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 Huddleston 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.
Faithful to its source material about Beat Generation postmodern author William S. Burroughs’ self-imposed exile to Mexico, Luca Guadagnino’s Queer (B) casts Daniel Craig in the central role of the controversial author cruising for sex and coping with a lifelong heroin addiction as he nurtures twin obsessions with romance and magical drugs promising extrasensory perception. Guadagnino is undoubtedly the right match for the off-kilter material, with sumptuous historical period art direction and an uncanny knack for capturing mood. And Craig proves to be a bit of a revelation in a role cast against type from his James Bond image; as “Lee” (a stand-in autobiographical nickname of the author), his every turn of phrase feels like inventing a peculiar new language. The loose, limber and impressionistic narrative gets even more opaque as the film changes venue and the Naked Lunch type imagery gets increasingly surreal. Drew Starkey is solid as the object of the protagonist’s affection. Jason Schwartzman is also memorable as a schlubby fellow bar denizen. There are moments of incredible sensuality and sentiment and many others which may leave casual moviegoers scratching their heads. The film is a must for fans of the iconoclast writer and a sterling showcase for a daring lead actor.
In the spirit of CODA and Sing Sing, here’s a sleeper indie about how performing arts can rescue a life sliding out of control. Kelly O’Sullivan and Alex Thompson’s Ghostlight (B) focuses on a burly construction worker (Keith Kupferer) coping with tragedy. The actor’s real-life wife and teenage daughter Tara Mallen and Katherine Mallen Kupferer play his similarly struggling and idiosyncratic family, and Dolly de Leon (always a delight) is the leader of a theatrical troupe conveniently located beside our protagonist’s work site. Soon a role in a Shakespeare play becomes its own form of therapy. Too many on-the-nose moments of convenience in the first reel bog down the story, but patient viewers will find this is an extremely emotional and fulfilling work. All three actors in the grieving family are superb, and there’s a lead actor performance here worthy of awards. The music is good too, with some nice use of several “Oklahoma!” chestnuts. The colorfully drawn and authentic characters and several engaging final reel subplots help transcend the formula.
Wow, what a missed opportunity! Writer/director Steve McQueen’s promised epic Blitz (C) contains many stunning crafts, lush cinematography and powerful sound but is largely hollow at the center with generally passive primary characters not given much to do. With a WWII backdrop of air raids in 1940 England, a mother (Saoirse Ronan) and her biracial son (Elliot Heffernan) are separated, and a variety of Dickensian episodes take place as collective hopes of them being reunited are protracted. Ronan has rarely had such a minor performance, with little set-up to earn all the feels. The script does newcomer Heffernan little favors, a shame since his is a POV rarely described in history nor depicted on film. Harris Dickinson appears briefly with little to do; thankfully another supporting actor Benjamin Clementine gets some tender moments as a kindly Nigerian law enforcement officer mentoring the lost child. An opening sequence of fire hoses tangled like dueling snakes and a mid-movie moment with disaster in a nightclub seem to portend a stronger narrative impact, but most of the film simply feels old-fashioned and rote. There are near-musical numbers with little lift and a flood that looks like it was filmed in the bygone Catastrophe Canyon of Disney parks. This glimpse into history doesn’t live up to the creativity or vision from McQueen’s previous works or build on the template of Hope & Glory or Empire of the Sun; it’s a rare misstep from the auteur, lacking intended immersion and emotion.
Nicole Kidman famously made a pledge to work frequently with female directors, and the erotic drama Babygirl (B+), helmed by Helena Reijn, demonstrates exactly why such collaboration is so potent. From the first frame to the stirring conclusion, this movie successfully explores the long-simmering carnal desires of a powerful woman. As a CEO who becomes embroiled in an extramarital age gap relationship with one of her company interns (Harris Dickinson), Kidman is dynamite, showcasing vigor and vulnerability in intriguing doses. The movie is fascinating in its portrait of sexual and power dynamics, with many elements shocking and surprising. Amidst the foreboding and forbidden, there’s also fun and flirtation; and for children of the ’80s there are excellent montages set to INXS and George Michael tunes. Reijn leaves room for Dickinson to make distinct choices in his role-reversed portrayal; he’s fairly mesmerizing in his part. Only Antonio Banderas playing the oblivious husband strikes some curious notes, and there are also a few beats at the end of sequences when our heroine darts a silent soliloquy with her eyes that remove her from the realism. Despite the playful title or the perceived promise of conventional thrills, this is a serious film about the importance of female sexuality: frank, raw and insightful.
