the viewer to pay attention and that doesn’t pander to the least common denominator. Back in the 1970s, many thrillers were like this, with suspense developing out of the story rather than grafted on top via preposterous action sequences. And, although those kinds of movies have their place, they have almost entirely supplanted films like Beirut which, although still viable for popcorn-munchers, are a shade more serious (without becoming pretentious).

The movie’s prologue, which transpires in 1972, introduces us to charismatic, good-natured diplomat Mason Skiles (Jon Hamm), whose duties in Lebanon require that he balance relations with the locals, Israel, and the PLO. One night, when he’s hosting a party, a group of gunmen storm his home, killing his wife (Leila Bekhti) and kidnapping Karim, the 13-year old Mason is planning to adopt. Karim’s terrorist brother, Abu Rajal (Hicham Ouraqa), is behind the attack.

The main story transpires 10 years later. Mason, a burnt-out drunk, is living a meaningless life as a labor mediator when the government comes calling. An offer he can’t refuse has Mason board a flight from Boston to Lebanon, where he learns that everything has changed. He is greeted by three officials with questionable motives: Sandy Crowder (Rosamund Pike), Donald Gaines (Dean Norris), and Gary Ruzak (Shea Whigham). One of their co-workers, Cal Riley (Mark Pelligrino), has been kidnapped and his captors, members of a splinter Palestinian terrorist group, have specifically requested that Mason act as the negotiator/go-between. The reason becomes clear as people from Mason’s past, including Karim and Abu Rajal, resurface.

As is often the case with spy thrillers, whether they transpire in Cold War Berlin or some more exotic locale (such as civil war-torn Lebanon), the chief pleasure is observing how the hero, through his superior skill, knowledge, and training, navigates a minefield of seemingly-unsolvable complexity and stays a step ahead of his adversaries (and, on some occasions, his allies). Movies of this sort don’t demand much in the way of physicality from the hero but they require that he be mentally tough. Mason fits the type — when he’s required to run, he keeps yelling for the leader to slow down so he can keep pace, but he overcomes alcoholism and rust sufficiently to complete the mission. The ending is overscripted but satisfying nonetheless.

Were it not for Mad Men, Hamm might be considered a good-looking character actor. His stint in the popular TV series has allowed him to take on leading roles and this is one of his best to-date. Hamm presents Mason as smart and capable, but he’s also a loose canon and sometimes reckless to a fault. There’s a reason for this: he’s expendable, knows he’s expendable, and doesn’t particularly care. His carefree approach to life ended 10 years ago and there’s often a haunted look in his eyes. The movie is about redemption — something made evident in a grim scene where he confronts Cal’s wife, who was once one of his closest friends.

Brad Anderson (the one-time indie filmmaker who has morphed into an accomplished television director) helms with a sure hand, ratcheting up tension at the right moments while keeping things moving. The film doesn’t rocket along at a Bourne-like breakneck pace but neither does it crawl like Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy. It finds a happy medium while giving us a character we can root for and a scenario we’re interested in.

Sadly, the viewing receipts for Beirut will likely show what distributor Bleecker Street suspects — that viewers aren’t much interested in this story. It’s not a sequel. It’s rooted in a true historical situation that works better for those with at least a cursory understanding of the real-life situation (although Mason tries to explain things in an early, awkward expository monologue). It doesn’t feature any superheroes. And it penalizes those who aren’t strictly paying attention to the story. For me, these are all good things and help tilt the movie into the "recommend" category. Beirut held my attention and, although it’s not among Tony Gilroy’s top scripts, it’s solid enough to invest a couple of hours watching.

Available for home viewing: Pacific Rim Uprising ★★

Is this the future of blockbuster movies? Films made with more concern for the international box office than the domestic one, where the universal language is the clash of pixels? It’s no secret that, based exclusively on its U.S. receipts, Guillermo del Toro’s 2013 Pacific Rim didn’t earn the right to have a follow-up. But the movie was big in China and that led to Legendary Pictures (which was purchased by a Chinese corporation) and Universal Pictures coughing up the money to make Pacific Rim Uprising. Like most unintended second installments, this one is superfluous — a remix of moments, scenes, and images from its predecessor infused with the need to make everything bigger and louder.

Even more so than Pacific Rim, Uprising is a throwback to the Japanese monster movies of the 1970s. The cutting-edge computer-generated special effects make things higher priced but not necessarily better. Fortunately, director Steven S. DeKnight (making his feature debut after previously writing/directing/producing episodes for TV series like Daredevil and Angel) doesn’t go "full Transformers" — a degree of restraint that at least makes the sequel watchable, if not "good" by any reasonable definition of the word. The core problem is the same one many soulless, effects-oriented films encounter: the more we’re exposed to fight scenes like the ones Pacific Rim Uprising presents, the more monotonous they become. There’s not a lot of variety here — it’s just giant robot-on-giant robot or giant robot-on-hideous alien.

