Writer/director Martin McDonagh’s darkly comic political drama Wild Horse Nine (B+) gives John Malkovich and Sam Rockwell two meaty roles as CIA officers who retreat to Easter Island after helping orchestrate Chile’s 1973 coup. When Malkovich’s terminally ill operative begins divulging incendiary secrets, the island refuge becomes a reckoning with mortality, complicity and regret and the setup for an increasingly volatile shakedown. Malkovich, back in a showcase worthy of his singular talents, is operating at the top of his game, while Rockwell proves an ideal sparring partner. Steve Buscemi, Tom Waits and Parker Posey are among the formidable performers enriching McDonagh’s eccentric ensemble. The humor can be blunt and conspicuously boomerish, and the screenplay remains talky, smart and bursting with furtive flourishes. Part assassin hangout comedy, part political confessional, the film gives its thoroughbreds plenty of room to run and could carry Malkovich all the way into the Oscars race.
Get your juice boxes and YA books ready, because a social life typically sponsored by generous doses of G and K is about to become surprisingly kid-friendly. Jordan Firstman writes, directs and stars in Club Kid (B), a sharp contemporary dramedy about a New York nightclub promoter whose chaotic, self-absorbed existence is interrupted by the arrival of the 10-year-old son he never knew he had. In pristine 35 mm cinematography, Firstman captures the hedonism and hilarity of his after-hours Manhattan milieu while developing a genuinely affecting rapport with winning young actor Reggie Absolom. Diego Calva enjoys a plum role as both child therapist and potential adult love interest, while Miss Benny and a lively LGBTQIA+ ensemble keep the party buzzing. What distinguishes the movie most is its refusal to make its unconventional journey toward parenthood remotely saccharine. These lost souls may not resemble a traditional family, but they find a place to belong and create a prescient playlist when they do.
Escaping into the performing arts proves a winning formula for everyone involved in Jesse Eisenberg’s The Debut (A-), a warm, wildly funny crowd-pleaser that fortifies the gifted auteur’s reputation as a formidable writer/director/actor while gifting Julianne Moore and Paul Giamatti career-best showcases. Moore throws herself into the role of a kindly New Jersey housewife who auditions for a historic theater’s production of a fictional musical and lands a featured supporting role, only to fall increasingly under the spell of both the stage and its strong-willed director, played with comic ferocity by Giamatti. Musical-theater royalty Halle Bailey, Colton Ryan, Bonnie Milligan, Lilli Cooper and Bernadette Peters fill out the stacked ensemble, lending delicious authenticity to the film’s show-within-a-show world. Eisenberg is wise about the intoxicating effects of an artistic calling, and watching Moore’s heroine gain confidence as she tries on a new “mask” is as exhilarating as her escalating battles with Giamatti are hilarious. It’s rather astonishing how far she’ll go to get into character, and as she begins floating free of her former obligations, the film makes it difficult to blame her for choosing the glow of the ghostlight over the bleak rut she occupied before. Eisenberg even pens the musical’s songs, including Moore’s terrific 11 o’clock number, “This City May Have Chewed Me Up (But It Hasn’t Spit Me Out)” within a gloriously half-sketched fever-dream fantasia. Theater devotees will especially feel seen, and the movie’s larger celebration of rediscovering purpose and possibility should play far beyond the footlights. The Debut is a hoot with a heart and one of the year’s best.
