One man’s moral courage provides the anchor for A Hidden Life, writer/director Terrence Malick’s affirmation that a life well-lived is a beneficial one, no matter how small the spotlight.
Malick brings his dreamlike focus to the story of Franz Jagerstatter, a conscientious objector who refused to fight with the Nazis in World War II.
Franz (August Diehl) and his wife Frani (Valerie Pachner) are living happily in an Austrian farming village with their three young daughters. The work is hard but the peasant villagers share a strong communal spirit, still untouched by the winds of war.
Malick showcases the mountain landscape with his customary visual brilliance, teaming with cinematographer Jorg Widmer to envelope us in an expansive and idyllic old world setting among the clouds. But those clouds soon turn literally and figuratively stormy, and as Hitler’s rhetoric is parroted by the villagers, Franz’s commitment to conscience turns him into a prisoner and his family into outcasts who “sin against the village.”
Franz finds little comfort from his church elders, who urge appeasement and seek a compromise. But even an assignment away from the front would require an oath of allegiance to Hitler and the Nazi cause – a line Franz refused to cross.
The hushed voiceovers, forced perspectives and dreamlike imaging that served Malick so well in his masterfully personal The Tree of Life here seem a bit ill-fitting when paired with someone else’s legacy. A frequent return to lingering shots such as clasped hands thrust into the air lose resonance with repetition, creating a subtle tedium that betrays the nearly three hour running time.
Not that Malick’s latest doesn’t deliver emotional power, it certainly does, most pointedly during Franz’s visit with a church artist. Suffice to say the exchange features some of Malick’s most brilliantly concise dialogue, using one man’s honest introspection to frame another’s moral quandary in a heartbreakingly beautiful new light.
Try hard, and you can imagine Malick working in a purely historical context, giving a deserving salute to a lesser known man for all seasons.
But on its face, the film presents a climate that is all too familiar, one where a rising tide of hate divides families, reduces religious tenets to twisted rationalizations, and where blind rage requires no subtitles. A Hidden Life is at its best when those stakes are clear, and Franz’s unwavering conviction is a sobering history lesson.
Bombshell, Jay Roach’s depiction of the unrepentant sexual harassment that poisoned the work atmosphere at Fox News, is equal parts cathartic and depressing.
Buoyed by strong lead performances in a trio of unerring
talent—Charlize Theron, Nicole Kidman and Margot Robbie—the film also leans on
an incredible and sizable ensemble to deliver a surprisingly nuanced look at
the shades of grey, of complicity and responsibility when it comes to sexual
harassment.
“It’s no one’s job to protect you,” Theron’s Megyn Kelly
tells newbie Kayla (Robbie).
“It’s all of our jobs,” she disagrees.
No surprise the script comes from The Big Short scribe Charles Randolph. Roach’s film benefits from the same kind of thoughtful, informative, funny and “can you believe this?” approach, but Bombshell lacks much of the rage and outright comedy of an Adam McKay film.
Like McKay, Roach left comedies behind in favor of headier,
sharper, more political material. Also like McKay, his comedic sensibilities
breathe some life into the efforts, helping this film serve the dual purpose of
entertaining and informing. And, like McKay, Roach knows how helpful a
well-placed comedian can be.
Kate McKinnon actually does a lot of the film’s narrative
heavy lifting. (Is it wrong I wanted her to play Rudy Giuliani as well?) As a
Bill O’Reilly producer who befriends Kayla and helps her better understand the
Fox New world, she allows Roach to make salient points about the network and
the way it’s run, but because McKinnon is naturally funny and incredibly
talented, it feels organic.
Her character’s position when it comes to rocking the boat
also offers a clear-eyed take on why toxic work environments can go unchecked
for so long. Since McKinnon’s character is in many ways the one the audience
will most relate to, this is a sly and successful maneuver to keep us from
feeling too superior and enabling us to better empathize with characters we may
not like as well.
Enough cannot be said for the work of Roach’s makeup department, especially that of prosthetic make up designer Kazu Hiro. Theron’s imperceptible prosthetic—along with her own posture and voice work—turn her into an alarming replica of Kelly. Ditto Nicole Kidman, and John Lithgow, whose performance as Roger Ailes also delivers a wallop.
