When rating a film I ask myself these three questions: What is the director’s goal or purpose? How does the director try to achieve it? Is the director successful? Hence a big box office hit may get a “5” while a Eurosleaze sexploitation flick gets a “7”. My rating system in a nutshell:
10 = Brilliant!
9 = Exceptional
8 = Very Good
7 = Good
6 = Average
5 = Forgettable
4 = Bad
3 = Dismal
2 = Dog Barf
1 = Beyond Awful
~ ~ ~ ~
Suspicion (USA 1941) (6): Alfred Hitchcock’s paranoid thriller is big on style but woefully short on substance, at least by today’s standards. Terrified of becoming an old spinster, English society deb Lina McLaidlaw (Oscar winner Joan Fontaine) rushes to the altar with a man she barely knows, handsome layabout Johnnie Aysgarth (Cary Grant), only to question her decision afterwards when he proves to be a charming liar and unemployed cad. But could he also be a murderer intent on inheriting her life insurance? Certainly all clues seem to point in that direction as Johnnie becomes obsessed with reading murder mysteries while his fabrications increase and his get-rich schemes wither. And then tragedy strikes a little too close to home. As dire coincidences (?) start to add up a distraught Lina begins to worry whether she is in danger of losing her life…or her mind. With California’s Big Sur standing in for the rugged English coast and RKO studio sets providing sumptuous manor house interiors, Hitchcock makes excellent use of lighting to create a mood—at one point the shadow from a window grille forms a cobweb pattern across an entire room. And despite a couple of clumsy rear-projection sequences and flimsy painted backdrops his exterior shots of treacherous dirt roads and menacing cliffs get the point across. But watching Fontaine’s servile doormat of a character emote back and forth ad nauseam—“he lies and steals and may be trying to kill me but I love him so much!”—begins to grate after a while, and for all its dark ambiguities the ending is still just a bit too pat. Apparently the novel on which the film was based, Anthony Berkeley’s “Before the Fact”, was far more shocking prompting the studio to have it toned down and sanitized into a windswept melodrama showcasing Fontaine’s knitted brow and Grant’s winning dimples. Pity.
The Whale (USA 2022) (3): Gay English professor Charlie (Brendan Fraser), whose morbid obesity now has him confined to a small apartment, desperately wants to reconnect with his estranged teenage daughter (Sadie Sink) and embittered ex-wife (Samantha Morton) before his mounting health issues take their final toll. But the two women are still angry over his sudden departure eight years earlier when he left them for a male student—a love affair with a tragic ending that still haunts him. Determined to live out his remaining life with as much honesty as he can muster, Charlie ignores the medical warnings of his nurse and BFF (Hong Chau) as well as the spiritual advice from a very determined young missionary (Ty Simpkins) who has begun showing up at his door. But can he make peace with the people in his life before the final curtain? Fraser’s phenomenal performance truly deserved that Oscar, as did the make-up department for transforming him into a lumbering behemoth barely able to stand or walk without multiple assists. His ability to register pain, joy, or deepest anguish with little more than a change in voice and a rearrangement of his fleshy features is truly uncanny. Alas, his standout performance only serves to highlight the rest of the cast’s two-dimensional performances as they plod their way through a cliché-riddled script which amounts to little more than pity porn. Morton alternately explodes and whimpers as the stereotypical ex now turned morose alcoholic unable to move on. Chau is likewise unconvincing as her character obediently switches between anger and cajoling tears with mechanical precision. But it is Sink’s ham-fisted performance which proves to be the most distracting. Her portrayal of a mouthy sociopathic little bitch garners more derision than sympathy and turns all those stagey epiphanies and Melville references into the kind of cinematic dross that always seems to win accolades. Ultimately a manipulative and pedestrian melodrama about three people stuck in the mud who’d rather agonize over the rain than slog their way out. Nice art direction though, I will give it that. Shot in a 4:3 ratio Charlie’s cramped apartment comes to resemble a dusty crypt where sunshine is only glimpsed through cracks, a crow hovers at the window like an omen, and lifelines arrive in the form of various knocks at the door.
