Translating a stage musical based on a non-musical movie back into a film musical is a tricky translation (musicalized movies of The Little Shop of Horrors, Hairspray and The Color Purple largely worked, while 2005’s The Producers was a slog). The 2025 film Kiss of the Spider Woman (C+), directed by Bill Condon and based on the original Oscar-winning 1985 movie and its 1993 Kander & Ebb Broadway musical adaptation, suffers from awkward pacing, tonal dissonance and, ironically, an inert staginess. The premise, that an odd couple of Argentine political prisoners bond over a parallel tale of a classic movie star in an iconic double role including the titular character embodied by Jennifer Lopez. Tonatiuh and Diego Luna are terrific as the inmates, doing their best possible acting in a format conceit that can’t quite figure out if the prison-set framing device is the central story or the Technicolor film-within-the-film actually is. Lopez acquits herself admirably with good singing and excellent dancing – and style for days – but still her work is a bit distant. Plus the musical numbers, sometimes inventively realized, don’t often move the narrative forward. Strangely some of the film’s final act sequences reflect Condon’s aim, but the movie fails to fully come together for much of its duration. Art direction and costumes are strong. Alas the potential for razzle dazzle here proves as dim as its likely awards prospects.
Writer/director Paul Thomas Anderson has honed a singular cottage filmmaking industry lending a sympathetic gaze to insular groups such as the denizens of the Hollywood hills, religious cultists, oil tycoons and fashion house provocateurs. Now he leverages the lives of an interlocking series of domestic terrorists to make points about humanity and society, with mixed and sometimes muddled results. His One Battle After Another (B-) explores the notion of passing along to a next generation an uncanny revolutionary spirit via the explosive relationship of American vigilantes played by Teyana Taylor and Leonardo DiCaprio and their teenage offspring played by newcomer Chase Infiniti. In modern times, DiCaprio’s character is regularly killing a few brain cells, but he’s also a protective father living off the grid who gets pulled into a propulsive powder-keg when a villain from the past (a white supremacist military man played by Sean Penn) threatens his beloved daughter. Anderson’s kinetic visual style is well-suited to a series of action set pieces traversing cramped immigrant camps and hideaways, the wide desert canvas of hilly highways and the parkour of it all with escapes atop and across city rooftops. The movie’s story and script are lacking, and the characterizations lose focus amidst the progressive acts of chaos. The film’s long running time, seemingly enough space to adequately explore its characters, strangely sidelines and shortchanges members of its otherwise fascinating family. Penn actually gets the showiest part, but even the choices he makes in portraying this quirky character don’t always make complete sense. The film is frisky and funniest when featuring DiCaprio’s misanthropic humor as his character forgets passwords and chides those easily triggered. Despite some grace notes in the final act, Anderson doesn’t fully sell his thesis, and his hot takes aren’t even pointed enough to provide direct allegory for contemporary times. This loose adaptation of the novel Vineland is either an overlong lark or a short shrift to characters needing more developing. It’s sometimes PTA’s perpetual prattle that keeps happening again and again.
This is a movie in which acting itself is a combat sport. Dwayne Johnson and Emily Blunt offer transformative performances, but it’s not always clear to what end in Benny Safdie’s real-life mixed martial arts fighting origin story The Smashing Machine (C+). Johnson plays MMA fighter Mark Kerr at the plateau of career success while simultaneously fighting painkiller addiction and a toxic marriage. It’s a film of very few surprises. Safdie’s watchful camera traces the pugilistic protagonist through globetrotting sports adventures and intimate domestic drama sequences, all the while artfully showcasing the man’s bombast and vulnerability. Emily Blunt is feral in her role as the spouse competing for his attention versus the sport itself. She chews whatever scenery her husband isn’t smashing; it’s a bit like another universe is calling and wants her performance back. Ryan Bader as Kerr’s longtime friend and fellow fighter actually comes across most interesting in the mix with empathetic Everyman appeal. It’s refreshing to see Johnson try a more overtly dramatic role on for size, and he acquits himself admirably on the journey, fully inhabiting a real guy seemingly very different from his own persona. Alas the film’s story doesn’t fully deliver on what clearly fascinated its makers, and no amount of artifice can conceal it’s just not all that interesting. In fact, at its most indulgent moments, the film feels a bit fabricated for awards season clip reels. See 2011’s Warrior for a more absorbing and nuanced take on the drama which can be harvested from the MMA.