Not that any of this matters if the three central performances lacks in any department. They don’t. Characteristically, Theron, Kidman and Robbie deliver exceptional work, each willing (as they always are) to depict a woman who is not always (or, in some cases, is rarely) likable but who deserves respect and empathy for her suffering and courage.
Wisely, Roach and team don’t get swept away by the bracing change and empowerment of victory. Indeed, Bombshell’s final act is a smack I still feel. But its power is its honesty.
People say that you’re either a cat person or a dog person. I’m a cat person, but definitely not a Cats person. But if you are, there’s a lot to enjoy in the new film version of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s 1981 musical based on poems by T.S. Eliot.
How else could you possibly get tickets to see a show with this cast? Taylor Swift. Idris Elba. Rebel Wilson. James Corden. Jennifer Hudson. How else can you watch a feline Dame Judi Dench curl up convincingly in a basket? Or glimpse Sir Ian McKellen lap from a bowl of milk?
A movie is a very egalitarian way to enjoy a Broadway musical. This one is about an assemblage of cats who have gathered together under the full moon to decide which one of them will be chosen to be reborn into a new life. Their best life. They pitch their case by singing the song of themselves. There’s very little in the way of traditional narrative structure although director Tom Hooper (Les Misérables) does tinker around with the play a bit to try to tease one out. It’s more like a musical revue designed around a central theme.
Initially concerned about falling into the uncanny valley of CG feline effects on the actors’ familiar faces, after some early creepy moments I got used to it. The realistic tail twitches and subtle changes in the angle of an ear serve to give additional cues as to the interior life of a cat that mere facial expressions alone can’t provide. (The opportunity to see emotional reactions through closeups is another advantage of a screen version.)
Occasionally the feline illusion is broken (most often by Swift and Elba) and instead of seeing a cat you are confronted with a dancing furry naked person with Barbie-doll genitalia. But most of the time, it works.
Wilson and Corden are amusing. Watching Francesca Hayward (principal ballerina at the Royal Ballet) dance the role of Victoria is a delight. But the true star of this show is Jennifer Hudson as Grizabella, a former “glamour cat” now old and suffering through hard times.
As in Les Mis, Hooper has his cast sing live, and it is Hudson’s performance of the signature song “Memory” that far outshines every other musical number here. It’s likely what you’ll be humming as you walk out of the theatre, and the one thing you’ll most remember about these Cats.
Not that long ago in a galaxy near and dear to us, J.J. Abrams brilliantly re-packaged our Star Wars memories as The Force Awakens. Rian Johnson’s The Last Jedi took an opposite approach two years later, bringing a challenging and welcome nerve that sent a clear signal it would soon be time to move on.
Abrams is back as director and co-writer to close the saga with The Rise of Skywalker, which ends up feeling less like a course correction (which wasn’t needed) and more like a sly meeting of both minds. The fan service is strong with this one, indeed, though it never quite smacks of panicked fanboy appeasement.
In fact, the echoes of Johnson’s vision only make Abrams’s franchise love letter more emotionally resonant. We were told this goodbye was coming, and now here it is, so grab hold of something.
And that doesn’t mean just tissues (though you may need them), as Abrams delivers action that comes early and more than often. From deep space shootouts to light saber duals amid monstrous ocean waves, the heart-racing set pieces are damn near non stop and seldom less than spectacular.
But let’s be real, this is the Rey and (Kylo) Ren show.
We knew their fates would collide, we wanted that collision, and here we get it, propelled by two actors in Daisy Ridley and Adam Driver who are able to fully embrace the weight of their respective arcs. As all our questions are eventually answered, Driver and Ridley never let us forget what drives their characters: the closure of identity.
And from a new hope to the last hope, it is precisely those bloodlines and destinies that have always driven this entire franchise. Abrams makes sure he honors that legacy with a satisfying sendoff bursting with fandom in nearly every frame.
