I have scratched together a living, in one way or another, as a writer for more than 60 years now. I was a free-lance writer during the early stages of the Vietnam War. I was the Southwest Division Overnight News Editor for United Press International back when UPI was a legitimate news gathering organization. Following that, I went to the Dallas Morning News where I became the first person to write about rock 'n' roll on a daily basis for a Texas metropolitan newspaper. I later became the News' entertainment editor. Following some stints with a couple of prominent PR firms, I had the extraordinary good fortune to team with two communications legends, Ken Fairchild and Lisa LeMaster, as part of one kick-ass media consulting/crisis communications team. That was followed by stints as a department head with the City of Dallas (and its public information officer); the Dallas Northeast Chamber of Commerce where I had the good fortune to meet and work alongside some of this city's business and political titans; and editorial director for QuestCorp Media until that company went out of business. Now officially retired, concentrating on this blog.
Denzel Washington is one of the great actors of his generation so how he got involved in this muddled film, with its grandiose dialogue and meandering narrative, is a real head-scratcher. Even more puzzling is why he agreed to use make-up and wear a costume (complete with a fat suit) that makes him appear like he’s auditioning for a Klump in another Nutty Professor sequel. At its heart, Roman J. Israel, Esq. functions as an apologia for lawyers that goes something like this: at the start, many get into law with the most principled of motives but, even if they become sidetracked along the way, that spark of nobility remains. This is voiced in a several heartfelt monologues delivered by Washington including a climactic one that is pure gobbledygook. While listening to it, I experienced a wtf? brain cramp — I couldn’t figure out what he was trying to say. The story is surprisingly unfocused and, when it snaps out of the protracted setup phase, it plunges into quasi-thriller territory that relies on a series of hard-to-swallow contrivances. And, although it’s fine for a character to be wreathed in ambiguity, it’s a problem when the screenplay doesn’t know what to think of him. At times, Roman J. Israel, Esq. wants us to sympathize with the lead while, on other occasions, it treats his naivete with contempt. The ending is supposed to offer a sense of closure but it only added to my frustration about a production that couldn’t make up its mind about what message it was conveying and how it was conveying it. The movie opens with a close-up of a confused legal brief being drafted by the lead character, Roman J. Israel, as Washington reads the text for those who are too lazy to do so for themselves. The narrative then jumps back three weeks to a defining moment that derailed Roman’s life and career. His long-time law firm partner suffers a catastrophic heart attack that leaves him in a vegetative state. High profile defense attorney George Pierce (Colin Farrell) takes over for the dying man and, determining the firm to be insolvent, disbands it. Roman, needing money, is forced to accept George’s offer of employment after being turned down for a salaried position at a civil rights project headed by the pretty, idealistic Maya Alston (Carmen Ejogo).
After struggling for a time in his new role, Roman comes into possession of some information that, if used, could net him a $100,000 reward. After wrestling with his conscience for two minutes of screen time and deciding that after a lifetime of self-sacrifice he deserves a slice of the good life, he contrives a way to get the reward and starts spending: new suits, new shoes, and a new high-end apartment. He cuts his hair and adopts a cynical world-view — something that George finds pleasantly surprising. Maya, who has kept in touch, is confused by the mixed messages she is getting from Roman. But when Roman’s secret is outed and he finds himself unable to keep up the morally bankrupt façade, he faces a crisis of conscience that could cost him not only his career but his life.
This is the kind of role Washington could do in his sleep, and that doesn’t seem far from the way he approaches it. His portrayal of Roman is dull and laconic, a distant echo of the fire and energy Washington has brought to the roles of other civil rights battlers (Rubin "The Hurricane" Carter, Malcolm X). Farrell, whose multi-layered portrayal was a highlight of the recent The Killing of a Sacred Deer, has trouble with George’s shifting morality and the greedy lawyer’s abrupt about-face feels more like a writer’s construct than an organic personality change. Ejogo’s Maya seems like she emerged from a writer’s word processor. She’s not a person; she’s Roman’s conscience. After the movie was met with a negative reaction at its Toronto Film Festival debut last year, Gilroy re-edited things into the version now available for home viewing. Among the changes: re-sequencing certain scenes and shaving more than 10 minutes off the running time. It hasn’t helped. The pacing is still erratic with far too much set-up and a payoff that, at best, is unsatisfying. The performances are lackluster and the story’s thriller aspects fall somewhere on a continuum between "implausible" and "moronic." This is a disappointing effort from all involved.
There was a time when the viewing of a new Woody Allen movie was considered (at least in serious cinema circles) as an event. Over the years, however, the quality of Allen’s output has diminished. Now, it’s at the point where a good Woody Allen movie is more the exception than the norm. Perhaps it’s time for the 82-year old director to start reducing the frequency of his offerings; churning out a picture every year may have taken its toll on the filmmaker’s creative juices. Wonder Wheel seems more like a cobbled-together afterthought than the romantic melodrama it seeks to be. "Melodrama" doesn’t have to be a negative term. A well-made melodrama can provoke an emotional reaction. Wonder Wheel wants to be that kind of film but the dialogue is so overripe and the situations so trite that it never achieves its goals. As Allen movies go, this one is also strangely dour — the only obvious attempt at humor (and it’s a thin one) comes in some of Justin Timberlake’s narration. I can’t say Wonder Wheel is the worst movie Allen has made this century — that distinction probably still belongs to To Rome with Love — but it’s high on a growing list of lows. The film, with its gauzy images of Coney Island beaches (Vittorio Storaro’s cinematography is gorgeous), takes place sometime during the 1950s. Unhappily married Ginny (Kate Winslet) is in daily survival mode, working long hours as a waitress while trying to keep her alcoholic husband, dumpy Humpty (Jim Belushi), off the sauce and carrying on an affair with the much-younger, playwright-wannabe lifeguard Mickey (Timberlake). Humpty is too oblivious to see what’s going on under his nose but the arrival of his estranged, 26-year old daughter, Carolina (Juno Temple), upsets the balance. Carolina is on the lam — a hit has been ordered on her by her mob-attached husband (she knows too much) and she ends up in Coney Island looking for a place to lie low. While doing so, she and Mickey form an attachment. When Ginny learns about this … well, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Especially one with persistent migraine headaches, a pyromaniac son, and a nasty temper.