Director Clint Eastwood, career action star turned elder statesman of the thinking person’s dramatic film, returns to the scene of the crime — and punishment — in the sturdy and somber Georgia-set procedural Juror #2 (A-). Nicholas Hoult plays a novelist and expectant father serving as a juror in a prominent murder trial and finds himself struggling with a serious moral dilemma capable of swaying the verdict and potentially convicting or freeing the accused killer. Hoult is fantastic in the nuanced role, relatable and believable in service of a somewhat far-fetched premise. Many of the tropes of courtroom thrillers are present in the story but presented with multiple points of view as the scales of justice prove to be complex forms of measurement. Eastwood artfully and efficiently dispatches the story with wonderful performances all around, including Toni Collette as a showy district attorney, Gabriel Basso as the accused and J.K. Simmons as a wily colleague in the fraught deliberations. The movie quietly observes and subtly exposes vulnerabilities of the justice system and hearkens back to the director’s other Savannah-set feature Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. It’s an excellent companion piece to some of his best and most thoughtful morality plays such as Million Dollar Baby, Sully, Unforgiven, American Sniper and The Hereafter. It is old-fashioned on the surface but resonates splendidly in modern times and is highly recommended fare for adults and thoughtful teens who want to see (along with other films like Conclave and The Brutalist) what it used to look like in Hollywood’s heyday to craft and consume a deft and deliberate drama.
Bob Dylan is lit — literature, in fact, to those lauding this iconic poet laureate of the folk music scene. But James Mangold’s moribund biopic A Complete Unknown (C) gives scant clues about what inspires and motivates the musician and man of mystery. What we are left with in a reverential but otherwise by-the-books look at the artist as a young man in 1960s New York is a very lived-in imitation by Timothée Chalamet in terms of voice and vibe. The talented actor capably inhabits the role of the rebel but not the cause: Watershed events ranging from violent global uprising to civil rights upheaval to high-profile assassinations are simply static on TV and radio snippets, and there’s nary a connection to why the troubadour is tuning into the pulse of any of this for inspiration. A few tepid love affairs (with squandered actresses Elle Fanning as Sylvie Russo and Monica Barbaro as Joan Baez), some minor conflict with festival organizers (including a sunny Ed Norton as Pete Seeger) and a petulant penchant for not playing what his crowds want to hear comprising most of the film’s run time. Oddly for the same director as Walk the Line, Mangold casts Boyd Holbrook as Johnny Cash, a spiritual guardian of Dylan’s transition from eclectic to electric. And there’s an unnecessary framing device offering little extra clarity. Some of the movie’s music sequences contain verve, but the whole enterprise is strangely one-note save the uncanny authenticity of the central performance. The film’s seeming thesis of not giving in to expectations is thwarted by never being all that grounded in any rules in the first place. Nothing dusty or gusty is blowing in the blustery wind of this interpretation. Instead of this feckless non-origin story, consider watching Martin Scorsese’s documentary No Direction Home.
Malcolm Washington didn’t choose the easiest adaptation — nor did he make much cinematic sense of it — with his directorial debut, The Piano Lesson (C), based on the August Wilson play. Instead of simply or conventionally translating a work already imbued with storied drama, the new director experiments with form and frenzy to unearth a bevy of resonant themes, and the overstuffed result doesn’t strike a consistent chord. A family clash over the heirloom of the title pits brother and sister — he hopes to sell it, the she refuses to give it up — sets the stage for a story unleashing haunting truths about how the past is perceived and who defines a family legacy. Unfortunately abrupt tonal shifts, a decision to open up the story with ghost story and horror motifs and a veil of fussiness between flashbacks and dialogue scenes continually obscure the workmanlike skills of an impressive acting ensemble. There’s interesting craft on display in terms of cinematography and music, but the symbolism is often heavy-handed. John David Washington and Danielle Deadwyler are the standout siblings whose tense reunion is a catalyst to conflict and discussions centered on tradition and collective memory of historical trauma. Ray Fisher is also fantastic in a hard-working and stacked cast. The actors do an outstanding job even though the film’s awkward approach doesn’t always do them justice.