Roger Dodger (USA 2002) (7): Employing a combination of psychological chess moves and smooth talk, Manhattan adman Roger Swanson (a smarmy Campbell Scott) believes he can read women like a book—a belief he often puts to practice while trolling New York’s singles scene. But when Nick, his horny 16-year old nephew from Ohio (a neurotic Jesse Eisenberg), shows up on his doorstep eager to lose his virginity under Uncle Roger’s tutelage a night on the town in search of female companionship leads to a series of epiphanies for the teenager and an overdue dose of reality for the adult. With a satirical edge often bordering on outright sarcasm, writer/director Dylan Kidd’s sardonic look at the battle of the sexes comes armed with a bitingly clever script and a host of bang-on performances that make you alternately smile and cringe while the action shifts between a swank house party, a noisy bar, and a den of ill repute. Scott’s cynical lothario is handsome and dapper enough as he delivers his long-winded monologues on what makes men and women tick—his Madison Avenue background only adding to his depressingly clinical philosophy. Yet there is a fragility behind the smug bluster which only becomes apparent as the evening progresses and the alcohol consumption increases. Eisenberg brings his signature skittishness to the fore playing a desperate small town naif suddenly faced with the very real possibility of finally getting laid until he finds out there’s more to sex than sex—an interlude with a couple of savvy bar pick-ups (Jennifer Beals, Elizabeth Berkley) gives the film a needed dose of humanity while a tense scene with a drunken partygoer puts Nick squarely at a moral crossroad. And Isabella Rossellini shines as Roger’s boss and clandestine lover, their problematic workplace romance not only switching the tables for a change but also highlighting the fact that on the battleground of sexual politics nothing is ever completely one-sided.
Port of Call (Sweden 1948) (7): Is it possible to rise above the mistakes of one’s past or will they always be there to drag you down? A loaded question and one which this early work by Ingmar Bergman tackles in a way that would have proved shocking to audiences this side of the Atlantic with its brief nudity and honest depictions of premarital sex, backroom abortions, and prostitution Thanks to a few unwise choices, Berit (a potent performance from Nine-Christina Jönnson) has spent a significant portion of her adolescence in reform school. Now back at home and working a dreary factory job she still dreams of one day taking control of her own life. There are obstacles in her path however: her mother is an emotionally abusive shrew, the social worker assigned to her favours procedure over compassion, and the loose-living gang she once hung around with always seem to turn up when she least wants them to. Then she runs into lonely dockworker Gösta (an intense Bengt Eklund) and their one-night stand gradually evolves into something more substantial. But will Gösta be able to accept Berit’s decidedly problematic history? Filmed in drab shades of grey with equally drab industrial landscapes of cranes, cargo ships, and machine shops, Bergman gives Berit’s finite world the feel of a prison—a feeling given ironic underscore by the budgies she keeps in a cage by the windowsill where they can merely glimpse at the wide open sky. In the title role Jönson gives a powerful, contradictory performance as a woman on the cusp of adulthood who aggressively demands more out of life yet is so easily crushed by the opinions of others. Eklund, conversely, gives us an assertive man who is nevertheless hampered by outdated opinions and his own brittle ego. Finally Berta Hall, playing Berit’s mother, has what is arguably the film’s most complex role as an embittered woman unable to fulfill her own emotional needs let alone those of her troubled daughter. A surprisingly modern tale laced with social critique and early feminist tenets Port of Call opens with an act of desperation, closes with a gamble, and hints at greater things to come from the then 30-year old director.
