There’s new whatnot ready to stream or BluRay its way into your home! Some of it’s worth a look, some of it’s not. Let us run that down for you.
Click titles for our complete reviews. And as always, please use this information for good, not evil.
by Matt Weiner
Have you seen the Coppola film about an unlikely star-crossed couple touring a foreign country? In Paris Can Wait, Eleanor Coppola, better known for her documentaries, writes and directs her first feature film.
Diane Lane plays Anne, the long-suffering wife and de facto personal assistant to a hard-driving producer husband Michael (Alec Baldwin, literally phoning most of his lines in). When Anne needs to get to Paris from Cannes, Michael’s business partner Jacques all too happily offers to drive.
Jacques has a spontaneous lust for life as well as an endless appetite that turns a one-day drive into an unexpected long weekend in close quarters for the pair. Paris Can Wait has some very loud echoes of the meandering “stranger adrift in a strange land” in Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation.
But the comparison does Eleanor Coppola no favors, instead showing just how respectively undeveloped and soulless Anne and Jacques are. At least Bob Harris knows that his distinguished charm act is just another form of kabuki, whereas Jacques comes across as sincerely committed to his hedonistic shtick.
This by itself wouldn’t torpedo the film, given Arnaud Viard’s effortless bonhomie. But it’s impossible to ignore the complete lack of agency given to Anne up until the very last frame of film. Jacques’s disquisitions on food and wine, art and local history are far too boring to be as one-sided as they are. All their outings together are gorgeously filmed, but Jacques’s conversational M.O. is to recite the first two lines of Wikipedia on any and every subject that comes into his field of vision.
In return, Anne is supposed to derive value from being pelted with the encyclopedia every five minutes. Call it homme-splaining, and then also call the police to rescue Anne from her whimsical weekend of nonconsensual self-discovery.
It’s not that two strangers wandering around a foreign country and talking can’t work—Richard Linklater got a sublime trilogy out of it. But the whole of France isn’t scenic enough to make up for Jacques’s tour guide/hostage taker balancing act. Just how bad is it for Anne? If the film swapped out the soundtrack for tense horror strings, there’s not a single excursion with Jacques that couldn’t naturally segue to a scene of Anne lashed to a bed with both her legs broken.
And somehow the trip stirs up life-changing feelings for both characters. (To be fair, spending an entire weekend feeling like each new adventure is a prelude to a murder would probably change anybody’s outlook on life.) Anne and Jacques each get a last minute, pathos-drenched backstory. But the result is not only forced, it also weakens Lane’s last-ditch attempt to inject a flash of mischief and mystery into Anne’s final moments onscreen.
This makes Paris Can Wait tragedy, not comedy. If Lane is going to be typecast in this sort of role, at least allow her character to flourish. Instead we’re stuck with the Jacques tasting menu: course after course of attractive fluff whether you want it or not, and then someone else gets stuck with the bill.
by George Wolf
Anchored by the powerful bond between a K-9 Marine and his handler, Megan Leavey is a thoroughly respectful and frequently touching testament to heroes of differing species.
Kate Mara is fantastic as Corporal Leavey, who was twice deployed to Iraq with her bomb-sniffing dog Rex, saving multiple lives until they were both wounded by an improvised explosive. After her return to civilian life, Leavey mounted an impressive campaign to adopt Rex, and was ultimately successful with an assist from her Senator, New York’s Chuck Schumer.
Director Gabriela Cowperthwaite, who nearly brought Sea World to its knees with the documentary Blackfish, builds Megan Leavey with impressive restraint in each of its themes. Never a jingoistic war film, shameless recruiting tool or schmaltzy ode to a dog’s purpose (pun intended), the film, like its subjects, does a job and does it well.
At times tense, loving, and even goosebump-worthy, Megan Leavey is a fine reminder that family comes in all breeds.
by George Wolf
Two years ago, Krisha served as a stunning feature debut for writer/director Trey Edward Shults. Gripping in the intimate nature of its truths, it heralded Shults as a new filmmaker with tremendous potential.