Yes, you’ll find some awkward dialogue and underused characters, but that’s not a bad scorecard considering all that The Rise of Skywalker throws at us. From welcome hellos (Lando!), to sad goodbyes (Carrie Fisher’s is handled with heroic grace), political relevance (“there’s more of us” in the resistance) to stand up and cheer moments, this is a one helluva farewell party.
One of the most fun facts in acting is that most of the greats, even the truly greats, started off in horror. And, apparently, they all co-starred at one point or another with Keanu Reeves, whose Oscar is apparently still forthcoming. Today we look at some horror films with casts dripping with future gold.
5. Constantine (2005)
Two Oscars plus three nominations. Not for Constantine,
obviously, but that’s the hardware and would-be hardware shared among the cast
of this one.
We have no explanation for this, but Keanu Reeves shows up
three times in this countdown, regardless of the fact that he’s never been
nominated for an Oscar.
No!
Francis Lawrence (of the many Hunger Games fame) made his directorial debut with this big screen take on the comic Hellblazer. Reeves mumbles his way through the lead role of John Constantine. Destined to hell because of an early-life suicide attempt and cursed with the ability to see demons and angels in their true form, Constantine battles on behalf of the light in the hopes of regaining favor and avoiding his eternal fate.
Tilda Swinton plays the angel Gabriel! Peter Storemare plays
Satan! I don’t know what else you need to convince you to waste two hours, but
Rachel Weisz also plays twins, Pruitt Taylor Vince plays a priest, Djimon
Hounsou plays a witch doctor, and there’s absolutely no reason any one of these
people said yes to this job. Glorious!
4. Bram Stoker’s Dracula (1992)
OK, well Coppola alone has five outright Oscars and one
Thalberg Memorial Award, as well as nine additional nominations. Add to that
Oldman’s win and nomination, Hopkins’s win and three nominations, Ryder’s two
nominations and Richard E. Grant’s nom and you have to just wonder why this
movie doesn’t work better.
Overheated, overperformed and somehow undeniably watchable,
Francis Ford Coppola’s take on Stoker’s classic vampire tale is a train wreck.
Keanu Reeves is awful. Winona Ryder is awful. Anthony
Hopkins is so over the top as to be borderline hilarious. And yet, Coppola
somehow matches that ridiculous volume and pitch with a writhing, carnal
atmosphere – almost an oversaturated Hammer horror, all heaving breasts and
slippery satin.
At the heart of the film is a glorious Gary Oldman, who is
particularly memorable as the almost goofily macabre pre-London Dracula. Tom
Waits makes an impression as Renfield, Richard E. Grant offers a nicely wearied
turn as the asylum’s keeper, Dr. Seward, and the lovely Sadie Frost joins a slew
of nubile vampire women to keep the film simmering. It’s a sloppy stew, but it
is just so tasty.
3. The Gift (2000)
Blanchett has two, Swank has two, Simmons has one, writer
Billy Bob Thornton has one plus, including Danny Elfman and Greg Kinnear,
there’s another 11 Oscar nominations for this cast and crew. And yet…
Thornton co-writes this supernatural backwoods thriller,
allegedly about experiences his mother had as a clairvoyant. Sam Raimi, who’d
just directed Thornton to an Oscar nomination with A Simple Plan, directs a
star-heavy cast: Cate Blanchette, Keanu Reeves, JK Simmons, Gary Cole, Hilary Swank, Giovanni Ribisi, Katie Holmes
and Greg Kinnear.
Blanchette is a small town Georgia fortune teller (though
she doesn’t like that label). Recently widowed and raising three young boys,
she’s the picture of vulnerability and Blanchette is, of course, excellent.
This is one of Reeves’s stronger performances, too, as the violent rube
suspected of murdering a lovely young missing person (Holmes).
Ribisi does the best by the film, which is a fun if
predictable little spook show. Raimi can’t quite find his tone, and humorless
horror is definitely not the filmmaker’s strong suit. Still, the cast is just
about enough to make the film really shine.
