This movie was staid when it should have slayed. An intriguing premise devolves into just a bunch of running scared in Tim Story’s horror satire The Blackening (D). The film follows a group of Black friends on a Juneteenth holiday weekend who encounter masked murderers while staying at a cabin in the woods. At the film’s core is a mysterious board game that turns players against one another in a type of racial roulette, but most of the plot is just actors running from room to room screaming. Grace Byers and Melvin Gregg are among the accomplished standouts in the ensemble. Among those who stand out for all the wrong reasons, Jermaine Fowler gives a stupendously misguided performance, jawdropping in its caricature. Story shows scant skill in helming this type of horror movie, with no cleverness to the kills or pacing for the scares. There’s more mystery and suspense in any given Scooby-Doo episode. What could have been a sly play on tropes or an intellectual dissection of the role race plays in these kinds of movies is largely squandered. In terms of dignity of daring, nobody gets out of this one alive.
Existential and terrestrial, Wes Anderson’s Asteroid City (C-) also proves a quite inert affair within its lovely and meticulous menagerie of production design and between its fussy and overcomplicated bookends. It’s fitting there’s a subplot about aliens, as most actors in Anderson’s ensemble appear to only mimic the way earthly humans actually act and speak. The best thing about the film is its stylized use of whimsical color and imaginative set pieces amidst a widescreen panorama; there’s no mistaking in every genus and species and frame of the picture that it’s an Anderson film. Framed with an obtuse artifice of putting on a theatrical play, the central act of cinema revolves around denizens gathered in a remote desert town for an astronomy and invention convention circa 1955. The characters engage in conversations and quirks, but there’s little narrative thrust or storytelling propulsion governing the work. Vintage Altman it’s not. Much of this mawkish enterprise feels like Anderson bringing a Pinterest mood board to life. Someone must have vociferously complimented him in kindergarten show and tell, as adult Anderson shows great relish cataloguing collections of items and actors. No performer stands out much in this deadpan diorama; Jason Schwartzman as a dad and war photographer is the closest thing to a protagonist, and even his character goes largely undeveloped. The kid actors get a few funny bits, and many of Anderson’s regulars – from Jeffrey Wright to Tilda Swinton – get some droll moments in the spotlight. It’s all pretty stargazing but doesn’t add up to much.
A sweet story of unconventional friendship disguised as a raunchy comedy, Gene Stupntisky’s No Hard Feelings (B) pairs movie luminary Jennifer Lawrence with rising Broadway star Andrew Barth Feldman as characters meeting under unusual circumstances and creating quite a bond. The young man’s wealthy parents (an amusing if underused Matthew Broderick and Laura Benanti) want to bring their son out of his shell and turn to a down-on-her-luck thirtysomething Uber driver and bartender to help him lose his virginity and inhibition. Set in the coastal hamlet of Montauk, the film traces the misadventures triggered by an absurd premise, and both Lawrence and Feldman prove deft physical actors for the comedic chemistry of the occasion. Feldman in particular captures comic gold in his priceless reactions and even gets a moment to showcase his stunning vocal stylings. There are moments of wit and pathos amidst a bunch of adult gags, although it never gets as weird or wild as it could. It’s nice to see Lawrence getting loose and limber in this kind of loopy role after some of her more dramatic turns. This is a breezy, funny lark.
Premiered at Sundance Film Festival and now playing in select theatres including The Tara in Atlanta.
Casting Julia Louis-Dreyfus as a neurotic New Yorker hardly seems novel, but the brassy comedienne’s latest starring turn emerges as an enjoyable lark with ample doses of heart and hilarity beneath the hard edges. Writer/director Nicole Holofcener’s dramedy You Hurt My Feelings (B+) features the high-strung star in a winning, old-fashioned comedy of manners with a funny ensemble of lesser-known collaborators also effective in their roles. First world problems are front and center as the delicate characters endeavor to tiptoe around contemporary challenges without getting sucked down an emotional spiral. Louis-Dreyfus plays Beth, an author who struggles with a lack of self-confidence, and her marriage with an unsuccessful therapist portrayed by Tobias Menzies is thrown into a tizzy when she overhears he’s not a fan of her new work of fiction. Before this revelation, the couple had a peaceful but co-dependent relationship, which makes their only child (Owen Teague) uncomfortable. As Beth’s interior designer sister, Michaela Watkins is a hoot, and she helps Beth cope with her angst, possibly because of her own struggles with an underemployed actor husband (Arian Moeyed). Holofcener is skilled with wry, observational humor and captures breakthroughs in the banter, especially in the margins and knowing looks of disbelief between the two sisters. The relationship between Louis-Dreyfus and Watkins as siblings is marvelous to behold as they balance trying to be good people in a brittle world, accentuated by the appearance of their prickly mom, played with dry wit by Jeannie Berlin. Themes about micro-aggressions and the sweet lies lovers tell one another to blunt the pain are highly relatable. Awkward therapy sessions, debates about v-necks and leftovers and frequent attempts to smooth the rough edges of uncomfortable situations caused by other people abound in this talky, remarkably brisk and recommended film.