Call it a self-help book on film for becoming a man. It may be based on one of Stephen King’s earliest writings from 1979, but the grim dystopian domestic future of Francis Lawrence’s The Long Walk (B+) now feels like it could be happening in today’s America a few weeks or months from now, with lessons of utmost consequence. The fleeting facade of wistful young male life gets full anthropological examination here, prescient in a week characterized by cauldrons of vengeance, violence, chasms of disagreement and debate about forgiveness, martyrdom and legacy playing out in real time on everyone’s feeds, cable news and conversations. The story goes like this: Each year a group of 50 fresh-faced young men take part in a televised walking contest across a stark, abandoned U.S. highway, marching continuously or else they’ll be individually executed, until only one remains. The film zeroes in on one of these consorts making their mostly futile trek. Although undoubtedly an allegory for a Vietnam War platoon when written, the reverse-purge survival of the fittest events depicted in the film, set in totalitarian times, reveal a stunningly diverse set of behaviors about male bonding, toxicity and both hopeless and hopeful life philosophies not so far removed from young male life in the evolving experiment of today. Cooper Hoffman and David Jonsson are flat-out phenomenal as the dual protagonists who become best friends on the journey; they provide indelible characterizations and much of the heart and humor in an otherwise brutal environment along the intersection of Pier Paolo Pasolini and the Marquis de Sade. There are such shades here of King’s own The Shawshank Redemption (unexpected venue for spiritual dialogue) and the Lawrence-directed The Hunger Games (lottery ticket with human stakes), it’s no wonder the source material and director were so lock-stepped. Mark Hamill is nearly unrecognizable as a ubiquitous hybrid TV host/drill sergeant who is chilling but underdeveloped in his blissful menace. The film opts to be very graphic in its parade of cranium kills, and candid in its language and depiction of anatomical challenges along the journey, almost daring audiences to turn a wincing eye from the horrors of the propulsive proceedings. The very nature of the film being told in what amounts to near perpetual motion makes for a singular experience of naturalistic moviemaking. Many details about the story’s exact time and location are left to the imagination, a la Civil War, a curious choice sometimes freeing and equally often perplexing. Evoking the literate and pop culturally attuned characters of The Outsiders or Stand by Me, there’s a feeling this talented ensemble is recognizing its place in a Mark Twain meets Aldous Huxley universe, or even Biblical end times, grasping for the meaning of it all. It’s a very tough watch but thoughtful and rewarding to those on its wavelength. There are universal takeaways and truths in what feels both contemporary and bygone. For all of its chilling carnage, this sturdy dying-of-age film reveals glimmers of hope about how people can attune personal outlook to approach every next step with purpose.
From discordant opening sequences to a transcendent finale, the Spike Lee’s latest operates in an auspicious plane as “most improved Joint.” Highest 2 Lowest (B-), playing in select theatres before streaming on Apple+, is Lee’s neo-noir remake of Akira Kurosawa’s 1963 High and Low, and Lee makes the story completely his own with contemporary themes about public image, wealth and morality. The director appears to have a lot on his mind, including how to spend one’s time making art and impacting society; there are artifacts throughout the protagonist’s home and world showcasing the giants of history on whose shoulders its characters stand. The plot is centered on a charismatic but stoic music mogul played by Denzel Washington, with small parts for his wife (Ilfenesh Hadera) and his chauffeur/henchman (Jeffrey Wright), who get much less to do. Together this trio confronts double-crosses in ways that feel at first overly melodramatic and ultimately cathartic. The ensemble also includes music artists ASAP Rocky and Ice Spice creating original characters plus basketballer Rick Fox, actors Rosie Perez and Anthony Ramos and pianist Eddie Palmieri inexplicably playing themselves. The film’s first act leans too much into subversive symbolism with sparse characters posed and juxtaposed against a towering NYC/Brooklyn borderland and an all-too-perfect family underscored by a fussy score. The Howard Drossin music massively improves and makes better sense as the film moves into more kinetic action; it’s soon downright rousing. There’s lots to recommend for viewers who hang in there for the full parable, not the least of which is another towering and nuanced performance by Washington. The parts of the film which are twisty are nifty; other lumpy portions work in circulative spurts. It’s esoteric, genre-defying and largely entertaining with a narrative examining modern anxieties and legacy.