The King of Marvin Gardens (USA 1972) (7): Though not as iconic as, say, Coming Home or Five Easy Pieces, writer/director Bob Rafelson still manages to add yet another title to the list of early ‘70s movies which examined the destruction of the American Dream in the wake of Viet Nam and Watergate. Although they are brothers David and Jason Staebler couldn’t be more unalike in temperament. David (Jack Nicholson playing against character) is a timid, introspective radio personality and author who makes a living reciting fictionalized accounts of his life over the airwaves. Jason (a hyperactive Bruce Dern) on the other hand is a brash, somewhat obnoxious schemer whose get-rich-quick pipe dreams always seem to leave him broke and out on bail. Meeting up in Atlantic City—at that time a decaying tourist trap haunted by little old ladies and con men—Jason tries to impress David with his latest venture: purchasing a small Hawaiian island and turning it into a prosperous gambling mecca. What follows is a tragicomic tale of muddled values, petty corruption, and destructive delusions set against a backdrop of boarded-up buildings and tacky tourists. Dern is superb as the manic brother with his head in the clouds while his feet sink in mud, and Nicholson provides sober counterpoint as a complacent middle class bachelor whose own dreams are confined to pen and paper. Joining them are Ellen Burstyn and Julia Anne Robinson playing Jason’s female companions—Robinson as a young ingenue whose naïve aspirations have yet to be fully corrupted, and Burstyn stealing the spotlight in an Oscar-worthy performance as an aging mistress facing her empty future with rage and shrill denial. And Scatman Crothers provides a dose of mocking pragmatism as a flashy mobster. Adding to the overall sense of disintegration, cinematographer László Kovács gives us interior shots in which faded opulence competes with chaotic disarray, and outdoor pans which transform an already drab seaside boardwalk into something pitiful. But what struck me most was Rafelson’s liberal use of visual metaphors to underscore his characters’ growing anomie—billboards feature happier faces in sunnier climes, a handgun gets passed around like a hot potato, A Miss America spoof twists the knife, and when the two brothers go horseback riding along the seashore David’s mount is white while Jason’s is black. A depressing film ending on a suitably downcast note with an 8mm B&W coda providing the final nail.
The Thomas Crown Affair (USA 1968) (6): Just for kicks roguish banking exec Thomas Crown (Steve McQueen) pulls off the perfect multi-million dollar heist from his own institution. Or so he thinks. What he didn’t count on was the bank CEO hiring sultry insurance investigator Vicki Anderson (Faye Dunaway) to crack the case. Equally determined and just as cunning as Crown, Anderson already has her suspicions and she will do anything…anything…to prove his guilt and recover the stolen cash. But what neither of these two players expected was the sexual chemistry that would develop between them—an attraction which itself may or may not be part of the game. This somewhat outlandish premise is at least partially saved through sheer star power (Dunaway and McQueen smoulder!) and having the sure hand of director Norman Jewison at the helm. Also unique is the film’s eye-catching use of multiple screens in order to give audiences a shifting real time mosaic of what’s happening—an effect which must have been avant-garde at the time but now just seems quaintly dated. In the end it suffers from questionable legal fabrications (no, kidnapping and extortion are NOT legitimate investigatory tools), an underdeveloped plot which leaves too many narrative holes, and a love story that feels a bit too rushed and convenient. Michel Legrand’s Oscar-winning theme song, “The Windmills of Your Mind” is easy on the ear however, and there is a great scene in which a chessboard suddenly turns into a collection of phallic symbols after a seductive game between Dunaway and McQueen gets out of hand. Whew!
The August Virgin (Spain 2019) (6): Unemployed actress Eva (a captivating Itsaso Arana who also co-wrote) is 33 and not quite sure which direction her life will be taking next. Deciding upon a staycation in Madrid during August—the hottest time of the year when most citizens head for cooler climes—she spends her days reacquainting herself with the city’s colourful streets and neighbourhoods, observing various religious festivals and street parties, meeting up with old friends and making new ones. And talking. So much talking as impromptu chitchat revolves around issues of aging, friendship, dreams, and what it means to be true to oneself—her conversations tinged with a peculiar empathy, at times a bit of animosity, and always with a bit of pot or sangria on the side. But what does it all add up to? Influenced by Rohmer’s A Summer Tale with shades of Linklater’s Before Sunrise, director/co-writer Jonás Trueba’s gentle little “slice of life” finds its focus in Arana’s remarkably natural performance. As the quiet Eva and her diverse pals discuss their pasts and futures we are invited to examine our own and the result is as much introspection as it is celebration. One woman discusses motherhood while a male counterpart laments over not being a good father; one man wonders how a brief holiday in Spain has turned into ten years while a female counterpart can’t seem to stay put in any one place for more than a year; and yet another woman, an advocate of woo-woo therapy, opens Eva’s chakras to new possibilities. And everywhere are religious symbols whether it be a vase of white flowers, a saintly idol, or a poster of the moon which suddenly morphs into a cheeky metaphor. Utilizing washed out pastels and unhurried camerawork, Trueba presents a sequence of lazy hazy summertime encounters where characters ponder the choices they’ve made (or will make or are currently making) with Eva’s curiousity serving as a catalyst until he slyly jerks the carpet from under you with a closing wink that forces you to reevaluate the previous two hours. A standard example of “arthouse lite” this is not a film for impatient viewers, yet for those able to enter into its mellow groove there is something to be gleaned. I just wish I could have liked it more.