That potential is realized with It Comes at Night.
He may have bigger stars and a larger budget this time out, but Shults shows storytelling instincts that are already well-seasoned. Resisting any pressures to mainstream his scope and “go bigger,” Shults get even more intimate. While Krisha showed a very tangible threat infecting a family, It Comes at Night is more abstract, an intensely personal take on fear and paranoia.
Deep in the woods, Paul (Joel Edgerton, solid as always), Sarah (Carmen Ejogo) and their teenage son Travis (Kelvin Harrison, Jr.) have established a cautious existence in the face of a worldwide plague. They have boarded their windows, secured their doors, and enacted a very strict set of rules for survival.
At the top of that list: do not go out at night.
This rigid domestic order is tested when the desperate Will (Christopher Abbott) breaks in. He has a wife, Kim (Riley Keough) and toddler to protect, and is offering all they have in exchange for refuge.
It Comes at Night has been on horror fans’ radar for some time, but it will test the patience of those satisfied with cheap jump scares or spoon-fed explanations. As with Krisha, Shults builds the film around his own experiences, using Travis to often mirror how Shults himself dealt with a death in the family. Through Travis’s nightmares, we are kept off balance, questioning just what is real and who can be trusted.
Shults explores the confines of the house with a fluid camera and lush cinematography, slyly creating an effective sense of separation between the occupants and the dangers outside.
But what are those dangers, and how much of the soul might one offer up to placate fear itself?
In asking those unsettling questions, It Comes at Night becomes a truly chilling exploration of human frailty.
by Hope Madden
Remember the first time you saw the trailer for the new Tom Cruise flick The Mummy, and you thought, “My God, that looks awful”?
Dude, you were so right.
Part Tomb Raider, part Suicide Squad – with huge bits stolen whole cloth from the immeasurably superior An American Werewolf in London – The Mummy lacks even a solid thirty seconds of fresh thought. It is as dusty and lifeless as its namesake.
But, because it’s some sort of artistic imperative that every movie we see for the next decade is planned out in huge corporate clusters – I mean cinematic universes – the Universal monsters are being revived. Aging leading men will be tapped for butts-in-seats duties as Dark Universe tries to create a series of nostalgic family(ish) fare neutered beyond recognition with CGI.
First up, Cruise.
A prologue riddled with plot holes leads to one wildly offensive piece of cultural flippancy, as Cruise Indiana Joneses his way into Iraqi insurgent territory in search of unnamed treasure.
He finds an Egyptian sarcophagus. In Iraq. It’s just one geographic discrepancy mentioned but never clearly explained. Part and parcel of a script-by-committee that hopes you’ll overlook its incessant nonsense.
Cruise, as Nick Morton, is Cruise – all superficial charm and charisma. He’s joined by one-note Annabelle Wallis as the archeologist in a white shirt that’s bound to get really wet at some point, and Sofia Boutella as a mummy with strategically placed wrappings.
And Russell Crowe as Dr. Henry Jekyll.
Will he turn into Hyde? Will it be among the film’s weakest, saddest, most pathetic scenes? No spoilers here.
Director Alex Kurtzman bandages together secondhand ideas, weak writing and an absence of onscreen chemistry with CGI aplenty. Sandstorms! Birds! More sand! And mummy/zombies that look like they should be gettin’ down with Michael Jackson.
If only!
Kurtzman’s impressive lack of instinct for pacing, tone and atmosphere match perfectly with the script’s hodgepodge of stolen ideas. And now we can wait for Hollywood execs to bring other moldering horror corpses back to life. Sigh.
by Hope Madden
There was a time when, for at least a second or two, my boss thought I might have a severed human appendage in a filthy Kroger bag under my desk.
How did get myself into this mess?
I blame the mushrooms.
