Joseph swallows too loudly. His mother tells him so, which is just part of an uncomfortable family dinner where even eye contact is a chore.
Surge follows Joseph’s downward spiral during the hours after that awkward meal, when table manners become the least of his concerns.
Joseph (a mesmerizing Ben Whishaw) works security at London’s Stansted airport, where his days pass by with monotonous routine and lifeless social interaction. But unsettling encounters with two separate air travelers seem to puncture Joseph’s bubble of detachment, setting the stage for a 24-hour journey of primal indulgence.
In his feature debut, director/co-writer Aneil Karia leans heavily enough on handheld shaky cams and closeup framing to earn a warning for anyone triggered by such frenzied motion. Though this approach does work fine as a mirror to Joseph’s frayed psyche, and Paul Davies’s sound design is impeccably detailed, it’s really Whishaw’s Sundance award-winning performance that constantly keeps you invested.
The minimalistic script provides little insight into Joseph’s breakdown beyond the standard pressures of modern life and alienation. This keeps us at a distance as well, making it hard to relate to Joseph as much more than the latest guy who ate detergent.
Surge does have craftsmanship and style, leaving little doubt that Karia is a talented filmmaker with more deeply felt features in his future. But right now, he’s got a terrific actor to showcase, and that turns out to be just enough to get him by.
It’s not that Evan himself is hard to like, even flawed and unlikeable main characters can be ambitious and welcome. The real challenge for the big screen adaptation of Dear Evan Hansen is turning the young man’s choices into something truly hopeful and inspiring.
Evan (Ben Platt, whose Broadway performance garnered one of the musical’s many Tony awards) is a painfully shy, anxiety-ridden high school senior getting assignments from his therapist that involve writing letters to himself. Through a convoluted mixup that actually lands as plausible, one of those letters ends up in the hands of Connor Murphy (Colton Ryan), another troubled young man who can’t make friends.
When Connor takes his own life, his mother (Amy Adams) and stepfather (Danny Pino) read the letter and reach out to Evan, looking for comfort from someone they believe must have been their son’s best friend.
It’s a cruel and horrible lie, one that Evan ultimately indulges because it makes his own life better. Evan gains friends, he becomes close to Connor’s wealthy family while his own mother (Julianne Moore) works late to makes ends meet, and he gets alone time with Connor’s sister Zoe (Kaitlyn Dever), who just happens to be Evan’s longtime crush.
While the facade can’t last, it’s one that’s chock full of possibilities for another shallow YA specialness parade. But director Stephen Chbosky and writer Steven Levenson do manage to craft moments of truth that help offset the manipulative atmosphere.
Chbosky’s (The Perks of being a Wallflower, Wonder) choice to have the cast sing live is a smart one, bringing a needed intimacy to the music and giving Platt the chance to really impress. But while Chbosky often maneuvers into and out of the music with style, too many of those set pieces seem tentative, with only a few of the songs (“Requiem,” “Words Fail,” “So Big, So Small”) resonating beyond the frequent and generic “I feel seen” messaging.
Platt truly has a wonderful voice, but he has trouble trading what served him so well on the stage for a more nuanced film approach to emoting. Yes, at 27 Platt is a bit too old now for the role, but that’s less of a problem than surrounding him with such authentic screen talent. As Evan becomes less of an awkward outcast, Platt’s screentime with Adams, Moore and especially Dever (who gives the film its most honest moments) only highlights a need for understatement that Platt and Chbosky don’t address.
At a robust 137 minutes, Dear Evan Hansen has plenty of time to grapple with the moral conundrum at its core, but ultimately falls just short of the more universal insight it seeks.
The film shows us teens that are stressed and over-medicated, with feelings of inadequacy compounded by social media expectations and misunderstood by families and peer groups. Then when tragedy occurs, the shock opens avenues for exploitation and personal gain. Evan takes one of them.
There are teachable moments there, and the soaring melodies of Dear Evan Hansen will put occasional lumps in your throat. But is Evan’s journey a thoughtful and cautionary parable, or a shameless exploitation in itself?
In the end, neither. Much like its flawed main character, it’s a mess of awkward and misplaced intentions, as likely to generate facepalms as it is a loving embrace.
A quick synopsis of The Starling, the new drama from Hidden
Figures director Theodore Melfi, brims with potential, offers an
appealingly messy notion.
Lilly (Melissa McCarthy) and Jack (Chris O’Dowd) are
suffering, silently and separately, about a year after the death of their baby
girl. Jack waits out his grief in an institution while Lilly tries to tough it
out on her own. Eventually she decides to plant a garden, but a territorial, dive-bombing
starling makes that difficult. She turns to psychologist/veterinarian Larry
(Kevin Kline) for help.
That’s a lot to unpack, but when the core theme is grief,
complications are welcome. Hollywood tales of grief and relief tend to be too
tidy, the metaphors too clean, while the unruly emotion being presented is
rarely tidy or clean in real life. A good mess is called for.
Unfortunately, The Starling is not a good mess. Just
a regular old mess.
Matt Harris’s script never digs below the surface — not even
when Lilly is gardening. Melfi relies on the score to represent emotional
weight rather than leaning on his more-than-capable cast to depict that grief.
An anemic comic-relief subplot at Lilly’s gig managing a grocery store feels
wildly out of place and wastes real talent. (Timothy Olyphant has four lines –
funny lines delivered via a character that should be on a TV sitcom, not in
this movie.)