In Pacific Rim, del Toro showed not only an affection for the genre in which he was working but the ability to transform stereotyped characters into living, breathing human beings. Idris Elba, Charlie Hunnam, and Rinko Kinkuchi weren’t just actors thrown into the movie to give it a live-action component; they were the heart and soul of the story, and that’s one reason why Pacific Rim worked. Its absence is why Uprising often doesn’t. Speaking of the original’s main trio, Elba’s character remains dead, Kinkuchi has a small part that is disappointing in all aspects, and Hunnam’s Raleigh Becket isn’t mentioned. Raleigh’s absence is notable, although apparently he was in the original screenplay but, when Hunnam wasn’t available (due to a conflict), a rewrite changed Raleigh into the new character of Nate Lambert (played by Scott Eastwood).

Uprising opens 10 years after the Battle of the Breach. Although the world hasn’t been bothered by a Kaiju since Stacker Pentecost gave his life to help seal the Breach, the Jaegers continue to stand at ready. New recruits are trained under the tutelage of the old Rangers and rogue Jaegers are routinely captured and/or disabled. Jake (son of Stacker) Pentecost (John Boyega), who has been making his living as a thief and scrap merchant, is brought back into the fold after being arrested stealing a disabled Jaeger’s power core. Along with him comes the perky Amara Namani (Cailee Spaeny), who painstakingly created her own mini-Jaeger.

Pentecost is reunited with his estranged partner, Nate Lambert, and commanded by his sister, Mako Mori (Kinkuchi), who has risen to a position of power in the current administration, to help train the recruits as an alternative to going to jail. All is not well, however. A powerful rogue Jaeger, Obsidian Fury, launches a devastating attack, and this is only the first strike in a new war. As Jaegers fight other Jaegers, the Kaiju patiently wait for an opportunity to open a new breach and resume their attack on Earth.

The film’s first half contains a fair amount of dense exposition to go along with half-hearted attempts to humanize some of the cardboard characters. The only one who emerges with a hint of three-dimensionality is Jake and that’s more because of Boyega’s likable performance than anything in the screenplay. Boyega invests his protagonist with the same quirky insouciance that he brings to Finn in the new Star Wars trilogy, although Uprising allows him to slide into the Han Solo-inspired role of rogue-turned-hero rather than being sidelined as was the case in The Last Jedi. And, although his sidekick in this film, plucky Spaeny, doesn’t exemplify great character-building (she’s the classic tough girl who finds purpose in the struggle against evildoers), she and Boyega share a better chemistry than Boyega and Kelly Marie Tran in Jedi. Eastwood is more notable for his startling resemblance to his father (Clint Eastwood) than for anything he does acting-wise. Two other holdovers from Pacific Rim are the "dueling doctors" of Hermann Gottieb (Burn Gorman) and Newton Geiszler (Charlie Day). Newton is given a larger and more interesting role than the one he had in the previous film; unfortunately, the range demanded for the part exceeds Day’s capabilities.

Once the narrative wades through the undertow, Uprising gets to the things most movie-watchers have sat down to see: the fight scenes. Although competently crafted, they’re overlong (especially the climactic bit of silliness, which takes place on Mt. Fuji in what I assume is an homage to all those Japanese monster movies) and not terribly exciting. The incorporation of humans into the fights (by putting them inside the Jaegers) provides a level of investment that’s absent from the Transformers movies but this device would have worked better (as it did in Pacific Rim) if the characters had been more than interchangeable background pieces. We care about Jake and perhaps Amara but not really anyone else.

Viewers with low but reasonable expectations will probably be satisfied with what Pacific Rim Uprising offers. It doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is — a second chapter made primarily for an overseas audience that hasn’t yet tired of the wonders that excessive CGI can bring to the screen. Like nearly all unnecessary sequels, it’s the wedding of "bigger is better" with "more of the same." Unfortunately, all the little subtleties that made Pacific Rim charming are lost in the new film’s mayhem. This is B-movie material with an A-movie budget. There’s an audience out there for stuff like this but I don’t think it’s as large as the filmmakers hoped when they scoped out the possibilities for additional installments. It’s hard to see much of an upside for Uprising.