Each fall and spring I look into my yard to find that everything’s coming up fungi. During the moist, temperate seasons my lawn becomes home to the most heinous mushrooms you have ever seen. Their white 5 – 6 inch shafts end with a helmet-like, purplish brown tip.
Sound like anything to you?
Picture it, if you will.
Yes, it’s that bad.
And then picture a few dozen standing at attention throughout my lawn.
I never have seen this particular brand of fungus anywhere else on earth but in my yard. Lucky me.
They are upsetting to look at. Their unseemly appearance drives my neighbor kids crazy. One boy – normally sweet and smiley – cannot abide them. The minute he sees a bloom he gives it a swift kick.
Do you know what looks worse than a yard full of erect mushrooms?
A lawn littered with amputees.
I’m surprised the mailman will even deliver to our house.
I’ve tried to find out what type of mushroom they might be, hoping in vain to eliminate the fungus without killing my lawn. But they’re hard to describe if you’re looking for a serious answer.
The internet is no help at all. Type “mushrooms” into Google and you’ll come up with 15.1 million possible links. Narrow the search terms and you’ll likely get descriptions like “sexy science,” which, at first blush, looks like it actually might have the information you seek, until you realize the mushroom they’re talking about is only two inches long.
My mushroom is bigger than your mushroom.
Meanwhile, my husband, George, was doing his own sleuthing. He works for a radio station and, at that time, the station ran a gardening show on Saturday mornings. George emailed a picture of the plant to the show’s host for an explanation.
The host sternly responded, “I do not do that type of counseling. Try Dr. Ruth.”
I once had a colleague who believed, sight unseen, that these were the pre-bloom stage of a spectacular orchid. She advised me to dig them up and keep them in clear glass jars in my basement.
I appreciated the suggestion, but I feared what would happen on the holidays when all our nieces and nephews go downstairs to play ping pong and find a large collection of these severed appendages on my cellar shelves.
Merry Christmas, kids!
I’m creepy enough as it is.
Another colleague had run a landscaping business years ago and offered to take a look. She thought she’d dealt with the same lawn care menace once in a Dublin neighborhood. I bet it went over really well there.
So I dug up a sample and put it in a plastic bag to bring to work. But the stench! I hadn’t known about the odor – this is not the kind of plant you bend down to sniff – until I had one in hand.
It smelled exactly as I would imagine a severed body part left too long in a filthy plastic bag might.
My colleague was late to work and I simply couldn’t tolerate the odor, so I grabbed the bag to take it to the restroom garbage. Unfortunately, I ran into my boss.
“What have you got there?”
I wasn’t sure what would be more jarring and inappropriate, describing it or showing it to him.
I decided the least suspicious thing I could do was dash past him to flee to the ladies’ room, leaving behind a hideous stench. His horrified expression suggested that he got a glimpse of the package.
So that happened.
by Hope Madden
If you’re looking for a light hearted, talky romp, Bas Devos’s Violet is not for you. If, on the other hand, you’d like to see a thoughtfully delivered meditation on grief – and who doesn’t? – seriously, you should give this film a chance.
At thirteen minutes into the film, I’d yet to hear 20 words of dialog. But the sounds are hypnotic. It might be the click and whir of office machinery as the screen itself contains CCTV footage from mall security, capturing without notice the stabbing death of a teenage boy.
Or it could be the clatter of BMX bike wheels as Jesse (Cesar De Sutter) tries to resume normal life with his buddies after surviving the attack that ended his friend Jonas’s life.
Maybe it’s the airplanes overhead, the rain on awnings, or the sudden explosion of noise about 42 minutes in as Jesse and his friends attend the very heavy Deafheaven concert.
Whatever you’re hearing, it’s not an explanation of what happened, not details about how Jesse is coping. Devos has confidence that you can suss that out without hand holding.
His dreamlike work, often recalling Gus Van Sant, sits with mourning. The delayed reaction, the inability to focus, the hypersensitivity and numbness that collide. Why didn’t Jesse do anything to help Jonas?