It’s telling Chris Rock took his blistering Hollywood indictment “out of town,” world-premiering it before festival audiences in Toronto. Unfortunately, his bleak portrait of the dream factory proves too unfocused to fully satisfy critics, insiders or general audiences wherever it plays. Writer/director Rock’s Misty Green (C-) peaks during its opening credits, pairing Hollywood imagery with “If My Friends Could See Me Now” before revealing how badly show business has failed its title character. Rosalind Eleazar is captivating and game for every demand of an oddly written role, playing a once-promising actress battling drugs, humiliating auditions and poor choices exacerbated by bad influences embodied by ensemble mates Anna Kendrick, Adam Driver and Daniel Kaluuya. Rock plays the man who keeps giving Misty another chance, delivering wry commentary that sometimes feels more like stand-up being workshopped than a character’s depths being plumbed. Topher Grace and Tracie Thoms add texture as industry figures, while two diegetic numbers featuring songs from Radiohead and Dreamgirls let Eleazar flex even more of her formidable talents. Yet the film forgets its own eviction countdown, never clarifies whether it means to excuse, expose or skewer L.A. life and fails to assemble its intriguing pieces into a cogent portrait. Eleazar keeps Misty Green eminently watchable, but far more of the film lands like “Creep” than sustaining the “One Night Only” glory.
The secret sauce invigorating a delightful new coming of age tale is, well, everything! Each hand-picked accessory in director/co-writer Matt Johnson’s kitchen cabinet is simmering to some sort of specialized perfection in Tony (A), a biographical dramedy from A24 about Chef Anthony Bourdain at age 19 in Cape Cod circa 1975. Artfully presented and splendidly crafted, this memoirs-inspired slice of life begins with the iconoclastic title character, impeccably portrayed with his own brand of hang-dog imposter syndrome by Dominic Sessa, explaining the “Bildungsroman” he is crafting as a wannabe writer, only to fall into an adventure in an unexpected kitchen with implications fathoms deeper than he could have possibly anticipated. The multitude of truths embodied in this character poses a fascinating linchpin for the ensemble, with Emilia Jones shining as the woman inspiring his journey and Leo Woodall chewing scenery as the boorish (and hilarious) co-conspirator of the protagonist’s worst impulses. A rarely-better Antonio Banderas beautifully embodies the Brazilian-born seaside chef and restauranteur providing tutelage to a crew of prodigals. Frequent PTA collaborator Michael Bauman is a deft cinematographer for this project, evoking sublime atmosphere of an almost hypnotic time and place. Jay McCarrol’s music with iconoclastic needle drops underscores the tale with singular ease, setting just the right blend of awkward yearning and origin-story braggadocio. Johnson lets Sessa’s Bourdain be an abject disaster far longer than many would, all the more fulfilling for viewers experiencing the character’s rise to a hint of the promise of culinary and personal triumph. This movie falls in Good Will Hunting territory, a classic of scrappy youth and mentorship, peeling the layers of a ripening onion for the layers of possibilities. This is cinematic Lobster Thermidor of the first order, and you’ll want the creamy blend of shallots, mushrooms, garlic, white wine and Dijon mustard in ample doses with that main course diced and mixed in before being returning to its shell for a final bake, topped with cheese and broiled with golden goodness.
The table is set and the thirst is trapped when a mysterious Gen X couple – Ed Norton and Penelope Cruz – accepts a dinner party downstairs in their posh high-rise held by Millennials played by Olivia Wilde and Seth Rogen. This delicious dramedy four-hander is The Invite (A), and Wilde does double duty behind the camera as the assured director, working from a crackling script by Will McCormack and Rashida Jones adapting a 2020 Spanish-language film. This Sundance sensation is an acerbic examination of marital bitterness and unfulfilled fantasies, and all four performers are simply fantastic in tailor-made roles. Director Wilde is masterful with the tone, delivering arguments and bursts of comedy and pathos in pitch-perfect courses. She’s also a hoot as the character most wanting to impress the group within the ensuing chaos. Rogen has rarely been better as the Everyman protagonist who mutters most of what he’s thinking. It’s also wonderful to reunite with Norton and Cruz in juicy roles; she particularly shines with a decisive presence. It’s frankly a brilliant screenplay well lensed; and despite being a story mostly contained to living and entertaining quarters, it charts a brisk long day’s journey. Don’t let anyone spoil the secrets; if you’re an adventurous filmgoer, you’ll want to RSVP the moment this Invite gets tendered.
