It’s a pretty platter party with a nostalgic ‘70s San Fernando Valley, California aesthetic and solid soundscape, but Paul Thomas Anderson’s meandering dramedy Licorice Pizza (C) is a bit too charmed with itself to ever figure out exactly what it is. For all practical purposes, it’s a coming of age movie in which neither principal character comes of age. Alana Haim plays an aimless twentysomething who befriends Cooper Hoffman’s fifteen year old child actor and sometimes entrepreneur and ostensibly has a near romantic relationship with him. It’s never clear which of this newcomer duo’s particular points of view the audience is intended to follow the most. Both characters are often sympathetic but after a long running time remain at arm’s length. The plot is an episodic series of escapades with little payoff; and like the oil embargo ripped out of headlines into the otherwise fantastical story, the movie itself actually runs out of gas. Celebrity cameos don’t much help matters with a feral character portrayed by Bradley Cooper at least generating more onscreen momentum than a smarmy bore played by Sean Penn. The bittersweet film ultimately isn’t funny enough, romantic enough or dramatic enough to take its place as a classic along with the likes of American Graffiti or Dazed and Confused. Hopefully other non-critics will find it funnier and sunnier than this writer did.
Stomp the grapes and sneak a conveyor belt bonbon, because a dishy drama about the making of “I Love Lucy” is destined to cast nostalgia in a whole new light. Aaron Sorkin’s backstage drama Being the Ricardos (B+) plumbs what life is like for performers when there’s not a live studio audience providing a laugh track of affirmation. Wielding his signature rapier wit scalpel to slice into sitcom life, the writer/director assembles a crackerjack cast to act out a week in the life of the real-life stars of TV’s “Lucy” with the amped-up quadruple pressures of a potential affair, pregnancy, Communist accusation and of course putting on a show. Nicole Kidman as Lucille Ball and Javier Bardem as Desi Arnaz are unexpectedly magnificent in their respective real-life comedy couple roles, as are J.K. Simmons as William Frawley and Nina Arianda as Vivian Vance (the latter two character actors behind the fictional “Fred” and “Ethel”). Sorkin plays his own cracking words like a maestro with characters savoring sumptuous script solos and dialogue duets which crescendo at just the right moments in the drama. Kidman shines brightest of all, showcasing the obsessions and vulnerability of an actress once discarded who gets a second chance at getting it all right, and it’s all her “Lucy” can do to keep everything afloat. Her character is a steely hero and Kidman’s work fully convincing. The film pulses most in comic and cynical asides, in its jaunty jabs at the entertainment business and its eternal truths about the qualities in loved ones capable of love and distrust in equal dollops.
Three characters grappling with divergent tenets, truths and toxins in their masculinity are central to the game of psychological violence played out on the plains of 1925 Montana in Jane Campion’s outstanding drama The Power of the Dog (A-). This ominous and symbolism-heavy slow burn is sure to satiate cinema lovers as this auteur writer/director plumbs the protective layers of ranch culture, marriage, sexuality and even man’s dominion over nature. Campion exhibits impeccable instincts as she locks in on her exacting characters’ subtleties, breaks ‘em in and then lets the plot’s pot start boiling. In her directorial hands, even braiding a lasso is replete with tension. The story is set in motion as two ranch owners gain newcomers into their prickly pack. Benedict Cumberbatch is towering as the ornery and often cruel alpha male with a bevy of complaints to chap his hide. He’s in complete command of his brash character and creates an extremely memorable performance. Jesse Plemons as his more mild-mannered brother and Kodi Smit-McPhee as a vulnerable and unconventional newcomer to the crew of cowboys each get to inhabit intriguing parts. As the primary portrait of a lady in these times, Kirsten Dunst is also exceptional if surprisingly underdeveloped as the widow and innkeeper thrust into the central family dynamics. Campion is sovereign over subtext and drops clues avid moviegoers will relish. Jonny Greenwood’s score punctuates the proceedings with spirit and suspense, and the cinematography of the American West provides a fitting canvas on which the characters clash. It’s a dramatic delight to watch predatory instincts play out including the savage gnashing of teeth, with a pulpy and palpable sense of saddle wood and sweat in the air as lost boys reckon with the decline of their civilization.
Although it’s a true story set in medieval France during the Hundred Years War, Ridley Scott’s historical drama The Last Duel (B+) explores timeless truths about gender and power. Relative newcomer to film roles Jodie Comer turns in a phenomenal performance as a woman who is viciously assaulted and refuses to stay silent, stepping forward to accuse her attacker, an act of bravery and defiance that puts her life in jeopardy and sets the stage for the titular sanctioned death match. Matt Damon plays her often narcissistic and oblivious husband, Adam Driver a friend turned bitter rival and Ben Affleck an enabling playboy. The film is told in three Rashomon style acts, each from distinct vantage points of the husband, the attacker and the wife; and while each adds more to the mosaic mystery, the final episode of the trio is the most stunning. Scott does a good job balancing the grandeur of the opulent sets and gorgeous costume drama while still presenting the building blocks of information in a way that continues to feel fresh up to and through the film’s promised jousting climax. Some of the characters could have been even more deeply observed rather than simply functioning as allegories, but the ripe and ribald dialogue keeps the plot and its people consistently entertaining. Comer is a revelation in a role reflecting the treatment of women in the present day through a fourteenth-century lens. Scott has crafted a glorious film; quite frankly, this is the type of movie in which he most excels. And the message in the battle will stick with you long after the fight to the finish.