It’s a question you can see on Jesse’s father’s face, on the faces of townies. With barely a word spoken, Devos offers insight into disappointment, masculinity, shock and the awkward, undramatic reality of day to day grief.
It’s a lovely effort, heavy with symbolism (sometimes too heavy). Devos is as confident with his visual storytelling as he is with sound design. Little touches – blue handlebars and peddles that match a BMX tee shirt, two dogs tearing at a trash bag on a corner – lead up to a quiet climax that matches symbol with reality in one overwhelming, terrifying and beautiful close.
It’s as insightful and respectful a representation of trauma and grief as you’ll find, but don’t expect tidy explanations or epiphanies. Devos is as patient with his subject as the theme requires.
by George Wolf
“Who hasn’t had the impulse to put their life on hold for a moment…just vanish completely?”
Howard Wakefield (Bryan Cranston) gives in to that impulse, and his moment of resignation becomes months in a self-imposed exile, wallowing in self-pity and watching his family from an attic window.
Sure, Howard has a nice job, beautiful family and sweet home in suburban New York, but he’s been lulled into a stupor by the whole domestic routine. After yet another trying day, Howard ventures up to the attic above his separate garage…and decides to stay there.
Writer/director Robin Swicord adapts E.L. Doctorow’s short story with a workmanlike precision, dutifully providing all the building blocks for this high-concept parable, but never finding the depth or profundity she seeks.
Cranston, here’s a shocker, is fantastic, digging commendably deep in a search for the humanity his character badly needs. Howard has some first-world problems, as he labels suburbia a place people can feel “protected from what’s wild,” but can’t challenge his privilege with anything more dire than dumpster diving or poor hygiene. Howard is far from likable, and though Cranston is all in, finding a reason to root for his quest is tough sledding indeed.
As he spies on his wife (Jennifer Garner) and two daughters, Howard fancies himself the veritable wise old hermit, observing the folly of modern life and dispatching simple truths. It’s well-meaning, but these truths are of the standard greeting card variety, rendered even less impactful from the film’s inherent need to tell (through voiceover narration or talking-to-himself musings) instead of show.
At times, Wakefield has the feel of a one-man show. With Cranston, the man makes it worth watching, even when the show can’t quite keep up.
by Rachel Willis
The plot of The Wedding Plan would give one the impression that it’s a standard entry into the rom-com genre. When Michal (Noa Koler) is left by her fiancé, Gidi, thirty days before their wedding, she decides to go ahead with it anyway. While you could expect a comedic series of dates with random men while Michal tries to fill the groom void, what we get in writer/director Rama Burshtein’s film is something with much more depth.
While we do get scenes of awkward first dates, set up for Michal by her matchmaker, Burshtein is more focused on letting us know who Michal is and what she wants. While she wants to marry, the driving force behind her desire is a weariness with dating and a fear of being alone. When she decides to go ahead with her wedding, she gives herself over to God, believing that he will send her the “man of her dreams”.
As expected, the people in Michal’s life approach her plan with bemusement, incredulity, and sometimes outright aggression. However, the strength of Michal’s faith is what keeps us pulling for her. As Burshtein employs the romantic comedy tropes in her script, she manages to make them feel fresh by rooting Michal’s journey deeply in her faith. Though many characters see Michal as arrogant, the audience sees her as a women who believes so strongly in God’s plan that we can’t help but be awed by her sincerity.
Noa Koler is extraordinary. From the first moment she’s on screen, she brings a touching sweetness to Michal – we want her to be happy and find love. When her fiancé ends the engagement, the audiences feels genuine sorrow, even though we’ve spent a very short time with her.
At times, Burshtein takes on too much within the story. While most of the characters have depth, some of them are flat, only existing to push the story forward. When so many of your characters are so well-rounded, those that serve as pawns stand out roughly against the others.
Despite the flaws, Burshtein’s film is a endearing exploration of love and faith.