Director John Carney’s continuing exploration of the magnetic attraction of music to bring together unlikely cinematic pairs has now canonically conjoined Paul Rudd and Nick Jonas. The dramedy Power Ballad (B) follows Rudd’s character, a wannabe arena rocker who has settled into fronting a wedding band in Ireland, home to his wife and daughter. One night he drunkenly bonds and musically riffs with the Jonas character, a boy-band member in search of solo stardom. Soon an unexpected global hit song is born, and it’s not totally clear the tune’s baby daddy. It’s nice to see Rudd sink his teeth into an authentic and scrappy character. Jonas is a good fit as well in his role, with confidence cloaking just a dash of desperation. Carney’s film takes a hot minute to gain steam but is worth the patient watch for the payoffs. Jack Reynor is particularly effective as a very direct American music mogul and manager critical to the copyright custody battle of a plot. The movie also hinges on the ear-worm original song titled “How to Write a Song Without You,” and fortunately it’s a banger. With lively performances, at least one hummable new tune joining a bunch of covers sung by the starring duo and a bit of sentiment and Irish charm, it’s an enjoyable entry into Carney’s cinematic songbook.
Those ubiquitous electronic devices monitoring our every move and desire, with recommendation engines provoking us to act now, be better and pounce on a trend provide an uncanny inspiration for a delightful new wish fulfillment movie that just world premiered at the Atlanta Film Festival. Writer/director Alexander Parkinson casts himself as a passive and principled sad sack in Third (B+), and his character’s loveless marriage to a much more successful wife (Coley Campany in a breakthrough performance) is transformed with the appearance of a handsome and exotic stranger (Norio Nishimura) into their sluggish, fuddy-duddy first-world lives. I was reminded more of vintage ‘80s comedies like Splash and Down and Out in Beverly Hills rather than on-the-nose recent fare such as Her or Companion as this central couple maneuvers through the modern mores of a potentially polyamorous lifestyle. It’s a fresh and sometimes dark domestic dramedy through and through. From opening shots of a bonus room between separate bedrooms to the newly constituted trio barreling through blow on the glass frame surfaces of a staid wedding portrait, the film escalates quickly into hardcore hilarity. Swirling conversations with lively neighbors asking all the prescient questions and cunning comedy of consequences ensue with abandon and truth. Vignettes of couples coping with contemporary issues interspersed throughout the film showcase the foibles of modernity like a series of Greek choruses. Nishimura brings just the right primal energy to the proceedings, and Campany is full-on hilarious in her array of reactions. Consistently funny and revealing details ranging from an AI chat to escape an awkward situation to giddy home deliveries courtesy of an instant access dark web give the events edge and urgency. The story may have one meta layer too many, but the overall effect is one of bountiful bliss. Parkinson’s feature is fun, insightful and — dare I say — just the sublime spark to stimulate the doldrums of domesticity.
In a year with legitimate soaring music in a film set in the music industry (the rap face-off plus the pop songstress finale in Highest 2 Lowest) and moving film-within-a-film (the virtuoso director character in Sentimental Value lensing truly moving footage), Director Bradley Cooper’s Is This Thing On? (C) manages to make stand-up comedy look about as boring as could be. Will Arnett’s protagonist is down in the dumps as his marriage to Laura Dern’s character crumbles, and he takes on open mics as a form of therapy. The cinematography gives a “you are there” quality despite it not being clear why any of us are there. The best sequences in the film are opposite child actors (they’re great). The film is neither funny nor insightful enough to stand out as either root word of “dramedy.” Arnett and Dern embody authenticity as real people, but they’re forced into scenarios and situations that don’t feel incredibly thought out. No star is born here nor any act of a maestro is on display. This one feels a little like they’re making it up as they go along.
Despite a promising premise, Hikari’s Rental Family (C) proves an undercooked and overly sentimental bunch of hokum. Brendan Fraser plays an American commercial and character actor working in Japan who is recruited by an unusual talent agency to portray fictional people in real life to compensate for something that’s missing. He’s like an emotional support animal to upend family dynamics. Whether it’s the single mother who needs him to play the long-lost dad to help her daughter get into a private school or the single and struggling bachelorette in need of a convenient and compensated groom to prove to her parents she’s suitably settled, the film is episodic and oddly clinical. Some of these matches offer more than each bargains for as the actor learns more about himself and the culture in which he’s engulfed. Although likable enough, Fraser plays his character at a distant low simmer, and the escapades are neither subtle nor arch enough to much entertain. It’s all rather restrained and predictable. As a meditation on loneliness, it succeeds in spurts, but it’s also tied in too tidy a package to expose much below the surface.