Tully (USA 2018) (7): Life is not getting any easier for Marlo (Charlize Theron). She already has her hands full with two taxing children plus a husband who is frequently out of town on business. And now she has just given birth to their third child causing her daily routine to go from difficult to near impossible. Enter Tully, a young woman hired to look after the baby at night so Marlo can finally catch up on the sleep she’s been craving. A free-spirited 26-year old bohemian, the perceptive and unusually intense Tully seems to be everything Marlo is not: self-confident, curious, optimistic, and calm in the face of any storm. Naturally, it isn’t long before harried housewife and New Age “night nanny” form a tight bond, one which sees Marlo finally regaining some of the spunk she once possessed before the demands of marriage, motherhood, and getting older combined to dull it. But as Tully’s influence over Marlo leads to ever more daring escapades a troubling question presents itself—is the younger woman a godsend or would the old adage “too good to be true” be more appropriate? There are many directions this drama could have taken and while writer Diablo Cody and director Jason Reitman don’t exactly pull the rug out from under us, they still manage to add a new spin to an old twist. For her part Theron (who gained a tremendous amount of weight for the role) is the epitome of suburban despair juggling kids, a limited budget, and a husband who exists on the periphery while her own aspirations fade into dim memories. Mackenzie Davis, playing Tully all bedecked in jeans and halter top, likewise presents a strong character whose youthful zeal (or is it naiveté?) charms…at least until a few emotional cracks begin to appear. Rounding out the cast is Ron Livingston as Marlo’s caring yet oblivious husband; Mark Duplass as Marlo’s successful older brother who along with his snobbish wife (Elaine Tan) serve to remind her of what she hasn’t achieved; and Lia Frankland and Asher Miles Fallica as the kids—she a precocious tyke and he a troubled child with behavioural issues. A chick flick in every good sense of the word, Tully is an updated Thelma and Louise wherein psychological pain leads to a very different kind of canyon leap.
Queen of Earth (USA 2015) (3): Psychologically frail Catherine (Elizabeth Moss) is having a bad year. Her father, a renowned artist, has committed suicide and now her boyfriend is leaving her for another woman. Seeking solace at the lakeshore cabin of her BFF Virginia (Katherine Waterston) Catherine is further upset after Virginia fails to give her the hugs she needs causing her twitchy neurosis to blossom into a full-blown psychosis. Confused flashbacks show us the reason for the two friends’ current emotional disconnect and endless navel-gazing has them trying to outdo one another over who has been the bigger victim—Catherine whines about her “self-perpetuating cycle of defeat”; Virginia laments about her ex-boyfriend’s inability to face reality. But as the week progresses and Catherine’s mental status continues to deteriorate the two women are forced to see each other for what they truly are… Or something. Imagine a college drama club doing a 90-minute improvisational spoof of Ingmar Bergman (or Woody Allen?) complete with clumsy staging and stilted monologues and you’ll get some idea of what you’re in for. To be fair, Moss puts in a standout performance despite the awkward script, her character’s tenuous grip on reality reflected in her smudged mascara, rheumy eyes, and unkempt hair. And Waterston, looking like an ‘80s Demi Moore after downing a couple of Ambien, tries to match pace with her own character’s personal pain but eventually gets lost in Moss’ shadow. Unfortunately writer/director Alex Ross Perry plays the arthouse card too many times resulting in stretches of tedium and some unintentionally funny scenes, most notably Catherine’s ultimate mental breakdown which transforms a house party into a cheesy outtake from 1962’s Carnival of Souls. Despite its illusion of depth this is little more than a lightweight character study of two Millennials realizing that life sometimes sucks more than they’ve been led to believe.