Allen films used to come in two flavors — clever comedies and serious introspections about some aspect of the human experience. Both were worthwhile on their own terms. Wonder Wheel falls into neither category and doesn’t work on any terms. Perhaps the biggest problem is the Winslet character. Ginny is shrill and unappealing. Allen is fond of putting bits and pieces of himself into his movies and some of his less endearing characteristics emerge in Ginny. There are times when she speaks too obviously with Allen’s voice. Her story arc is cliched and, in the end, not worth the time invested in watching her. Maybe Allen was going for a Cat on a Hot Tin Roof dynamic but he’s already plundered Tennessee Williams (in Blue Jasmine) to better effect.
It's possible to argue that one of the reasons the characters and situations are so overcooked is because we’re seeing them through the eyes of Mickey, a narrator who fancies himself as an up-an-coming playwright with an affinity for Williams. Authors, especially those with more imagination than ability, often see everything as overly dramatic, so maybe that’s what Allen is trying to do. But "trying" doesn’t mean "succeeding." Part of the problem may be Timberlake, who’s so clean-cut and square that he feels distanced from the story. This is less a reflection of the performance than a commentary on how the character is written, but Timberlake doesn’t rise above what Allen has put on the page. The only member of the small ensemble to do that is Temple, whose performance as Carolina is appealingly guileless. One wishes the story focused more on her than the nails-on-a-blackboard unbearable Ginny. With many of Allen’s recent movies, it has been fair to classify them as being for "completists" only. Even that caveat may not be a strong enough warning against Wonder Wheel. The movie has a 101-minute running length but seems much longer and watch-checkers can be forgiven wondering if their timepieces are broken. Perhaps the "Wonder" in Wonder Wheel is that anyone agreed to produce something so tired, joyless, and uninspired.
It appears that Marvel has given up trying to broaden the tent. Although Thor: Ragnarok, the third film to focus on the exploits of the titular Norse God, boasts a lighter tone, when the flippancy is stripped away, it’s the same-ole-same-ole. Narratively, Thor: Ragnarok regurgitates the basic story of every other superhero team-up. The surprises are reserved for cameos and the ending is so predictable that it likely wouldn’t be considered a spoiler to reveal it (don’t worry — I won’t). This movie indicates how lifeless comic book movies can become when they don’t take chances and don’t challenge the status quo. It’s no coincidence that the best superhero movies of the last decade (The Dark Knight, Deadpool, Logan) have vision and ambition. Everything else falls onto a continuum of bland action-oriented entertainment with diminishing results. What was fun at the start of the MCU has become tired. To an extent, that’s the inevitable fate of all long-running franchises and, although Thor: Ragnarok tries to change things up by shifting to a more openly jokey tone, it serves to remind us that, before the Universal Classic monsters died, they first met up with Abbott and Costello. Since standalone superhero movies are now rarer than Bigfoot sightings, Thor: Ragnarok feels the need to give the God of Thunder (Chris Hemsworth) a few pals to help him on his merry way. This time, the buddy movie formula pairs the newly short-haired Thor with the Not-So-Jolly Green Giant, Mr. Hulk (Mark Ruffalo via motion capture). Two other MCU characters appear, although only ever-so-briefly. Benedict Cumberbatch has a superfluous scene or two to remind us that Dr. Strange is still around. Scarlett Johansson’s Black Widow makes a blink-and-you’ll miss it appearance. That’s better than Natalie Portman’s Jane. She’s not even mentioned. That’s what happens when an actress defects from the MCU. Before the movie is over, Thor is already making goo-goo eyes at another woman. (This one at least is Asgardian, so there’s no risk of DNA incompatibility.)
The movie begins with Thor finding out that Loki (Tom Hiddleston) in fact didn’t die. Of course he didn’t. This is the MCU where death is only a temporary inconvenience. (Not that the DCEU is any different.) After taking Odin (Anthony Hopkins) to a retirement home in New York, Loki has been impersonating him and enjoying the fruits of ruling. (Cue Mel Brooks: "It’s good be the king!") The reunited brothers go to Earth to retrieve Dad and, with a little help from Dr. Strange, they locate him. The doddering old god, who’s about as coherent as Patrick Stewart’s Professor X in Logan, informs Thor and Loki that they have a sister and she’s about to be released from her prison. Then, faster than you can say "Cate Blanchett", Hela the Goddess of Death is back to break Thor’s hammer, send the brothers spinning off to distant worlds, and bring Ragnarok to Asgard. Stuck on a junk world, Thor is captured by an ex-Valkyrie turned mercenary (Tessa Thompson) who sells him to the Grandmaster (Jeff Goldblum), a pompous ass who likes melting people with his special staff. He runs a gladiator contest and has decided that Thor will make an excellent challenger for The Champion. As luck would have it, Thor knows The Champion. Unfortunately, The Champion isn’t in a nostalgic mood. Instead, he’s just interested in one thing: "Hulk smash." Thor has his work cut out for him: avoid getting pulverized by his fellow Avenger, find a way off this planet, and convince the Valkyrie to return to Asgard with him to stop Ragnarok. Oh, and Loki’s still around making mischief and changing sides.
As a rule, Marvel movies have lighter tones than their current DC counterparts. Even the darkest Marvel movie hasn’t come close to the bleak wallowing of Zack Snyder’s recent contributions. For Thor: Ragnarok, director Taika Waititi (Hunt for the Wilderpeople) enhances the comedic aspects, bringing this closer to Deadpool than any previous "serious" major superhero movie has come. The change-of-pace is welcome and even more appreciated is that some of the comedy is genuinely amusing. Certain characters, like Goldblum’s Grandmaster, exist primarily for their ability to generate chuckles and laughs. Even the normally stoic God of Thunder gets into the mood (Hemsworth has already shown a deft hand for comedy). Unfortunately, no superhero movie can succeed on comedy alone and, when it comes to the action sequences — the bread and butter of any comic book film — Thor: Ragnarok disappoints. From a technical standpoint, they’re fine and one or two of them (especially the opening battle and the gladiatorial bout pitting Thor against Hulk) arrest the attention but, for the most part, they’re predictable opportunities for the special effects experts to flex their muscles. It’s action-by-the-numbers and it’s rarely exciting. The participants are no longer individuals; they’re avatars. It’s not far from the robot carnage in the Transformers movies. Superhero fans deserve better than this. Battles should have heart, danger, and consequences. The conflicts in Thor: Ragnarok are lacking in all three.