2. Zombieland (2009)
Emma Stone, Woody Harrelson, Jesse Eisenberg, Abigail
Breslin and Bill Murray each have at least one Oscar nomination; Stone’s also
won one. And in a lovely change of pace, the movie they made together kicks all
manner of ass.
Hilarious, scary, action-packed, clever and, when necessary,
touching, Zombieland ranks as one of the most fun zombie movies ever made. How
much of that is due to Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick’s spot-on screenplay?
Loads. How much credit goes to director Ruben Fleischer? Well, he did stage
that utterly fantastic theme park kiosk shootout of death, didn’t he?
But let’s be honest, the chemistry among the four leads,
their comic timing and simple, undeniable talent is what raises this film to
the highest of genre heights.
1. American Psycho (2000)
Truth be told, Christian Bale should have won the Oscar for
this iconic slice of perfection. He did not, but he did win for The Fighter,
with three nominations in quick succession after that. Reese Witherspoon has
one win, one nom and Jared Leto has one win. Meanwhile, Chloe Sevigny has one
nomination to Willem Dafoe’s four.
It this film better than all of those? Hell yes. These fantastic
actors mingle in a giddy hatchet to the head of the abiding culture of the
Eighties. American Psycho represents the sleekest, most
confident black comedy – perhaps ever. Writer/director Mary Harron’s send
up of the soulless Reagan era is breathtakingly handled, from the set
decoration to the soundtrack, but the film works as well as a horror picture as
it does a comedy.
As solid as this cast is, and top to bottom it is perfect,
every performance is eclipsed by the lunatic genius of Bale’s work. Volatile,
soulless, misogynistic and insane, yet somehow he also draws some empathy. It
is wild, brilliant work that marked a talent preparing for big things.
Richard Jewell is a film Clint Eastwood has reportedly been trying to direct for years, and no wonder. It’s the story of a heroic man forced to fight against bureaucrats and parasites who question his heroism, which seems to be Clint’s favored genre.
Jewell, of course, was a hero at the Centennial Park bombing during the Atlanta olympics in 1996. A security guard who first spotted the bomb and was helping clear the scene when it exploded, Jewell was later named as the FBI’s prime suspect, and had his life turned upside down for months until the feds gave up.
It’s a pretty clear case of a man wronged, and a compelling story clearly worthy of a film. But while Eastwood and writer Billy Ray tell much of it well, their zeal for painting broad-stroked villains is hard to overcome.
After years of standout supporting roles (I, Tonya, Black KkKlansman) Paul Walter Hauser takes the lead as Jewell and grounds the film with a terrific and often touching performance. As suspicion around Jewell grows, the bonds created with his lawyer and his mother (Sam Rockwell and Kathy Bates, both great) show Eastwood and Ray at their nuanced best.
The law and the press don’t get off so easy. That’s not to say they should get a pass, far from it, but Atlanta Journal reporter Kathy Scruggs is drawn so one dimensionally, Olivia Wilde might as well be twirling a mustache every time she’s onscreen.
The Journal is currently threatening legal action over the depiction of Scruggs (now deceased, as is Jewell) trading sexual favors to an FBI agent (Jon Hamm) for info, but the film’s slut-shaming isn’t reserved for just one reporter. They’re all whores.
And in case you miss the strategically placed sticker in the lawyer’s office that reads “I fear the government more than I fear terrorism,” Eastwood returns to it more than once. That’s grandstanding, not character development, and ends up undercutting a layer we could have gotten so much more intimately solely through Rockwell’s performance.
Richard Jewell‘s story is a good one, a tragic one, and a cautionary tale that deserves telling. And the film it deserves – the one where a common man finds the will to fight for his dignity – is in here, you just have to wade through some blanket scapegoating to find it.
In the history of cinema, the number of bad, misogynistic
horror movies is too high to count. I literally cannot count that high. So,
even though Black Christmas is not a good horror movie, it’s somehow
comforting to know there is now at least one bad feminist horror flick.
Co-writer/director Sophia Takal (writing alongside April Wolfe) puts a new spin on Bob Clark’s seasonal classic. (Well, Clark also directed A Christmas Story, but I’m talking about his 1974 original Black Christmas.)