Cyanure [Cyanide] (Switzerland/Canada 2013) (3): Fourteen-year old Achille has never met his father, Joe, because the old man has been in prison since before Achille was born but that doesn’t stop the teen from conjuring up fantasies in which dad is an international jewel thief, a dashing bon vivant, and a doting parent—much to the chagrin of his mother who knows Joe for the no-good heel he actually is. And then Joe is paroled and Achille’s childish fantasies are forced to give way to reality while mom’s longstanding resentments toward her absentee husband begin to falter even though she’s currently involved with someone else. Can the three possibly form a family? Is it possible for a selfish career felon to change his ways? And do fathers really live on in sons? In writer/director Séverine Cornamusaz’s clunky, emotionally bogus family dramedy the answers are as glib as the script. As played by Alexandre Etzlinger, Achille is an insufferable brat way too attached to a creep he’s never known; mom (Sabine Timoteo) is a shrill dormouse who can’t decide whether she’s an independent woman or a welcome mat; and Canada’s own heartthrob Roy Dupuis gives a one-note performance as the ex-con whose hard outer shell encases a heart of…well…nothing of note actually. Oh, and there’s Achille’s own teenaged love interest-cum-surrogate mother and his pet snake who always seems to get loose just in time to provide a lesson in freedom and responsibility or else an erotic metaphor. Forced melodrama is spiced with forced humour and gratuitous sex in which Dupuis’ sexy butt provides a much needed distraction, and a ridiculous variation on Russian Roulette only serves to reinforce the film’s inane ending. I was not moved.
Southbound (USA 2015) (7): On a desolate stretch of road somewhere in the southwest five interrelated stories will unfold over the course of a single day. Two men trying to escape a peculiar kind of justice find themselves driving in circles; when their van breaks down three women discover they can’t rely on the kindness of strangers; a distraught motorist must contend with a 911 call from Hell; a man finally reunites with his long lost sister only to wish she had remained lost; and a family outing doesn’t go well when dad’s past comes kicking at the door. Karma is a highway and Damnation seems to be it’s only truck stop in this creepy multi-director anthology where guilty consciences are made flesh and infernal retribution comes crawling out of the strangest places. With stomach-churning special effects and feverish camerawork the directors manage to tell some pretty tall campfire tales which favour creepiness over cheap jump scares and puzzling twists over straightforward explanations: the “why” behind the mayhem and carnage is never fully explained but there are sufficient clues to allow audiences to create their own narratives—and none of them are wholesome. In this automotive Judgement Day a motel room will turn into a circle of the damned, a honky-tonk will become a haven for ghouls, and the Grim Reaper will show up in everyone’s rearview mirror like a runaway Halloween decoration. Get caught on this freeway and a speeding ticket will be the least of your worries. Fun times!
Border Incident (USA 1949) (6): Two federal agents—one American (George Murphy) and one Mexican (Ricardo Montalban)—team up to crack a human smuggling ring targeting migrants along the Mexico/California border. With Murphy gathering intel and Montalban posing as a wanted criminal desperate to flee Mexico, both men get in deeper than they expected when the bad guys on both sides get wise to the sting operation. Supposedly gleaned from actual case histories, director Anthony Mann’s highly fictionalized film noir claims to expose the crooked dealings and human misery that dog Mexico’s migrant farm workers as they fall prey to low level thugs and powerful land barons alike. And for the most part it elicits a sense of sympathy reinforced by some unexpectedly graphic (for the time) cinematic violence including one particularly grisly farmyard execution. Both actors put in adequate performances and John Alton’s B&W cinematography revels in claustrophobic sets and sweaty close-ups featuring both people and machines running straight into the camera lens. But this was post WWII and the nation still needed to be reassured that all was well hence the decision to go for a bittersweet happy ending smacking of God and apple pie.