Perhaps the most enjoyable aspect of the film is the buddy movie element starring the odd couple of Thor and Hulk/Bruce (eventually Mark Ruffalo gets to appear as himself). Throw Tessa Thompson into the mix and we have the making of a nice trio (at one point, they dub themselves "The Revengers"). The chemistry within this group is strong. Loki has been reduced — for a guy who was the Big Baddie in The Avengers, now he’s little more than a side character whose powers are limited and whose ultimate function is to trigger the obligatory deus ex machina that resolves everything. Blanchett is suitably nasty and surprisingly restrained (no scenery chewing for her). Thor: Ragnarok has no shortage of top acting talent — in addition to Blanchett and Ruffalo, there are small parts for Cumberbatch, Hopkins, and Idris Elba. Those waiting for linkage to the next Avengers movie don’t get it until the mid-credits scene, which one assumes is intended to start the Infinity War cycle. Thor: Ragnarok is more of a placeholder than an integral part of the MCU — it keeps people primed for the climax of the story that has been building for arguably too long. As a stand-alone movie, this is pretty much like every other recent MCU entry: fitfully entertaining, too long, and mostly forgettable. Comic book fans (especially those who live and die with Marvel and have removed the letters "D" and "C" from their alphabet) will probably adore what Thor: Ragnarok has to offer. Others may see this as a passable diversion while uttering things like "meh" after the viewing has ended.
Despite a seemingly straightforward slice-of-life storyline, The Florida Project achieves something rare and magical: presenting existence from the perspective of a young child while, at the same time, providing enough "clues" that viewers are able to decipher what’s really going on. Children often don’t see the world the same way adults do and writer/director Sean Baker (Tangerine) has captured this divide without resorting to overt melodrama or sensationalism. The Florida Project feels genuine from start to finish and Baker doesn’t wander onto a Hollywood-inspired detour despite many opportunities.
The cast is mostly barren of "name" actors. The only one of note, Willem Dafoe, fills a supporting role. He appears in many scenes and is a strong background presence but the movie isn’t about his character, Bobby, the manager of the purple-pastel motel The Magic Castle. Aside from Dafoe and Caleb Landry Jones, who has a small role as Bobby’s son, the rest of the actors are newcomers. They includes the three primary children — Brooklynn Prince, who plays central character Moonee; Valeria Cotto (Jancey); and Christopher Rivera (Scooty) — and two adults — Bria Vinaite (Halley, Moonee’s mother) and Mela Murder (Ashley, Scooty’s mother). Baker’s ability to direct performances is evident here. Vinaite and Murder give strong, unforced portrayals and the children, especially standout Prince, are unaffected. During a climactic moment, Prince emotes so naturally that the moment is heartbreaking. The movie transpires in Kissimmee, Florida, in the shadow of Walt Disney World, where a seemingly endless array of garish extended-stay motels provide a cheap alternative to the high-end luxury of The Polynesian Resort, The Contemporary Resort, and The Grand Floridian. In this low-rent fairytale land of $35-per-night, there are as many long-term residents as there are weeklong visitors. Moonee, a 6-year old girl, spends her endless summer days running around the grounds with her friends, Scooty and Jancey. They do the kinds of things most kids do but their "innocent" mischief occasionally takes dark turns. They have little or no adult supervision. Scooty’s mother works full-time as a waitress (the kids sometimes show up at the diner’s backdoor for free food) and Halley, Moonee’s mother, has little more stability and emotional maturity than her daughter. The only one who seems to keep an eye on the kids is Bobby, and that’s as much to keep them from damaging the motel as to protect them from creeps and predators.
Despite its low-key narrative, The Florida Project builds to a climax. From the beginning, as we understand the children’s lives, there’s a sense of inevitability that this is coming. The story is comprised of episodes and incidents and is interested in the smallest details like how Halley and Moonee have to occasionally relocate for 24 hours to avoid being considered permanent residents/squatters (which give them certain legal rights the motel’s ownership doesn’t want to deal with). The sultry Florida weather plays an integral part, with its temperamental tropical downpours, rainbows, and glorious sunsets. Ninety percent of the movie is presented from Moonee’s perspective, which gives a slant to many activities. Hurtful pranks are presented as harmless ways to relieve boredom. Dangers that might give adults pause are little more than distractions. Using shot selection and focusing on the young performers, Baker draws the viewer into this world and, when we begin to understand the implications of what’s really going on, we understand the fullness of the tragedy. As much as Halley loves Moonee, she is as unfit a parent as can be. Not only is she incapable of keeping her daughter safe but her recklessness has the potential to lead to something from which neither could recover. The film’s ending is crafted in such a way that the emotional impact (from Monee’s perspective) is at odds with the logical, rational implications (as seen from a neutral vantage point).
In some ways, The Florida Project reminded me of Fish Tank. Narratively, the films are much different but their rhythms are similar. Both are about young people trying to find a path forward in a lower-class situation where the immediacy of the moment trumps long-term considerations. Moonee is wise beyond her years yet, like the (older) protagonist in Fish Tank, her risky behavior puts her future in question. Baker is canny enough to make the viewer aware of all the dangers surrounding Moonee while simultaneously transforming these things (like speeding cars on a road) into background noise for the children. The Florida Project is the kind of small, insightful, and fascinating film that will be beloved by the more avante-garde home viewing audiences (it is not by any stretch a mainstream production). Not a coming-of-age story but one about the loss of innocence, this is one of the most honest films about young childhood to reach home viewers in several years.