Kelly Fremon Craig’s joyfully innocent adaptation of the Judy Blume young adult novel Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret (A) is the book club conversation a generation has waited a half century to manifest. And it’s a modern-day film classic. Raised by a Christian mother (Rachel McAdams) and a Jewish father (Benny Safdie), a 12-year old girl (Abby Ryder Fortson) embarks on a series of questions about religion and faith while averting the preteen perils of life in the sixth grade. Craig magnificently evokes the 1970s milieu of the source material, with a spin the bottle smorgasbord of funny and heartwarming episodes ranging from fitting into a curious club to fitting into a bra. Fortson is a natural as the titular character at the center of her own set of crushes and crashes; she anchors the film with fortitude and nary a false move. She’s worthy of all accolades. Graduating from her own mean girls mentality, McAdams is exquisite as the eternally plucky mom, and Kathy Bates is a hoot as the family’s wry paternal grandmother. The film maintains sublime seriocomic delicacy as it balances glimpses at various belief systems and plumbs some taboos on the verge of adolescence. It’s heartwarming throughout, without a dash of cynicism. See it with someone you cherish.
The grand tradition of the dramatic road trip movie, so splendidly rendered in films such as Rain Man andY TuMamá También, can add a new sentimental two-hander to its ranks in Sheridan O’Donnell’s Little Brother (A-), an intimate and inspiring indie that world premiered at the Atlanta Film Festival. Jake, portrayed by Daniel Diemer, has been tasked by his father (J.K. Simmons) to reluctantly transport his suicidal older brother Pete, played by Philip Ettinger, home for a family intervention. The dynamic between the central brothers in motion through a brittle journey to face their sometimes fractured bond, is thoroughly captivating, alternately heartbreaking and hilarious; and their pathway through the gorgeous West in locations such as Albuquerque and Twin Falls makes for an enjoyable and enlightening ride. As Pete, Ellinger diffuses the effects of mental illness with humor and regression to juvenile highjinks to mask his inner tumult. He’s consistently absorbing and magnetic in the tricky part. As the sometimes stoic straight man, Diemer has a tough role too and slays it with steely restraint. His tender depiction of abiding brotherly love is also sublime. When the siblings come to breakthroughs in how to confront and reconcile mental distress that’s not likely to vanish from looming large, O’Donnell continues to nourish the story with direction and dialogue which is rarely reductive or overly sentimental. This is the kind of movie that can save lives, and its notions of making the most of one’s lived experience and savoring the familial bonds to lift us when most needed have the power to deeply move.
Plumbers mysteriously vanishing into an unknown universe isn’t just the scenario homeowners find themselves in when their toilets are backed up; it’s also the premise dogging video game siblings Mario and Luigi for damn near four decades. Aaron Horvath and Michael Jelenic’s The Super Mario Bros. Movie (B-) animates Brooklyn’s cunning craftsmen with Chris Pratt spryly voicing heroic Mario and Charlie Day endearingly embodying his timid fraternal twin brother Luigi. Partnered with feisty fighter Princess Peach (Anya Taylor-Joy), Mario must save his brother from the clutches of Bowser (Jack Black) who threatens to topple an idyllic Mushroom Kingdom the guys discover in an underground pipe lair. The movie is full bounce off the walls energy with kaleidoscopic colors and clever details dotting every horizon. But the uninspired script often throws a wrench in the good time with lackluster color by number plot points and groaner catch phrases. The highlight is Black’s Bowser chewing the scenery with relish and even tickling the ivories. He’s clearly in on the joke. Ultimately it’s hard not to be swept up in the parkour and pinball wizardry of the action sequences, and it’s largely good clean fun for the family. Despite some rather obvious needle drops on the soundtrack, Brian Tyler composes rousing music inspired by classic game play. The nostalgia factor is strong, and as Donkey Kong barrel battles and kart races on rainbows commence for the film’s mercifully brisk run time, you simply surrender and take the plunge.
All the joys of the Scream franchise – surprise slayings, fun rules, sly cinephile references, newbies and nostalgia, all in a wily whodunit package, come together effectively in Scream VI (B+) co-directed by Matt Bettinelli-Olpin and Tyler Gillett. Characters who seemed tentative in the last go-round come of age with self-assurance in this installment with an invigorating change of venue to New York City. Melissa Barrera and Jenna Ortega are dynamite as the central sisters smarting from the events of the 2022 film, and Jasmin Savoy Brown, Liana Liberato, Courteney Cox and Hayden Panettiere are among the standouts in the ensemble. The co-directors make great spectacle of Manhattan’s alleyways, brownstones, subways and even a movie palace as their topsy turvy series entry stylishly careens to effective showdowns. The whole movie is about subverting expectations with ample surprises up its sleeve. There’s a highly effective sequence to tickle the fancy of horror movie fans with a near-fancon of spooky cameos plus an array of genuinely suspenseful action scenes and a lot more gore. This energized entry brings some glory back to Ghostface.