Cinderella (USA 2015) (8): I experienced two distinct reactions to this latest live action retelling of the old fairy tale in which abused orphan Cinderella suffers at the hands of her evil stepmother and two bitchy stepsisters only to marry a prince in the end thanks to a little supernatural assist. The first was incredulity for director Kenneth Branagh practically smothers the production in Disney syrup resulting in so many sepia-tinged daddy/daughter moments garnished with precious CGI mice and bluebirds. But as the film progressed that initial cynicism gave way to a wistful storybook nostalgia for I came to realize this was pure romantic escapism wrapped up in candlelight and taffeta and laced with magic. Lily James does a fine job in the title role, a demure beauty with a winning smile and graceful modesty (even the dirt smudges on her face are impeccably placed). Cate Blanchett’s wicked stepmother goes a step beyond the cartoon villain we grew up with and instead gives us a terribly unhappy and vulnerable woman raging over the fact that her once numerous youthful opportunities have all but evaporated. And Richard Madden plays the dashing prince as if he just stepped out of a bedtime story. And, of course, the sets and special effects are sterling examples of Disney sorcery with enchanted castles, a royal ball gleaned from every childhood fantasy you ever had (James and Madden’s dance sequence is pure art in motion), and a transformation scene which will leave you believing mice really can become horses and pumpkins really do make grand carriages—at least until the stroke of midnight. And the costume department more than earned that Oscar nomination for all those breathtaking gowns bedecked in Swarovski crystals and LED lights, and intricately appointed royal livery. It’s “Once upon a time…” brought to vivid life, and I must admit that those CGI mice were pretty damn cute after all. Helena Bonham Carter co-stars as Cinderella’s somewhat crusty Fairy Godmother, and the rest of the main cast includes Stellan Skarsgård as the Grand Duke, Derek Jacobi as the ailing king, and Sophie McShera and Holliday Grainger as the petulant step-sisters from hell.
Mike Wallace is Here (USA 2019) (7): Although he was not trained as a journalist, Mike Wallace pretty much invented the genre of hard-hitting investigative reporting with his brusque style and uncompromising questioning. One of the co-founders of 60 Minutes, he kept at it well into his 80s. But what starts out as a fast-paced biography of the man behind the mic—starting with his fiery early days doing daytime drama and cigarette ads to his cynical later years when he battled severe depression—gradually morphs into an acid critique of what television journalism in America has become. Gone are the days when fact-based news was delivered by the likes of Walter Cronkite and Edward R. Murrow muses writer/director Avi Belkin, and in their place we have infotainment and tabloid TV while journalism itself suffers frequent attacks from increasingly hostile administrations. Using split screens, archival footage, and an eclectic soundtrack, Belkin does offer some insight into what motivated Wallace and the numerous interview clips are just as fascinating today—including a tense meeting with Vladimir Putin, a sickening Q&A with the head of the KKK, and a terribly ironic exchange with a smug 30-year old Donald Trump. Wallace died in 2012 at the age of 93.
The Mirror Has Two Faces (USA 1996) (7): Jilted university professor Gregory (Jeff Bridges), tired of falling in love only to be repeatedly abandoned, goes in search of the perfect platonic relationship with a woman he can date without having sex become an issue. By happenstance he winds up in the company of fellow professor Rose (Barbra Streisand, who also directed), a woman who has pretty much given up on the idea of love and romance thanks to living in the shadow of her attractive and outgoing sister (Mimi Rogers) and overbearing mother (Lauren Bacall giving her only Oscar-nominated performance). The inevitable complications arise when Rose decides she wants more out of the relationship causing Greg to go into an emotional tailspin while she feels the first stirrings of personal empowerment… With all of New York City as a backdrop this very loose adaptation of the 1958 French film certainly taps into that city’s energy with dry humour and bouts of manic dialogue giving off a Woody Allen vibe. While Streisand and Bridges don’t exactly set off fireworks they at least give a pair of endearing performances marked by a script which sidesteps the usual clichés without exactly avoiding them—the ending pretty much writes itself—and a strong supporting cast that includes Brenda Vaccaro as Rose’s hefty BFF, Pierce Brosnan as the “other man”, and George Segal as Gregory’s calm voice of reason. For their parts Bacall dominates the screen as an aging beauty whose regrets have soured into bitterness, and Rogers is as shallow as can be playing an impeccably coiffed real housewife of Manhattan who takes for granted all the things Rose has ever dreamed of. Yes it has its share of schlock and schmaltz with a cloying soundtrack and a closing credits sequence which pushes the envelope into lovey-dovey territory, but sometimes a corny chick flick is exactly what you need. And, just for the record, Streisand pokes fun at her own film when her character delivers a classroom lecture chastising Hollywood for its manipulative bullshit love stories. Touché Babs!