Wow. Just wow. Every year, home viewing releases bring us their share of surprises — both good and bad. Suburbicon goes immediately to the front of the line of contenders for the most disappointing release of the year. George Clooney, the Coen Brothers, Matt Damon, Julianne Moore, Oscar Isaac — how can so much talent result in such a monumental dud? Suburbicon is a tonal disaster — an awkward and ineffective attempt to blend dark comedy with social commentary. Two mostly unconnected stories are presented in parallel and not only are they insufficiently developed for viewers to care about either but they are so out-of-synch in presentation that the jarring differences can cause whiplash. Almost nothing in the film works — the narrative is leaden, the comedy is unfunny, the satire is tired and obvious, and the camerawork (by Oscar winner Robert Elswit) is pedestrian. There are two stories. The first, which absorbs a majority of the screen time, focuses on the Lodge family: dad Gardner (Damon), mom Rose (Moore), and son Nicky (Noah Jupe). They’re a seemingly normal (white) family living in Suburbicon: a 1950s suburban paradise modeled after Levittown. (The movie opens with an era-appropriate TV commercial for the oversized development.) When two thugs (Glenn Fleshler and Alex Hassell) break into the house and kill Rose, things feel more odd than tragic. It soon becomes clear that Gardner isn’t on the level and, in a really weird twist, Rose’s twin, Margaret (Moore also), moves in to take her sister’s place. A suspicious insurance investigator (Isaac) soon shows up to figure out whether his company can get out of honoring Rose’s policy. Meanwhile, next door, a fine, upstanding family has moved in. The Meyers seem perfect for the cookie-cutter neighborhood of Suburbicon, except for one thing: they’re black. In this bastion of white supremacy, there can be no greater sin. At first, they’re heckled. Then they’re badgered. Then a race riot breaks out in their front yard. The police are so consumed with "controlling" (a code word for enabling?) this situation that they don’t notice the criminal goings-on at Gardner’s house. In terms of tying the two stories together, that’s the closest Clooney gets to making a connection — a feeble and half-hearted one at best.
Chewing glass might be more appealing than trying to choke down Suburbicon’s sanctimoniousness. Now, I believe Clooney’s heart is the right place but his inability to give life to his beliefs without resorting to such an unwieldy and condescending subplot is head-spinning. If one looks at Clooney’s directorial filmography, however, a pattern emerges: he’s a better actor than director. Despite having the best talent available to anyone working in Hollywood, his movies misfire at a roughly 50 percent rate. Suburbicon joins Confessions of a Dangerous Mind and The Monuments Men in this category. To make this film, Clooney and his writing/producing partner, Grant Heslov, dusted off an unused Coen Brothers screenplay from 1986. (For reference, that’s post-Blood Simple but pre-everything else.) Clooney then did a rewrite, adding in the Meyers’ piece of the narrative and making other changes. It’s impossible to say whether the reworking of the story killed it or whether it simply wasn’t very good to begin with but the end result speaks for itself.
The movie is told from Nicky’s perspective because, quite frankly, every other character in the film not named Meyers is loathsome. The Coens have made a career out of filming the sordid tales of unlikable characters but Clooney doesn’t have their talent and the result is nails-on-the-blackboard unpleasant and it gets worse when he throws morsels at the Meyers — as if we’re supposed to care about this marginalized subplot about the evils of hate based on skin color. (For the record, the movie was in the can before the Charleston riot, so there wass some bad timing involved in its theatrical release. Not that Suburbicon would have been any better had it been released a year earlier.) I’ll give props to Isaac, who brings energy and urgency with him in his few short scenes. He seems to get what the Coens were aiming for — it’s just unfortunate that Clooney didn’t. (This is surprising since Clooney has appeared in more Coen Brothers films than Isaac.) Matt Damon’s experience with the Coens numbers a single movie — the rather un-Coen-like True Grit remake — but he has a long history of collaboration with Clooney. His performance here is off-key, regardless of whether the movie is being seen through the bloody thriller lens or the dark comedy one. The only thing that will likely prevent Suburbicon from a possibly deserved space on my end-of-the-year Bottom 10 list is that there are still going to be too many blatantly incompetent films available for home viewing in the next eight months to be considered. Make no mistake, however, there’s nothing here to recommend and much to warn home viewers away from. It’s hard to imagine anyone enjoying this film on any level. Tedious, disjointed, and pointless, this is probably the worst output in many years we have seen from such an august group of talented participants.
It’s not entirely clear when All I See Is You slides into a fog but it definitely happens. Is it because of all the hyper-stylized camera work that might have been okay in small doses but gradually becomes distracting and then downright irritating? Is it when the film’s sluggish narrative momentum grinds to a halt? Is it when, with the climax approaching, the screenplay amps up the melodrama in a story that previously was low-key? Regardless, despite an interesting premise and a promising first act, All I See Is You ultimately fails to deliver much beyond a gradual descent into disinterest and watch-checking. The director is Marc "Don’t Pigeonhole Me" Forster and his leading lady is Blake "Don’t Pigeonhole Me, Either" Lively. Forster has directed the Oscar-recognized Monsters Ball, the wonderfully weird comedy/fantasy Stranger Than Fiction, the Bond adventure Quantum of Solace, and the zombie-fest World War Z. All I See Is You is different in tone and intent from any of those but, considering Forster’s flexibility, it can’t be considered a "change of pace." Lively also likes playing in different genres. All I See Is You comes on the heels of her time-traveling romance The Age of Adaline and her kick-shark-ass adventure The Shallows. The other major participant is Jason Clarke, who plays Lively’s husband. Clarke shows some range here, starting out as a nice-seeming, supportive guy before graduating first to a stick-in-the-mud then to a full-on creep. When the movie opens, Gina (Lively) is happily married to James (Clarke). They live in Thailand (presumably because that locale is deemed more exotic than, say, Brooklyn). Gina, blind for about 20 years as a result of a childhood car accident that killed her parents, learns from a doctor (Danny Huston) that an operation could restore sight in one eye. She agrees to the surgery and, in its immediate aftermath, the couple is thrilled. But a dark side emerges. Reality doesn’t match how Gina imagined things would look and, as she adjusts to life as a seeing person, she is gripped by a sense of melancholia. James, on the other hand, realizes that the "new Gina" is not the wife he had grown comfortable with. This woman is more independent and free-spirited. She no longer relies on him for everything. She shows a predilection for kinky sex and adventures, neither of which interest him. He comes to the conclusion that "they" (meaning "he") were happier when she was blind and he begins to ponder whether there might be a way for them to return to that state.