For his latest neo-Western fantasia fixated on uncompromising characters maneuvering the tripwires and powder kegs of modern life, Ari Aster dusts up a flurry of ideas and then leaves his audience largely befuddled! The nervy politically-charged dark comedy Eddington (C-) rolls the clock back just a few short years to the opening months of pandemic lockdown in his titular fictional New Mexico town, and a whole lot of story subsequently goes down. Aster finds ample horror in the built-in anxieties of the darkest echo chambers even as many of his ambitious storytelling conventions often fall by the wayside. Joaquin Phoenix as the mask-eschewing sheriff and Pedro Pascal as the by-the-books mayor appear destined for an epic showdown, but largely the writer/director squanders his setup with characters all dressed up with nowhere to go. Phoenix, whose lawman is festooned with iconic holster and inhaler, is entrusted with another in his pantheon of eccentric characters; and although he’s consistently enjoyable to watch, the plot around this very flawed antihero splinters into such a madcap and preposterous series of detours, it simply can’t hold its thesis. Intriguing bit parts by Emma Stone and Austin Butler enliven subplots served like a sentence diagrammed into infinity. The film ultimately proves reductive, as flimsy as a facemask drooping below one’s nose. It’s often as if Aster doesn’t mind punishing his audience and leaving them perplexed, and the cavalcade of ideas he presents rarely coalesce into clarity of purpose. The collaboration between Aster and his cinematographer Darius Khondji is one of the movie’s highlight, though, creating widescreen vistas blending the everyday with the surreal to evoke contemporary anxieties and isolation, all the while depicting mobile devices as weapons to disarm and cancel one another. There’s gallows humor aplenty and a series of snarky surprises for those who can endure the full expanse of Aster’s fever dream of a presentation, but his brand of satire lacks subtlety and unfortunately his enterprise often careens from daring to drudgery. It’s urban sprawl on a small scale and a near-miss in a sometimes frustrating auteur’s catalogue.
Director Joseph Kosinski generally elevates the saga of another aging maverick with a need for speed in the polished sports adventure F1 (B+) set amidst the globetrotting Grand Prix of the Formula One World Championship, with its glam characters connected at the hip to the fastest regulated road-course racing cars on earth. Brad Pitt is an American pro driver on the last leg of a rough and tumble history recruited by an old friend and now team owner played by Javier Bardem as a last ditch effort to elevate his struggling franchise; and with the help of Irish actress Kerry Condon as the team’s technical director and British actor Damson Idris as a cocky rookie, they’re off to the races. The movie makes the motorsport majestic on screen, buoyed by the strength of this charismatic acting quartet and especially Pitt’s casual, grizzled grace. Character development by quip service and plot conflicts as largely obligatory obstacles rarely sideline Kosinski’s kinetic placemaking marked by wide open, brisk and bustling raceway vistas. This summer tentpole is an exercise in stargazing, lifted in all cases by the quality of the ensemble and film crafts including clutch cinematography by Claudio Miranda and spirited music by Hans Zimmer, as the flick’s flimsy contours hardly support its ample running time. But as an immersive action experience, it’s a lowkey lark, a technical tour de force to be reckoned with for fans of the charming movie star, a game director and the conventions of the racing genre.
It ultimately delivers a noble message about appreciating the finite nature of human life and its myriad connections, but Mike Flanagan’s sentimental and befuddling The Life of Chuck (C-) takes the form of a gourmet pretzel cooling off for a significant spell before it finally cuts the mustard. Because Stephen King doesn’t write Hallmark cards, his adapted source material is called a novella; and in three acts told in reverse order, the tonally confused film of this story traces an array of key moments in the titular character’s timeline. These incidents range from stargazing at the end of the world to spontaneous dancing in public, but the sweet and salty sequences rarely coalesce into a satisfying meal. There’s an emptiness at the center of the movie that well-meaning actors ranging from Tom Hiddleston to Jacob Tremblay playing Chuck at various ages can’t adequately embody. Supporting characters dole out doses of wisdom in this treacly journey, and actors such as Chiwetel Ejiofor and Mark Hamill don’t get much to do in their passages. The combination of a lack of gravity in the film’s core and the backwards storytelling cloak the film’s perky emptiness. There’s a chance some of the individual revelations may touch viewers in various ways, but it could also just be relief that the film is reaching completion. Wistful narration and nostalgia aren’t enough to fill in the blanks of this listless film.
NOTE: This Cannes Film Festival 2024 entry premiered April 26, 2025 at the Atlanta Film Festival.
It’s a turf war for a surf corps as Nicolas Cage’s character, revisiting his idyllic childhood beach with an optimistic nostalgia, becomes entangled in an escalating conflict with local bullies led by Julian McMahon that pushes him to his psychological limits. Lorcan Fennigan’s offbeat thriller The Surfer (B) summons that urge to avenge those who have crushed one’s precious sandcastle or pierced the armor of one’s very existence. The film is a triumph of mood and tone, filmed on a sun-baked Australian shore where even the animals appear to be mocking the titular character’s plight while a twisted form of toxic masculinity settles in on the seaside enclave. The film is told from Cage’s objective point of view, and audiences will truly relate to the notion of a world crumbling around his increasingly pathetic persona. The bright colors of cars and cabanas eclipse the man’s harrowing breakdown while the exotica style music seems to gleefully dance on his living grave. This is Cage at his most Cagey, culminating in some truly outrageous misadventures as he employs survival tactics in a myopic and petty tribal battle; even eating and drinking become a ridiculous ritual for this man entrenched against the world. His character isn’t really crafty enough to go full Falling Down on his adversaries, but it’s all a fascinating journey into this particular rabbit hole. McMahon’s character is a delightful primal match for him, and the set pieces and situations set up a perfect insular environment for a complete unravel. The film isn’t terribly insightful but is mostly rather riveting. Experience the undertow of this playful and peculiar tale; but whenever the crafty Cage is involved in an idiosyncratic project, swim at your own risk.