Slingshot (Hungary/USA 2024) (6): A three-man crew is on its way to Saturn’s moon Titan, a journey that will take years, when morale begins to take a nosedive thanks to a combination of isolation and side effects from the drugs they must routinely take in order to induce long periods of hibernation—side effects which include disorientation and confusion. While John (a flakey Casey Affleck) begins hallucinating, Nash (a mentally fragile Tomer Capone) spirals into full-blown paranoia, and mission commander Captain Franks (a vaguely threatening Laurence Fishburne) goes from congenial team leader to ruthless autocrat. But when the ship itself begins experiencing unexplained malfunctions an already tense onboard situation threatens to turn lethal… Director Mikael Håfström’s sci-fi thriller owes a debt of gratitude to a certain episode of The Twilight Zone as well as Stanislaw Lem’s groundbreaking novel Solaris in the way it portrays subjective uncertainty as objective reality. Just how far can we trust our senses in determining what is actually happening to crew and vessel? Despite the rather spartan sets (the control room reminded me of a dentist’s office) this is a cohesive three-handed drama in which screenwriters R. Scott Adams and Nathan Parker toss out a few nebulous clues and at least try to keep audiences second-guessing right up to the film’s final few frames. But is the big “reveal-within-a-reveal” worth the time and effort? Some will see a derivative premise undermined by cheap special effects, interminable flashbacks, and a gimmicky resolution. Others will see an engaging psychological puzzle box that manages to hold your attention even if more seasoned viewers can see the twists coming from a light year away. And for once I find myself having to agree with both sides.
X (USA/New Zealand 2022) (8): The only thing better than a good splatter movie is a good splatter movie with brains and a dollop of sly humour—and with this feverish blend of 80s slasher flick and sexually charged psychodrama writer/director Ti West delivers just that. A wannabe Hollywood mogul (Martin Henderson) and his crew of aspiring stars and starlets rent a remote Texas farmhouse in order to produce a zero-budget X-rated movie. Despite a few ongoing differences—the cameraman (Owen Campbell) wants to create “art”, the sound girl (Jenna Ortega) wants to be in front of the camera for a change, and the two female leads (Mia Goth, Brittany Snow) have dreams of celebrity—filming gets underway. But this is the Bible Belt and when the cabin’s elderly owners, Howard and Pearl (Stephen Ure and Mia Goth pulling double duty), discover what’s going on the mummified octogenarians' own long dormant lusts are aroused with deadly results… Set in 1979 with New Zealand’s countryside standing in for rural Texas, West’s cinematic bloodletting is not confined by genre tropes even as the action swings between widescreen carnage and 16mm porn clips both of which give the old adage “Art Imitates Life” a whole new slant. Issues of empowerment, obsession, and the mental aberrations which spring from sexual repression are brought up with a tongue-in-cheek (or pitchfork in face) wit given further weight by a fiery studio evangelist whose ironic rants against immorality spew forth from every radio and television set. The rustic backwoods locale and crumbling cabin interiors definitely have a nostalgic Friday the 13th vibe (cloudswept moon and menacing lake included) and the women all get their chance to be a Scream Queen while the men trot about in their underwear—Kid Cudi, playing the film’s endowed male lead, even gets to swing a prosthetic wiener. But it is Mia Goth who owns the show with two vastly different but oddly related roles playing both a terribly young naif who believes hawking her body in front of a camera will gain her some validity (there’s a sad reason behind this decision), and a terribly wizened old woman unable to accept the fact that youth and beauty abandoned her long ago. Although the contrast between Howard and Pearl’s dying passions and the film crew’s pragmatic approach to love and fucking add an unexpected pathos to the film, West only allows his audience to ponder it for so long before he brings everything to a shocking and darkly hilarious finale capped by a closing line delivered with a wink and a nudge. On Golden Pond meets The Texas Chainsaw Massacre by way of Debbie Does Dallas!