All I See Is You is presented (literally) from Gina’s perspective. Forster overdoes it with the point-of-view shots that feature blurry images and colored lights. (I have heard that colored lights are a symptom of a migraine…) A flash or two of this might have worked but it is overused. Likewise, we understand early that Gina lost her sight and her parents in a car crash in a tunnel in Spain, yet the movie regurgitates this memory repeatedly, as if we’re likely to forget it. The movie perks up during the operation’s aftermath. The screenplay and actors do a good job portraying the shifting emotions that accompany this life-altering occurrence. Some, like Gina having difficulty coping with surroundings that don’t match the images she had created in her imagination, are expected. Others, like James’ jealousy of the freedom and independence sight imparts to her, are not. Had the movie explored these elements better (and with more energy), All I See Is You might have settled into an effective groove. Unfortunately, the story decides to take a lurid turn into B-grade psychological thriller material without bothering to worry about the "thrill" part of the equation. The grand finale is laughably absurd. Had I not appreciated Forster’s previous work, I wouldn’t have been disappointed by what he accomplishes (or fails to accomplish) here. The story is pregnant with possibilities and the actors are committed to their roles (Lively, for example, does an excellent job with the scenes in which her character is blind) but the sluggish pacing and general lack-of-energy creates an impatience that’s exacerbated by the screenplay’s final act artifice. Blind to its missteps, the movie stumbles into a darkness from which it never escapes.
When it comes to the pantheon of the Worst Movies Ever Made, there are only a few challengers to the title claimed by Plan Nine from Outer Space. One of those is Tommy Wiseau’s universally derided 2003 debut feature, The Room. Instead of fading into obscurity like most epically bad films, The Room has amassed a cult following in the 15 years of its existence and, like The Rocky Horror Picture Show, it has become a mainstay of midnight showings around the country. People attend those screenings more for the social aspects of the gatherings than because there’s anything worthwhile playing on the screen. Having viewed some of The Room (I wasn’t able to complete it), I can attest that it’s not So-Bad-It’s-Good. It’s So-Bad-It’s-Unwatchable. The Disaster Artist is a comedic telling of how The Room came into existence. For the most part, actor/director James Franco focuses on the absurdities of Wiseau’s life and project but there are times when he ventures into semi-dramatic territory, mainly when examining the unlikely friendship between Wiseau and his co-star, Greg Sestero (David Franco). To the extent that there are aspects of The Disaster Artist that don’t work, they relate to this material. Wiseau is so off-putting as a character that attempts to humanize him fail. As presented, he’s like a Satanic version of Andy Kaufman. Wiseau and Sestero meet in a San Francisco acting class and, after barely knowing one another, they move to Los Angeles together and start on the road to stardom. Wiseau is a shady character: despite an Eastern European accent, he claims to be from New Orleans (his pronunciation of the city is so garbled that some people can’t understand what he’s saying); he has a seemingly endless fortune; and he’s at least 20 years older than he pretends to be. After failing to get an agent, Wiseau decides to take matters into his own hands. He writes a script and, with money not being an option, he sets about the business of making his movie, even though he has no idea what he’s doing.
Approximately half of The Disaster Artist chronicles the creation of the film, with some scenes coming across like segments from one of those TV shows about bloopers and outtakes. Although Franco emphasizes Wiseau’s ineptitude he also highlights the man’s passion for the project even though no one, not even Sestero, understands what the movie is supposed to be about. Wiseau is also intensely jealous and when Sestero moves in with his girlfriend, Amber (Alison Brie), he throws a hissy fit. Although the story is weirdly engaging in its own right, the best parts are the prologue and epilogue. The former consists of various famous talking heads (including the likes of J.J. Abrams, Kristen Bell, Adam Scott, and Zach Braff) waxing poetic about the importance and impact of Wiseau and his vision. The latter shows split screen representations of Franco’s recreations of scenes from The Room with the actual moments in Wiseau’s film. These depict, among other things, the director’s care in re-filming parts of The Room. (One wonders whether a complete remake exists somewhere.) Every shot is identically framed and the audio is nearly precisely timed. It’s an eerie experience and will give those who aren’t motivated to seek out The Room a flavor of the actual production. In the end, The Disaster Artist comes across as one of those stories that almost seems too bizarre to be true, even though it is. It’s an inadvertent success story that illustrates how there’s more than one way to stardom. Wiseau gave the movie his stamp of approval; he has a cameo. As for Franco, this represents a labor of love. He directed using Wiseau’s mannerisms and voice — something that apparently disconcerted a few of the actors. (His on-screen portrayal is uncannily accurate, making it evident how carefully he studied the man — Franco the actor is completely immersed in the character to the point where he disappears, leaving behind only Wiseau.) The end result is a fascinating glimpse into the genesis of one of Hollywood’s worst releases and is worthy of a space alongside Ed Wood on the shelf for dreamers who succeeded because of a lack of self-awareness and an epic void of talent.
You know an animated film is doing something right when it brings tears to the eyes. Coco may not represent Disney/Pixar at its pinnacle but it’s close enough to the top to warrant consideration as the best computer-drawn film of 2017. Of course, competition is slim and little comes from Pixar’s last summer release, Cars 3, which was crass commercialism at its worst. Coco proves that when not tied to the strings of sequel-making, the writers and animators can do some of their best work. This one movie won’t be sufficient to revive a genre that has fallen into a chasm-sized rut but it’s as good a start as any. We need more films like this: family-friendly efforts that challenge viewers with ideas rather than regurgitating tired tropes in the name of placating toy companies. Coco takes a deep dip into Mexican culture by setting the movie south of the border on the Dia de Muertos (Day of the Dead), when the spirits of the departed can visit their living relatives. This isn’t the first animated film to honor the holiday — Guillermo del Toro’s 2014 The Book of Life has already plowed this fertile ground. However, while there are superficial similarities (in the same way that two movies set at Christmas would be expected to share certain images), the plots are divergent. Coco seems to draw more inspiration from Pixar’s own Ratatouille and Hayao Miyazaki’s Spirited Away than The Book of Life. Director Lee Unkrich brings a rich and respected animated filmography to this project. He was the co-director for Toy Story 2, Monsters Inc., and Finding Nemo. He was then the primary director for Toy Story 3. Without question, he understands how to blend child-appropriate material with mature themes. Toy Story 3 is one of the most successful "works on two levels" films and, although Coco falls short of that achievement, it is strong enough to engage viewers young and old alike. Music is an important aspect of the movie and Coco hits many of the right notes.