Good night, Tab

Perhaps you had to be there, at that time, at the right age. I was a teenager in the 1950s and Tab Hunter was a big freaking deal. Looking back on it now, I don’t really understand why except perhaps that time became known as "The Era of the Teen Idols." I can’t say I ever sought ought a movie simply because Tab Hunter was in it -- the only Hunter movie I remember going to see was Damn Yankees and that had nothing to do with Tab Hunter. In fact, at one point Hunter really made me mad. He recorded this song called Young Love, a cover version of a tune done much, much better by country singer Sonny James. But Sonny James wasn’t a household name. He wasn’t a teen throb. So Tab Hunter’s awful version of this song climbed to No. 1 on the charts. James’ far superior recording of the same tune did OK, but to this day I blame Tab Hunter for stealing the glory from Sonny James. Still, Hunter’s death last night seems like another nail in the coffin of a time I do hold dear, a simpler time, certainly a more innocent time. It was, however, a far more sexually repressive time — I joke now that the only person who really had any fun during the 1950s was Dwight Eisenhower. But there you have it. That was Tab’s time.

Available for home viewing: Finding Your Feet ★★½

At times, Finding Your Feet tries too hard to be viewer-pleasing. The romantic comedy from director Richard Longcraine offers all the highs and lows demanded by the genre. The "twist", to the extent it can be named as such, is that the characters are in their 60s and 70s. Despite this, the story unfolds much as it would for lovers in their 20s or 30s, with the same giddy moments and "romantic complications." Although not entirely unappealing, the narrative is overfamiliar with nary an original plot point to be found. Admittedly, the typical romantic comedy thrives on tropes and clichés but the pandering in Finding Your Feet is so extreme that it gets old fast.

One of the few differences between working with retirement-age characters as opposed to those who are a generation younger is that bachelorhood (or bachelorette-hood) is more the result of unfortunate circumstances than choice. Finding Mr. Right (or Ms. Right) isn’t an opportunity for a lifetime of bliss but a way to cheer up the twilight years. "Happily Ever After" for these individuals might be more in the line of a few years or a couple of decades at most. Sandra (Imelda Staunton) is single because she catches her philandering husband of 30-plus years, Mike (John Sessions), in a compromising position with her best friend, Pamela (Josie Lawrence). As a result of the subsequent separation, she moves in with her sister, Bif (Celia Imrie). Bif’s friends are all unattached for various reasons. Charlie (Timothy Spall) has the saddest story: his wife, suffering from late stage Alzheimer’s, is in a care facility and no longer recognizes him. Ted (David Hayman) is a widower who sometimes wonders whether life is worth continuing. And the pragmatic and vivacious Jackie is a five-time divorcee who may or may not be on the lookout for husband No. 6.

Finding Your Feet has its share of amusing moments and some of the dialogue is filled with sly asides and quips. There’s also a great, laugh-out-loud sight gag featuring a man who gets an eyeful. Overall, however, the screenplay, credited to Meg Leonard and Nick Moorcroft, feels lazily assembled from the detritus of other romantic comedies with a little The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel and The Full Monty thrown in for good measure. Putting aside the ages of the performers, there’s nothing to differentiate this movie from many other crowd-pleasing romantic comedies. It feels more warmed-over than fresh and interesting. I was disappointed because Loncraine did a great job with similarly comfortable elements in his sports-themed romantic comedy Wimbledon.

The cast is populated by accomplished actors, all of whom are in fine form. Staunton plays a role she could essay in her sleep as the uptight Sandra who gets in touch with the free-spirit she once was. Imrie is her impish older sister — a woman who has never settled down and enjoys early morning swims in freezing cold water. Spall, one of today’s finest character actors, uses his hangdog face to good effect as Charlie, Sandra’s second chance at love. Joanna Lumley steals a scene or two (as is her wont) as the salty Jackie. She has the film’s best one-liner.

Perhaps aware that simply telling the story of Sandra and Charlie’s late-life courtship might not satisfy the running time demands of a feature, the filmmakers incorporate a dance competition and elements related to the mortality of a character. As a result, we get to experience a geriatric chorus line (I say this with great affection — the dance numbers are among the film’s most energetic sequences). The movie also tries very hard (too hard, actually) to get us to tear up. Loncraine’s manipulation feels more than a little heavy-handed.

I can see where Finding Your Feet might work for those who are interested primarily in a story that feels like it was assembled using a checklist or template for feel-good movies. The cast is top-notch and the characters are sufficiently likable but the movie’s vanilla narrative repeatedly offers unsurprising plot points to the degree that the whole endeavor seems like an exercise in been-there/done-that. Finding Your Feet isn’t so much a bad movie as it is an unnecessary and ultimately forgettable one.