Is mansplaining on the marquee, or is this the ultimate tribute to a flawed father? Either way, there’s a lot to love here in a tale of an unexpected visionary. Will Smith holds court as father and tennis queen-maker Richard Williams in Reinaldo Marcus Green’s King Richard (B). Smith’s is a sterling performance in an often very good film focused much more on the man whose unconventional methods of parenting and coaching ushered in a new era of power and athleticism on the women’s professional tennis circuit than on the sisters Venus and Serena who actually played the game. The film chronicles the family straight out of Compton through Florida intensives and a variety of dramatic confrontations prior to the young women becoming global champions. Smith exhibits a full gambit of emotions as a sometimes frustrating and complicated character who prioritizes strength of character and values over the quick win, and his acting opposite powerhouse Aunjanue Ellis as his wife Oracene and with talented newcomer Saniyya Sidney as Venus provides ample dramatic fodder for all involved. Usual tough guy Jon Bernthal as happily square coach Rick Macci also sinks his teeth into the tennis tête-à-tête. The film is a bit of a circuitous journey toward ultimate uplift and eschews many of the greatest hits in the family’s journey. Still it’s a largely family-friendly triumph for representation with strong acting on display.
This is the ultimate “say uncle” to those who believe they can’t be moved by stories about the transformative effects of kids on adults. Cerebral, sweet and contemplative, the drama C’mon C’mon (B+) by writer/director Mike Mills sneaks up on viewers with universal truths. While a soft-spoken radio journalist (Joaquin Phoenix) travels the country to interview kids about life on earth, he also becomes temporary caretaker for his young nephew (Woody Norman) who offers the perfect foil to examine one’s station in life. At first it’s hard to penetrate the psyche or motivations of Phoenix’s numb, mumbling sad sack of a character, but the actor soon finds his way into the head of the wry cynic learning not to simply contemplate and make commentary about the world around him but to actively participate in it. He ultimately gives one of his most nuanced and lived-in performances. Norman is thoroughly convincing in some of the best child acting committed to screen. In depicting the ups and downs of even the most thoughtful children, the wise pint-sized character helps his custodian discover his inner kid but never in treacly or expected ways. It’s a master class of acting between someone on the cusp of 50 and another on the verge of 10. The episodic glimpses into surrogate parenthood are alternately fascinating and frustrating but always revelatory. Mills paints a lovely canvas on black and white with his travelogue alternating grandiose and intimate. Shots of towering NYC skyscrapers, New Orleans parades and parishes and sun-drenched pier-side promenades on the west coast lend atmospheric contrast to these little guys on a parallel coming of age journey. It’s no wonder the film evokes Chaplin’s The Kid or even Kramer vs. Kramer minus the depressing parts; it’s certainly one for the ages. The movie feels vaguely improvised in its observational style and requires a bit of patience at first but will give viewers a multitude of reasons to fall under its circuitously sentimental spell.
Although it’s a handsomely produced adult crime drama in grand Hollywood style, some inconsistent characterizations and abrupt tonal shifts hinder Ridley Scott’s House of Gucci (B) from emerging as the soapy sensation it clearly craves to be. The first hour of the fashion family saga is strongest, centered on a spunky Lady Gaga’s delicious ingenue in a whirlwind romance opposite Adam Driver as the Italian luxury label’s heir apparent, more at home in love than in leadership. Scott’s film soon becomes a different movie focused more intently on the political machinations of the Gucci family business, including mounting tension at work and at home and dramatic stakes of varying proportions, some emotions earned and others not so much. We get a phoned-in performance by Jeremy Irons and a roaring one from Al Pacino as family patriarchs, plus there’s an absolutely unhinged portrayal of the family’s crazed cousin by a virtually unrecognizable Jared Leto. Sometimes it’s hard to decipher if any of these actors feel like they are working in remotely the same universe, and yet mostly the story seems grounded in either Gaga or Driver’s point of view. The empire building is fascinating to behold and most entertaining when Gaga is on screen or when Driver’s cipher of a character discovers his agency. There are also curious choices involving time frames, accents, death scenes and other female performances for which the least said, the better. Still it’s often a crackling affair with much to recommend. Gaga’s performance as catalyst of this catwalk will be the element most remembered from this ambitious and sometimes operatic enterprise.