Director Elizabeth Banks and her game ensemble let loose with a devil-may-care bear tale and keep their powder dry with a sustained sassy stoner tone in the 1985-set action comedy Cocaine Bear (B-). O’Shea Jackson, Jr. and Alden Ehrenreich are a hoot as talky henchmen in search of a duffel bag full of drugs fallen from the sky and partially ingested by an American black bear in a Georgia forest. Margo Martindale is splendidly on brand for this lark as a ranger who “blow”-viates and practices her uneasy aim with a gun. The late Ray Liotta is sinister as the baddie who wants his stash returned and isn’t afraid to fight a sky-high mammal to retrieve it. As far as concerned moms go, Keri Russell and her kids are generally upstaged by the CGI bear and her cubs. The film keeps upping the ante with fun and frivolous tongue in cheek antics and an assortment of severed limbs. Bonkers comedic misadventures abound. It’s a silly premise well executed. Certainly no one forgets their lines!
All this tease from a tepid trilogy has revealed Tampa’s titular hero has simply been a frustrated theatrical choreographer all along. Steven Soderbergh is back at the helm for the third and hopefully final outing, Magic Mike’s Last Dance (C-). The director smashes his endowed everyman Channing Tatum against a proposal from a wealthy businesswoman played by Salma Hayek Pinault to direct a West End London adult entertainment revue disguised as a comedy of manners. It’s a convoluted plot when one isn’t really needed, plus it’s punctuated with observational voice-over narration as if it’s an academic exercise tracking the taxonomies of exotic dancers for a medical journal. Since there really is a British live stage show based on the dancing characters from this series, it’s also one of cinema’s most naked commercial cash grabs since Mac and Me and Million Dollar Mystery, ‘80s films that hawked fast food and trash bags, respectively. There’s a nicely shot smooth dance sequence at the beginning and another at the end, and the central romance between the charming leads has a swirl of sweet moments, but most of the film is either dull or misbegotten. A full proscenium of pole dancers still can’t conjure a respectable spectacle. Unlike the first two films when the ensemble is a winning part of the formula, this time the talented dancers are hardly given any speaking parts at all. Of course Soderbergh is trading in fantasy wish fulfillment, but the plot strains credulity and logic in too many ways to be taken seriously or even to function as campy guilty pleasure. The tones are so wildly different in this trio of thong and dance films that they might as well be classified as an anthology loosely based on a similar notion with one common cast member. What started with a g-string and a prayer has packed on so many layers, the series has almost forgotten it’s supposed to be about strippers. This film strains for the graceful exit.
Premiered February 2023 at Atlanta Jewish Film Festival. Festival runs through Feb, 21, 2023 with tickets to an array of narrative and documentary films available here: https://ajff.org/
An empty nest couple caught in a rut experiences the truth serum of a lifetime when a charismatic stranger moves into the penthouse of their Israeli high rise and lures them into his hedonistic lifestyle in Moshe Rosenthal’s Karaoke (A-), a sly and sentimental story about coming of age later in life. Sasson Gabay and Rita Shikrun are a delight as the introverted husband and ebullient wife both irritated and intrigued by their new neighbor, suavely portrayed by Lior Ashkenazi. Questions of identity and fidelity ensue when the central characters experience a triangle of mild madness as they endeavor to march to the sonic sounds of an unexpected vocoder. Rosenthal orchestrates the observational comedy with finesse as his sixty-somethings embark on a rebellious detour and a rage against the FOMO. There are some tender sequences involving music and dance which add to the expression and character exploration. This international film is a solid companion piece to Parasite, as middle class mores become trumped and tested by those at the top. It’s a marvelous and affecting work worthy of a mic drop., as middle class mores become trumped and tested by those at the top. It’s a marvelous and affecting work worthy of a mic drop.
The future in plastics once predicted in the ‘60s comes full circle in Noah Baumbach’s absurdist ‘80s-set dark comedy White Noise (C), in which airborne toxic events, misbegotten drug deals and the power of suggestion in consumerist culture swirl in the whirling dervish of a day-glo college town. This is far from linear or logical stuff, and it only works in spurts despite lots of creativity. Based on Don DeLillo’s notoriously unadaptable postmodern novel, this go-for-broke movie introduces all sorts of intriguing ideas which are equal parts fascinating and face palm worthy. Adam Driver is the assured oddity at the center of the proceedings as an eccentric professor of Hitler studies, surrounded domestically by a bunch of loquacious, precocious offspring from multiple marriages. His current wife played by a wryly funny Greta Gerwig is largely defined by a penne pasta meets poodle inspired haircut and a possible secret. Another talky teacher friend played with relish by Don Cheadle harbors awe for Elvis and supermarkets. The plot is a series of strange events, some that linger too lovingly long on their source material roots. The ensemble’s commitment to a hilariously heightened vibe is admirable though and makes for an uneven but readymade cult sensation, a bonkers love child of Robert Altman, Steven Spielberg and Kurt Vonnegut. Perhaps the film should be accompanied RockyHorror style with a survival kit baggie of edibles. If you make it to the end, enjoy a closing credit musical sequence that’s somewhat more thematically cogent than the feature overstaying its welcome preceding it.