Indie auteur Richard Linklater sets the table for a French New Wave banquet complete with dishy performances, select servings of asides, a main course with temporal tastings, napkin scrawls as spontaneous cues and signature jump-cutlery in a tasty treat for cinephiles, Nouvelle Vague (A-). Expect to sleuth diligently on the Netflix menu come November for this obscure bonbon, a subtitled 4:3 aspect ratio black and white tribute to the rebel filmmaker Jean-Luc Godard as chronicled through the ragtag production of his unconventional and groundbreaking first feature film, 1960’s Breathless. Guillaume Marbeck is wonderful as the obstinate, improvisational iconoclast Godard, pioneering an on-the-fly guerrilla style; and Zoey Deutch is a sublime standout as his film’s glamorous leading lady Jean Seberg, often aghast at her helmer’s terse techniques. Among a delightful largely unknown supporting cast of real people behind a turning point in world cinema, Matthieu Penchinat is a hoot as accommodating and towering cinematographer Raoul Coutard whom, at one point on the shoot, hides in a tiny wagon to capture Parisian street crowds of accidental extras. This dramedy deftly covers the landmark high-flying act of Godard’s 20-day film shoot, complete with frustrated crews and producers and ample helpings of wit and wisdom. Linklater’s approach is that of admiration rather than mimicry or experimentation, although only a modern director this creative would conceive the go-for-broke concept and film it so elegantly in the French language. It’s madcap and maddening at times but a fun ride for those who care to hop onboard. The pace isn’t exactly breathless. The director overuses famous quotes as convenient stand-ins for more original dialogue. And some characters could have used more development. But the placemaking and insights are first-rate, with find crafts all around carrying on a grand tradition. It’s a film about the tempestuousness of artistry and the effect of timing in invention; and like Ed Wood and The Disaster Artist before it, serves up its own distinctive and layered souflee.
Note: Thanks to Out On Film for an early screening as this buzzy Sundance acquisition gets a theatrical run in select markets starting this week.
Between seclusion from common COVID-era customs, confusion over gender roles, delusion over modern etiquette and illusions of relationships forged online or in video games, it’s no wonder IRL has mainly been WTF, and male friendships have become a contemporary casualty. Following a riff on similar themes in this summer’s Friendship, James Sweeney writes and directs Twinless (B+) in which he also co-stars as a gay man who meets a straight man in a support group for people whose twins have passed away, and the memories of lost siblings are stand-ins for the macro mystery of fallen fraternity and restoration of the bygone brotherly bond. Although Sweeney’s character’s “sus” motivations tend to derail the most realistic parts of the droll dramedy, his Dennis benefits from acting opposite Dylan O’Brien’s brilliant takes as the hot-tempered and sometimes air-headed Roman and his confident flamboyant flashback brother Rocky. He’s doubly an on-screen revelation. The film’s fog of grief and despair is soon punctuated by displays of public bonhomie: shooting whiskey, cutting up courtside and co-crooning with abandon behind the wheel. Aisling Franciosi is terrific as the workmate of Dennis and love interest of Roman caught slackjawed amidst the bromantic bliss and bluster. Greg Cotten’s cinematography smartly evokes two parts of a whole in so many ways, via reflective surfaces and split screens and even divided sandwiches, viewers will truly discover visually and viscerally how the other half lives. Add to all this a very memorable score by Jung Jae-il, and it’s a stunning original marked by offbeat humor and universal yearning. The filmmaker is willing to face some ugly truths as he holds a mirror up to the modern world and finds what may look like identical scenarios to some can actually harbor multitudes.