In the Rivera household, music is banned. The ban dates back several generations, when a woman, Mama Imelda (Alanna Ubach), was abandoned by her musician husband and left to raise her daughter alone. Despite the prohibition imposed by his great-great-grandmother, however, Miguel (Anthony Gonzalez) has a song in his heart and a tune on his lips. Bolstered by the "do whatever is necessary to follow your dream" motto of his idol, Ernesto de la Cruz (Benjamin Bratt), Miguel seeks to prove himself in a talent contest but his unorthodox means of obtaining an instrument catapult him and his dog Dante into the Land of the Dead, where he meets not only Hector (Gael Garcia Bernal), a good-natured con-artist, but many of his forebears, including Mama Imelda. Not being a spirit, Miguel has until dawn to return to the Land of the Living lest he remain trapped forever. But when Mama Imelda offers to send him back, he balks at her condition and instead seeks out Ernesto de la Cruz, with whom he believes he shares a special connection. Putting aside the songs, which are unremarkable, Coco has most of the requisites that make animated movies popular: the (young) protagonist is likeable, the animal sidekick has cute antics, the villain is suitably nasty, and there’s heart and soul to the proceedings. Visually, the movie doesn’t attempt to top every previous Pixar effort — something that would be difficult considering the studio’s output in recent years. A few scenes, such as a panoramic view of The Land of the Dead, "pop" but much of the movie is more interested in emphasizing the Mexican culture than outdoing earlier features.
Family, a common theme in Disney movies, is front-and-center in Coco. The narrative focuses on Miguel’s desire to find his father, Hector’s love for his daughter, and the shared bond that develops between the two. The emotional aspect of the movie is handled with delicacy and just enough manipulation to ensure that even the iciest heart will melt a little. The movie also highlights Dia de Muertos customs and uses them to open a portal into a fantasy world. As in many good animated films, there’s plenty of comedy to go along with the occasional doses of pathos. The film also addresses death in a manner that younger viewers may relate to — not as a big, scary end but as a subtle transition to something else. When not pandering exclusively to children, animation can be a wonderful outlet for a filmmaker’s creativity, opening vistas that are wider and more expansive than anything found in a live-action production. In its early days, Pixar did this with regularity. In recent years, financial expectations have forced the studio to take commercially secure but not necessarily rewarding avenues. Coco may not be a blockbuster but it’s a welcome return to a variety of animated fare that prizes inspiration over safety.
At the risk of being called a curmudgeon, let me voice a dissenting opinion about Wonder, a "family drama" that veers too far into saccharine fantasy for its messages about tolerance and anti-bullying to sound a clear and genuine note. Oh, to be sure, Wonder’s heart is in the right place. It wants to be a life-affirming, uplifting story about the triumph of the underdog but the movie ignores the full cruelty of upper elementary school life and sugarcoats the degree to which bullying can erode the day-to-day experience of a victim. Because Wonder wants to attract viewers of all ages and seeks to provide a "positive" experience, it glosses over the darker aspects that a story of this sort should address. In doing so, it at times feels dishonest and the Pollyanna-ish ending borders on cloying. That being said, I can understand where there is value in showing this film to younger children because the message, albeit sanitized, will resonate. A 10-year old watching Wonder will have a different experience than an adult. Bullied children may find some solace in observing the difficulties encountered by fifth grader Auggie (Jacob Tremblay) and how he pushes through them. And bullies may stop a moment to consider their actions. The movie, as brought to the screen by Stephen Chbosky (The Perks of Being a Wallflower), who co-wrote the adaptation of R.J. Palacio’s novel, lacks sufficient dramatic heft to be considered the "full package." It’s too determined to jerk tears, manipulate emotions, and tie all the loose ends of life into tidy package. Until the first day of fifth grade, Auggie has been home-schooled. The reason is obvious the first time we meet him: his appearance, the result of more than two-dozen operations, is a mass of scars and misshapen tissue that illustrate how far medical science has to go before claiming victory over facial deformities. Auggie knows the reactions he will provoke: stares, uncomfortable glances away, and more stares. He’s prepared for these things and for the aversion and isolation that will accompany them but they hurt nonetheless. His educators, especially English teacher Mr. Browne (Daveed Diggs), are helpful, as is the headmaster of the private school, Mr. Tushman (Mandy Patinkin), but Auggie’s first day isn’t a good one. Things improve, however, when he makes his first friend: Jack Will (Noah Jupe), the first boy brave enough to risk being ostracized by bully Julian (Bryce Gheisar) for socializing with someone who looks like Darth Sidious.
Wonder explores the stories of other characters. Perhaps the most interesting is Via (Izabela Vidovic), Auggie’s older sister. Via’s experience is that of the "normal" sibling who becomes an afterthought in a family where the parents’ attention is focused on the special-needs child. Via doesn’t openly resent that Auggie gets the lion’s share of the attention available from her mother, Isabel (Julia Roberts), and father, Nate (Owen Wilson), but it’s obvious that she craves more in the way of affection and validation. Her life goes into a tailspin when her best friend, Miranda (Danielle Rose Russell), inexplicably breaks contact with her. Fortunately, when one door closes another opens and Via finds solace in school theater and a new boyfriend, Justin (Nadji Jeter). Acting is one of Wonder’s strong suits. Trembly, the child trapped with Oscar-winner Brie Larson in Room, presents Auggie as an inspirational figure when he could easily have been a tragic one. Vidovic, a TV regular, shows a range and maturity that argues in favor of her pursuing substantive roles in the future. The adult performers — Roberts, Wilson, and Patinkin — remain mostly in the background. This isn’t their story and none attempts to leap forward and grab the spotlight. Roberts and Wilson portray parents who love their children but have divergent parenting styles and Patinkin plays the headmaster/principal every child wishes he/she could have.