Christmas break is upon the Hawthorn College campus and
students are slowly trickling home. Any sorority sisters left at school will
wish they’d made other plans.
Clark’s bloodier yuletide gem remains relevant because it’s
a pre-slasher slasher, meaning that it doesn’t entirely follow the formula
because there was no formula for slashers in 1974. Many consider Black
Christmas to be the first of that sub-genre, so it subverts expectations
because, when it was made, there were none. Fun!
The second reason people return to it annually is the creepy
ass phone calls that still somehow manage to be chilling.
Takal definitely frustrates with phones, although not to
nearly the same chilling effect. But she does manage to give the formula a
switch-up.
Imogen Poots leads the cast as Riley, and we know Riley is
the film’s hero because she has the most to overcome. Poots is a reliable
performer, though she struggles to give Riley much character. Still, you see
flashes of her talent, especially in an infuriating conversation with campus
police.
Aleyse Shannon leaves a more interesting impression as activist/bestie Kris, and Cary Elwes makes a welcome, oily visit as the professor you really, really hate.
Unlike the ’74 original or the unwatchable 2006 reboot, Takal’s Black Christmas is PG13, so don’t expect any real scares or envelope-pushing violence. Where Takal takes chances is with the message that rape culture has to be burned to the ground.
The film is a blunt instrument, but there are moments in the
dialog that are both cathartic and funny. Female characters are treated with
sincere scrutiny and empathy (except in the film’s prologue, which is just disappointing).
And yet, the leap in logic between “let’s go to the cops” and “here’s my supernatural theory” is so grand, so bold, so ludicrous that you almost have to admire it. It absolutely sinks the movie, but there’s something applause worthy in the wrong-headedness of it.
The plot ends up killing Black Christmas, which is too bad. Takal threads some audacious take downs of bro culture throughout a film with a lot of insight. It’s just not a very good movie.
Is there anything more dangerous than a sense of
entitlement? This belief in being owed something unearned—a theme that’s played
in a number of filmmaker Lauren Greenfield’s documentaries about the absurdly
wealthy—takes on a more sinister stench in her latest, The Kingmaker.
With surprising access and intimacy, Greenfield delivers a
behind-the-scenes look at the Marcos family’s return to power in the Philippines.
It’s a dark, almost surreal image of what passes for reality in this post-truth
world and it is depressing A.F.
We spend most of our time with Imelda Marcos, best known for
being the first lady of the Philippines during Ferdinand Marcos’s dictatorship,
and for owning thousands of pairs of shoes.
“Martial law, that was the best years of Marcos because that’s
the time he was able to give the Philippines sovereignty, freedom, justice,
human rights,” Imelda wistfully remembers of the period during which 14 of 15
newspapers closed, 70,000 people were incarcerated—half of them tortured—and
3200 people were killed.
But according to Imelda, “There are so many things in the
past that we should forget. In fact, it’s no longer there.”
These days, Marcos devotes herself to supporting her son
Ferdinand “Bongbong” Marcos’s political aspirations. As Greenfield follows
along on Bongbong’s vice presidential campaign, she frequently pauses to
reiterate some salient points from the last time a Marcos ran that country.
Two journalists and a teacher share their stories of torture,
including rape, under the regime. In an almost surreal yet bracingly telling
piece of filmmaking, Greenfield also spends time with the islanders most effected
by Imelda’s fondness for exotic animals.
Marcos reframes her capacity to loot her nation to serve her
own pathological spending habits as mothering, love. Indulgence is love. Grotesque,
criminal self-indulgence at the expense of her nation’s citizens? Well, she
claims that never happened, but if that Monet painting that she definitely did
not purchase with ill-gotten money has been found, can she get it back?
The corruption hangs from this family like a mink stole, and The Kingmaker doesn’t deliver the same empathetic shock value to be found in Greenfield’s 2012 doc The Queen of Versailles. Instead, we watch as a nation forgets its horrifying history and, swept up in the “everybody loves a bully” philosophy that seems to have overtaken the entire world, sits complicit as a family of criminals and looters takes its seat again at the head of the nation’s table.