In the grand cinematic tradition of voyeurs becoming involved with their subjects, two unlikely men assume the archetypal roles in Carmen Emmi’s Plainclothes (B). Set in ‘90s New York, a working-class undercover officer (Tom Blyth) is tasked with entrapping and apprehending gay men, only to find himself drawn to one of his targets, portrayed by Russell Tovey. The acts of surveillance – especially footage in VHS and CCTV forms – add texture to Emmi’s creative and intimate camera work. Blyth is the fascinating find here; he’s absorbing to observe when both stoic and displaying utter yearning. There are lovely set pieces ranging from a matinee movie palace to a botanical garden greenhouse adding atmosphere to the furtive romance. Despite good performances, some plot elements feel routine, and the central leads’ familial stakes are largely given short shrift. Overall it’s a good watch.
Many of the best moms in the movies tend to carry a tune (Mamma Mia!, The Sound of Music), pack a punch or a wallop (The Terminator, Aliens) or be played by Sally Field. Joining this hallowed pantheon is Fernanda Torres as Eunice Paiva, the matriarch who keeps a brave face despite her dissident husband’s forced disappearance during the military dictatorship regime of 1970 Brazil in the Walter Salles film I’m Still Here (Ainda Estou Aqui) (B+). The film does a masterful job setting up the idyllic seaside metropolitan life of its real-life family, with ominous foreshadowing of imminent dangers. Torres is towering as the woman who finds her agency and strength especially when the walls of her world come crashing. Her character’s dignity makes for one of the awards season’s best performances. Selton Mello deftly portrays the loving husband and father and former politician whose actions appear furtive to the ruling class. Salles mixes panoramic shots, home movie style camera storytelling and chilly claustrophobic interiors as the family gets systematically expelled from their Eden of Rio. Beyond the central couple, it’s a bit harder for viewers to get to know all of the family’s joyous offspring, played by multiple actors over the decades, but everyone is roundly committed to the narrative. The cautionary tale of censorship and watch lists and jailing one’s enemy and stoking the embers of resistance are all resonant in this gripping story. But it’s Torres as the mama chameleon commanding the screen who emerges as the film’s VIP.
Similar stylistically to the way the under-seen Saturday Night movie chronicled the manic real-time energy and high-stakes high jinks of the first SNL telecast circa 1975, Tim Fehlbaum’s authentic historical drama September 5 (B+) showcases pivotal broadcast news events with panache and expert detail; and in this case the stakes aren’t laughs but lives. This sturdy thriller transports viewers to the titular day in 1972 Munich, Germany, when an ABC Sports crew found itself the makeshift coverage team for a terrorism act in progress as Palestinian militant group Black September kidnaps and threatens the lives of Israeli athletes in Olympic Village. Peter Sarsgaard, equipped with the rapier wit and studied precision he leverages for many of his film characters, artfully plays the president of the TV network’s sports division; he’s at the center of the ensemble, but there are at least three others who make a big impact in their roles. John Magaro is a standout as the head of the control room. Leonie Benesch is authentic and dialed in as the intrepid translator for the crew who singularly understands both German and Hebrew. And Ben Chaplin as the wily head of ABC operations is such a cantankerous chameleon in his role he’s fairly unrecognizable from his bumper crop of ’90s performances. Every detail in the movie feels lived-in: the rows of rotary phones, the coveted “bird” for satellite feeds, the darkroom for printing photos, block letters applied by hand to identify talking heads on the newscasts and lots of black coffee and cigarettes. Real footage is wisely integrated when appropriate for the you-are-there vibe. The film’s topics deeply resonate today as many of the geopolitical conflicts presented certainly still loom large. It’s also an instructive showcase of news judgment; as each imperfect executive, segment producer, camera person or anchor makes tough calls in real time, viewers see the consequences play out before their eyes. The drawback to this format is that you’re not in the room where the real events are happening; but Fehlbaum makes a case for the thrill of the race to go live and to “follow the story where it goes” via the voyeurism of live cameras and a feed to the world. For a film largely set in rooms with men talking and outcomes many will know from real life, Spielberg’s 2005 Munich or the 1999 documentary One Day in September, it’s an engrossing crackerjack production.