From its imagination-tinged opening to its Kumbaya ending, Wonder never forgets that its primary mission is to provide viewers with a non-threatening, warm-and-fuzzy experience. When conflict arises, as it must in all dramas, it’s never too intense or wrenching. By soft-peddling the narrative, the film may be underestimating its core audience. A movie like A Monster Calls, which targets the same general age range (and was also based on a book), doesn’t feel the need to carve out a "safe space" for its viewers. A Monster Calls is ultimately cathartic and uplifting but it acknowledges and confronts the unvarnished ugliness that lurks in dark corners. The result imparts a life-lesson while also delivering compelling drama. Wonder lacks the latter quality and it’s reasonable to question how strong its commitment is to the former.
The Man Who Invented Christmas conflates the biography of Charles Dickens (at least until 1843) with the events of one of his seminal works, A Christmas Carol. Watching the film leads one to the conclusion that, although the story might have worked as a straightforward bio-pic or a new adaptation of A Christmas Carol, it founders as-is. The way it has been presented, with forced and artificial junctions, keeps the viewer at arms-length from the story and creates questions about the historicity of some scenes. The movie opens with a brief prologue set during the author’s 1842 New York city visit then picks up again in 1843 as, with debts burgeoning and another child on the way, Dickens (Dan Stevens) finds himself in desperate need of a successful book — at a time when he is "blocked." The majority of the film depicts the various external influences that caused different elements to be present in A Christmas Carol as well as interactions between the author and one of his most famous characters, Ebenezer Scrooge (Christopher Plummer). His love-hate relationship with his spendthrift father, John (Jonathan Pryce), provides some dramatic fuel as do his memories of long, unpleasant days spent as a child working at Warren’s Blacking Warehouse. The film moves into questionable territory when it sets up Scrooge as an analog for Dickens and the "conversations" between writer and creation don’t work despite a strong performance by Plummer as the latter. The depictions of a few limited moments from A Christmas Carol are truncated and half-hearted; those hoping for more than a flavor of the story would be better served by seeking out one of several excellent adaptations. (The most notable, although by no means the only ones, are 1951’s classic Scrooge and a 1984 made-for-TV version starring George C. Scott.) The movie also offers a feeble dramatization of the writing process, having us believe that Dickens ranted and raved and talked to unseen apparitions while composing his story. (The reality is that most of A Christmas Carol was developed during long walks the author took through the streets of London.)
The movie’s attempts to humanize the legend are only moderately successful due in part to a lackluster performance by Stevens (who played The Beast in the recent live-action adaptation of the Disney musical Beauty and the Beast). Some is also the fault of the screenplay, which seems determined to mix the accepted real-life influences of A Christmas Carol with a litany of made-up ones. The idea that Dickens came up with the "elusive" ending during a late-night visit to the ruins of the blacking warehouse is the height of absurdity and is neither believable nor dramatically sound. To give some credit to director Bharat Nalluri, the set design is exceptional. The Victorian Era London is impeccably crafted, which makes Stevens’ anachronistic performance all the more off-putting. The title refers to Dickens’ role in reviving Christmas traditions and observances during the Victorian era. At the time when he wrote A Christmas Carol, the holiday was regaining popularity but there’s little doubt that the publication of the novella reinforced this trend. Social aspects of Christmas, especially those related to giving and spending time with family, were influenced by A Christmas Carol, so it’s not unreasonable to assert that the novelist was, to a degree, "the man who invented Christmas". Unfortunately, the movie bearing that name isn’t nearly as magical as one might hope. As interesting as it might sound to have an author and his creation conversing about weighty subjects like generosity and social injustice, the concept is more tantalizing than the execution. In terms of content, The Man Who Invented Christmas contains nothing inappropriate for family viewing, but I’d be hard-pressed to find a family that would find the experience enriching. It’s unlikely that watching this film will become the next great holiday tradition.
A word about spoilers in this review: For the most part, I have tried to avoid them. However, there is one development that I will openly reference. For many people, especially those who know about the behind-the-scenes details, this won’t be a surprise. However, it is a major plot point and those approaching the movie with a blank slate might not want to know about it. The first three paragraphs are safe to read for anyone. Those who have no clue what I’m hinting at, however, may want to come back after seeing the movie before proceeding beyond that point. When Marvel mapped out the trajectory for their Cinematic Universe, they were sometimes criticized for overthinking and overplanning. Nearly every major hero — Iron Man, Hulk, Captain America, Thor — had his own movie. Many of the secondary characters (including the villain) boasted significant screen time in one or more of the first five films. Only once all these things had been accomplished were the characters brought together for The Avengers. The formula worked. The Avengers was popcorn bliss, a superhero nirvana. DC, however, came late to the party. Riding the critical and popular success of Christopher Nolan’s Batman trilogy and smarting from the disappointing performance of Bryan Singer’s Superman Returns, they dithered and dallied and didn’t begin planning out the post-Dark Knight campaign until the MCU movie count was past the half-dozen mark and rising. The late start resulted in a rushed and ununified approach. Justice League arrives with three major characters who haven’t previously been introduced. As a result, this film has a lot of heavy background lifting to do — too much, in fact, for it to be able to tell a worthwhile story. Seventy percent of the movie is set-up for future tales. The rest is an overlong smack-down between our heroes and possibly the worst villain ever to appear in a comic book picture.
Marvel movies, for all their flaws, are almost always fun. Yes, the action and plotting follow familiar trajectories but there's usually wit in the screenplay and energy in the execution. Why is it that so many recent DC films (Wonder Woman excepted) feel like work? Why are the visuals so dark and muddy? I’ve said it before: Christopher Nolan understood how to make the darkness organic and necessary to the films, a part of their essential DNA. Not so with the DCEU films. The only one that really succeeds, Wonder Woman, does so in large part because director Patty Jenkins subscribed to a different aesthetic. Even though Zack Snyder was replaced late in the proceedings by The Avengers’ Joss Whedon (as a result of a personal tragedy), Justice League adheres too closely to the tone that hamstrung Man of Steel and Batman v Superman. Yes, there are more one-liners and some openly comedic scenes but there’s a vast gulf between the oh-so-serious events of Justice League and the antics of Thor: Ragnarok. Narrative-wise, Justice League is forced to do too many things. It has to re-unite Wonder Woman (Gal Gadot), fresh off her own film, with the Ben Affleck iteration of Batman. (Because Affleck hasn’t yet gotten his own stand-alone film, we still don’t really know this rendition of The Dark Knight, except that his costume is bluer than his immediate predecessor’s and his Bat Cave is more high-tech. It would have helped immeasurably if the DCEU had taken the time for a proper re-introduction of a signature character.) To help in that department, it brings back supporting players Queen Hippolyta (Connie Nielsen), Alfred (Jeremy Irons), and Commissioner Gordon (J.K. Simmons). The movie also has to introduce Aquaman (Jason Momoa), The Flash (Ezra Miller), and Cyborg (Ray Fisher), and provide them with mini-origin stories. Then there’s the necessity of resurrecting Superman (Henry Cavill), because that character remains a key foundation of any DCEU movie even though he "died" at the end of Batman v Superman. Lois Lane (Amy Adams) and Martha Kent (Diane Lane) are on hand to represent the Superman support section.