Conclave (UK 2024) (8): The Pope has died and it is the duty of Cardinal Lawrence (an Oscar nominated Ralph Fiennes) to convene a meeting of the world’s Cardinals, called a “Conclave”, so that they may elect a new Pontiff, a process that can take up to several days and several rounds of voting before a consensus can be reached. But there is trouble astir in the Vatican as conservatives square off against progressives, ambitions are laid bare, and scandals are brought to troubling light. While intrigues and infighting will take up much of Lawrence’s time it is the presence of an enigmatic Cardinal from the middle east who will eventually turn the Conclave—and thus the whole tone of the movie—on its ear… Gorgeous baroque interiors awash in crimson and gold, ornate costuming, and a soundtrack of dark strings and sacred chorales set the mood while a score of brilliant performances light up the screen as director Edward Berger takes us into the very halls of Catholic power where dramas, both pious and profane, unfold. Fiennes excels as a man questioning his own faith even as he struggles to remain obedient to the responsibilities placed upon his shoulders by the faithful. He’s joined by Stanley Tucci whose forward-thinking Cardinal represents the new Church, John Lithgow as an overly eager papal candidate, Lucian Msamati as an African Cardinal with a secret, and Sergio Castellitto as a blustery conservative with a troubling agenda. Isabella Rossellini gives her only Oscar-nominated performance to date as a crusty Mother Superior who hears and sees more than anyone expects, and Vancouver’s own Carlos Diehz provides the film’s lynchpin as cardinal Benitez from the diocese of Kabul, Afghanistan. Whether one believes or not, Berger’s incendiary ensemble piece will certainly dazzle the eyes and ears while teasing the mind.
Sherlock Jr. (USA 1924) (9): At only 45 minutes in length, Buster Keaton’s short comedy romp is surely one of the most eye-popping classics from Hollywood’s silent era. Two men are vying for the attentions of a beautiful young woman: a handsome self-assured lothario (Ward Crane), and a timid yet determined theatre projectionist (Keaton) who dreams of one day becoming a famous sleuth. But when the former frames the latter for a theft he didn’t commit only a madcap miracle or two will clear his name. This simple plot gives rise to some incredible visuals as Keaton’s hapless character rides the handlebars of a runaway motorcycle, plunges a car into a raging river, hops about on top of a moving train, and generally avoids certain death more through happenstance than design. And it was all accomplished without stunt doubles or CGI. But the most amazing passage involves a dreaming Keaton, asleep at the projector, actually walking through the movie screen to enter the film being shown—a whodunit which oddly mirrors his own predicament. This surreal movie-within-a-movie twist was so perfectly rendered that 60 years later it inspired Woody Allen’s The Purple Rose of Cairo. Little wonder then that Keaton’s small piece of cinema magic is mentioned on more than one “Must See” list.
The Sun (Russia 2005) (6): Part of director Aleksandr Sokurov’s “Quadrilogy of Power”, The Sun focuses on Emperor Hirohito in the days leading up to Japan’s humiliating surrender at the end of WWII. Of course being a Sokurov production this is not a simple period drama but rather a moody, impressionistic film in which gloomy interiors and glaringly washed out exteriors render the title’s double meaning ironic. Playing it straight for a change popular comedic actor Issei Ogata is marvelous as the idiosyncratic Hirohito, a quiet, awkward man interested in art and science who is praised as a god by his people yet played like a puppet by his fawning courtiers who dress him, open doors for him, and basically control every moment of his waking hours. But when Hirohito comes up against real power in the form of General Douglas MacArthur (a rather monotone performance by Robert Dawson), the general’s respectful yet pointed queries and critiques aimed at his personal life force the emperor to reevaluate his own lofty status. Not for the impatient viewer, Sokurov uses long takes of motionless silence and kowtowing non-sequiturs to create a space as psychological as it is physical. And he punctuates the film’s many static passages with moments of dry comedy as when Hirohito and his retinue ponder a crate of chocolate bars gifted by the Americans, or surreal horror when the emperor has a vision of Tokyo being firebombed by American planes which morph into flying reptiles while their incendiary payloads emerge like schools of monstrous fish. A doleful examination of power in high places, both real and illusory, wherein our main protagonist’s sense of honour (Japan had a few old bones to pick with America) leaves a trail of ashes in its wake. Kaori Momoi has a small but crucial role as Empress Kojun, her peaceful sensibility complimenting her husband’s emerging self-awareness.