Although it takes place in a specific part of history a hemisphere away, Kenneth Branagh’s semi-autobiographical coming of age drama Belfast (C) manages to churn out sentimentality in a perfectly generic geopolitical bundle. The action is set during “The Troubles,” a time of religious unrest and warfare in Northern Ireland from August 1969 to early 1970, often seen through the lens of child star JudeHill, a wide-eyed and rather unconvincing central protagonist. Branagh struggles with creating narrative momentum or a reliably consistent point of view on a rather limited milieu of cramped houses of a street and alleyway backlot. The film manages to keep the stakes pretty low. Jamie Dornan, Caitríona Balfe, Ciarán Hinds and Judi Dench all have strong moments as two generations of the protagonist’s family, but it also feels a bit like assembling a bunch of perfunctory stock characters. The film is a bit of a circuitous journey toward ultimate uplift and eschews many of the greatest hits in the family’s journey. Overall it’s a swing and a miss: surface gloss of history, mostly inert. Even the fact that it’s filmed in naturalistic black and white comes off as lazy shorthand for an under-stuffed memory box. The film zig zags between cloying, sentimental, cutesy, contrived and saccharine – and back again.
This topical directorial debut and central duo of female performances will undoubtedly turn heads. Rebecca Hall’s delicate drama Passing (B) is a puzzle-box of ambiguity shot in 4:3 aspect ratio and overexposed, over saturated monochrome. Unlike some other movies shot in black and white simply to augment prestige factor especially in Oscar season, the cinematography here actually factors in heavily to a story about ideas, ideologies, identity and insecurity and especially framing the interior conflicts boxing these female characters into specific stations in life. In 1920s New York City, a Black woman Irene played by Tessa Thompson finds her world upended when her life becomes intertwined with former childhood friend Clare, portrayed by Ruth Negga, whose fair skin and blond hair helps her maintain a lifestyle “passing” as white. While Irene identifies as African-American and is married to a black doctor played by André Holland, Clare is wed to a wealthy and very racist white man portrayed by Alexander Skarsgård. Hall employs a near stage play environment within her commanding cinematic lens to present mounting tensions between the characters. At times the austere direction keeps viewers at a slight distance or surface level obscuring some underdeveloped sub-themes, but Hall never loses sight of her keen observations as she wields this curious lens on race and class. It’s a slow burn; this film makes Carol look like a potboiler. Thompson and Negga are towering in their nuanced performances, and Hall at the helm has accomplished quite a feat in her audacious first film.
Notorious televangelists Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker get a mixed blessing of a big-screen biography treatment in Michael Showalter’s The Eyes of Tammy Faye (B-) with Andrew Garfield and Jessica Chastain in the lead roles. Chastain commands her every sequence and is the central protagonist as the preacher, singer and puppeteer who becomes an empathetic television personality despite her husband’s Faustian bargains leading to their public downfall. Showalter consistently struggles in this piece with tone; it’s never completely clear if this is serious drama, featherweight cautionary tale or historical diversion. Cherry Jones as Tammy Faye’s staunch mom and Vincent D’Onofrio as fellow Christian influencer Jerry Falwell also get some authentic acting moments as foils to the central duo. Chastain is the revelation here.
Although it joins Eyes Wide Shut and Die Hard in the “I guess it’s a Christmas movie” pantheon, Pablo Larraín’s biographical psychological drama Spencer (A-), about the Yuletide weekend in which Princess Diana chooses to split from the royal family, is a melancholy masterpiece. Kristen Stewart is luminous in the lead role, brilliantly humanizing a public figure we think we all know and plumbing the depths of her spiral into despondency. Larraín’s frenzied fever dream frames its troubled protagonist with such a splendid mise-en-scène of mounting formal and claustrophobic environments, a viewer could well believe it’s a slo-mo horror film as much as a tragedy. The film is often quietly observant, which makes the moments of rage and revelations pulse all the more. For every nightmarish sequence around the corners of her lonely world, there are also tender moments depicting the fun and games Diana furtively plays with her sons. Several supporting performers stand out: Timothy Spall is a hoot as Equerry Major Alistair Gregory, with a constant puss on his face as he tries to reign in our heroine to do her duty, and Sally Hawkins is a delight in a small role as a confidante and royal dresser who whispers into her wanderlust. Deck these halls with Oscars already!
As the fictional John Wick demonstrated across an infamous action trilogy, it’s unwise to meddle with a man’s companion animal! In writer/director Michael Sarnoski’s 2021 cult drama Pig (B), a titular truffle pig is the pet of note and his owner a loner woodsman played by Nicolas Cage. Although its inciting incident indeed involves the kidnapping of the vintage swine, the film centers on the unraveling and reveal of Cage’s withdrawn character through the underbelly of the Portland dining scene, brought into focus by the actor’s singular performance opposite the likes of Alex Wolff and Adam Arkin. Unkept and potentially unhinged, Cage’s character is mesmerizing and buoys this farm to table fable into something quite noteworthy. It’s a return to grizzly form for an actor who has drifted through a rogue’s gallery of unremarkable roles. Sarnoski has undoubtedly tapped into his spirit animal, and his film is absorbing and unexpected.