As if all this wasn’t enough, Justice League also feels compelled to give us a Big Bad Guy whose muddled purpose has something to do with becoming a new god and possibly preparing the way for Darkseid, who might end up becoming the DCEU’s version of Thanos. This McGuffin-villain, Steppenwolf (a motion-captured Ciaran Hinds), has a poorly-defined backstory and no personality beyond crush-destroy-burn. He provides the catalyst that brings the Justice League together. In the grand scheme of things, he is inconsequential. Although screen time is carefully parceled out, Snyder ensures that each Justice League member gets a moment to shine. In the wake of Wonder Woman’s success, one might expect to see more of Diana Prince in the final cut but the massive box office windfall from that film hit too late for her role to be substantially beefed up for Justice League (although she still has more screen time than anyone other than Batman). Fortunately, there’s good chemistry among the various actors and the yin/yang friendship/rivalry aspects of The Justice League members work well. Of the supporting cast members, Adams and Irons are well-utilized. Everyone else is extraneous.
All movie trailers are meant to be enticing — vehicles to encourage you to spend money to see the entire film. Some work better, for me, than others and this is one of those. The movie opens June 22.
Although Guillermo del Toro was never given the opportunity to bring his vision of The Hobbit to the screen, movie-goers over the years have not been deprived of his brand of horror-tinged fantasy. With his latest, the story is a variation on Beauty and the Beast with a "monster" who resembles the Creature from the Black Lagoon. Yet, as is sometimes the case in tales of this nature, appearance is no determiner of true beauty, and gentleness and compassion rarely go unrewarded. The Shape of Water is an adult fairy tale that encourages the same emotional responses often engendered by such simple, heartfelt stories. It’s hard to come away from this film and not believe that, in his heart, writer/director del Toro is a romantic.
The movie is set in the 1960s and, as with del Toro’s Pan’s Labyrinth, real world concerns (in this case, Cold War espionage) are conflated with fantasy. The three protagonists are members of a minority or suffer from a disability — Sally Hawkins’ Elisa is mute, Octavia Spencer’s Zelda is black, and Richard Jenkins’ Giles is a closeted gay man — while the antagonist, Michael Shannon’s Strickland, is a clean-cut, hard-working WASP. By thus establishing the foundation, del Toro is able to make a social statement before introducing the merman into the equation. The Shape of Water is very much about cultural and racial myth-busting. Hawkins is one of the most accomplished working character actors but she is not what one would consider to be conventionally beautiful. She looks more like a next-door neighbor than a movie actress. For The Shape of Water, it doesn’t matter — you’ll fall in love with her in what amounts to the best performance of a career of often overlooked top-notch portrayals. She’s luminous. She sells the movie, transforming an inter-species romance into something delicate and delightful. And she does all this without a line of dialogue. Purportedly, in order to play Elisa, she studied Chaplin and other silent film greats and, through this, discovered how to convey emotion through gestures and expressions.
Few actors can play a handsome monster better than Shannon. The guy is scary and intense and that intensity makes Strickland a frightening villain: a sadist, a butcher, and the ugliest sort of patriot. Even in his home life — a typical suburban existence — he’s a coiled spring ready to go off. Jenkins, playing a part originally envisioned for Ian McKellan, mixes wry humor with deep humanity as Giles, Elisa’s father-figure. An underused Spencer brings warmth to the stereotyped "best friend" role and Doug Jones, a frequent collaborator of the director (he played the Pale Man in Pan’s Labyrinth), imbues the amphibious man with a degree of humanity that might have been difficult to achieve via motion capture (del Toro opted for the old-fashioned 3-hour makeup job instead of pure CGI). The movie opens by introducing us to Elisa and providing a snapshot of her daily routine. She makes a living by working as a cleaning woman at a military facility. After work, she comes home to an apartment she shares with Giles and goes about her nightly activities: hard-boiling eggs, taking a bath, and masturbating. All the while, the muffled sounds of movies float up from below; the apartment is atop a theater. Then, one day, Strickland arrives at Elisa’s workplace along with a scientist, Dr. Hoffstetler (Michael Stuhlbarg), and something referred to only as "the asset." Elisa is curious about the creature, who is kept chained in an oversized tub of water. She sneaks in to see him and, by offering him an egg, establishes the beginning of a tentative bond. She teaches her new friend sign language and, when Strickland receives permission from his superiors to vivisect the creature, she enlists Giles to help her with an elaborate escape plan.
The romantic aspect of The Shape of Water touches in ways many conventional love stories do not. Both Elisa and the creature are lonely souls. We know little about his background except that he was "discovered" in the Amazon where he was worshipped as a god. Elisa’s story is equally murky, although we learn that she was orphaned after someone tried to slit her throat as a child. Physical appearance is irrelevant; it’s the heart that matters. That’s the message of Beauty and the Beast and The Shape of Water, except Elisa isn’t a princess and the creature isn’t a man trapped by a magical spell. Aspects of The Shape of Water recall E.T. As in Spielberg’s classic, this movie features of a group of unlikely heroes defying government forces to save a beloved friend and return him home. Or maybe Starman would be a better comparison because in John Carpenter’s 1984 feature, love and romance blossomed. Regardless of which antecedent you prefer, The Shape of Water is a special movie with relevant themes and a strong emotional payoff. It rebukes intolerance, affirms love in all its forms and guises, and does so with a strong dose of adventure and suspense. It arguably didn’t deserve the Oscar as the best picture of the year, but it is definitely one of last year’s best films.
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