O’Dowd — who was the absolute picture of grief in John
Michael McDonagh’s masterful 2014 film Calvary – fares the best with the
material. Even though his character’s resolution feels unearned, there is heft
in the performance that allows human emotion to overcome a weakly written
character.
McCarthy suffers most, though. Unable to ad lib her way toward elevating a drama, she sinks beneath the unrealistic banter between Lilly and Kline’s Dr. Larry. Kline is solid, strangely aided by Harris’s weak characterization, which allows the actor to find a groove that conveys more than what’s on the page.
Moments of genuine emotion punctuate the film and, while welcome, they mainly serve as a reminder of what The Starling had the potential to become.
In the small village of
Nazareth, in the tiny Kingdom of Lesotho, a man recounts the wisdom his father
once gave to him. “My son, what they call progress…It is when men point their
damning finger at nature and proclaim conquest over it.” It is that poisonous
progress that the people of Nazareth are fighting against in This Is Not a
Burial, It’s a Resurrection, and it is a losing battle.
The
film follows 80-year-old widow Mantoa. After the death of her last surviving
child, she finds herself utterly alone and mired in grief. The story unfolds
like a mythic, dark fairytale with beautiful vignettes and discordant music.
Director Lemohang Jeremiah Mosese carries us from moment to moment as Mantoa
repeatedly has to contemplate her grief. Though she resigns herself to simply
wait to be buried alongside her family, a new challenge arrives with a blazer
and a megaphone. The village will be relocated, a dam will be built, their
fields will be flooded.
What
of the dead? What of Mantoa? The elderly woman convinces the village to resist
the spinning wheels of progress. Together they seek to find what is left for
their community in the land where their dead are buried. Twice we are reminded
that Nazareth is the name that new settlers gave the land. Before that, it was
always known as the Plains of Weeping.
Jerry Mofokeng delivers a reverent and deeply sad narration of Mantoa’s struggles. Using the framework of a narrator, with a different voice and perspective than Mantoa, further perpetuates the storybook feel. But this is not a happy children’s tale. This is a story about capitalism’s infinite reach. This is a story about grief, culture, and perseverance. This is a story about the dead.
Mary Twala is phenomenal in her final role as Mantoa. Her emotion is palpable even when she sits in silence. Her rage and her pain don’t slow the narrative or taint it with bitterness. Instead, Twala propels Mantoa with the depths of her grief. She is an absolute powerhouse, and the film would not succeed as well as it does without her.
And the film does succeed. It is incredibly beautiful, rich with color, light, and shadow. Every scene is a haunting painting. The cast, mixed with actors and non-actors alike, brings you to witness the erasure of a real place and real people, and you mourn with them. When Mofokeng intones that the dead buried the dead, he reflects on a village that will soon be hidden under water.
Though the people of Nazareth still live, something about them will be lost forever. They are some of the last of their kind as new roads, and new buildings, and new dams continue to creep into the quiet places of the world. Progress fills up little villages with the walking dead as ways of life are washed away.
Man, did I hear about it last week when I argued that the first two acts of Malignant weren’t nearly strong enough to support the all out lunacy of the finale. I stand by that, but moving on…
Copshop also delivers a balls-out third act, but the self-aware setup by director/co-writer Joe Carnahan ensures we’re plenty ready to surrender to the shoot-em-up fun.
Mob “fixer” Teddy Murretto (Frank Grillo) punches Nevada rookie cop Valerie Young (Alexis Louder) on purpose, looking for the safety of a jail cell. He gets one, but he’s soon followed by hitman Bob Viddick (Gerard Butler, also a producer), who wants to get close enough to Teddy to take him out.
Plenty more bad guys get involved – including a scene-stealing Toby Huss (Seinfeld‘s “The Wiz”) as a psycho who likes to spray bullets and sing soul classics – and before long it seems Val’s only chance of getting out of work alive is deciding which one of these locked up bad guys is worth trusting.
Grillo and Butler are both on tough-guy autopilot, charismatic and menacing with a smidge of possible empathy. But Louder (TV’s Watchmen) is the standout, finding the layers of a character that’s real, smart and savvy enough to holster this movie and claim it for her own.
The dialog often snaps with wit, the banter touching on everything from Chris Hemsworth’s beach getaway to the benefits of cole slaw. But this is an action flick first, and Carnahan (Boss Level, The Grey, Smokin’ Aces) rolls out well-staged and satisfying set pieces that strike a nice balance between tense and preposterous.
The grindhouse Western opening not only introduces us to the setting of Gun Creek, Nevada (subtle!), but also a playful and purposeful tone that Carnahan steers with impressive craftsmanship.
Are you gonna remember Copshop much past closing time? Probably not, but you’re gonna have a bloody good time before you clock out.
Flatulence, Judy Greer and historical reenactments? I don’t think we see enough of these in independent film.
Neither do brothers Justin and Christian Long, presumably, because
they have written and directed Lady of the Manor to encourage us to
spend some time with all three. And since the flatulence is cinematic rather
than aromatic, what’s the harm?
There is none. The film is, in a word, harmless.
Greer plays Civil War-era Lady Wadsworth. As the film opens, we see her behaving properly, sporting proper posture and manners, quarreling politely with her husband, and tumbling fatally down a flight of stairs.
The Longs intercut this scene with the audio from a true-crime program being viewed by modern-day ne’er-do-well Hannah (Melanie Lynskey). After a series of drug and alcohol-related shenanigans, the down-on-her-luck Hannah accepts a position as tour guide of Wadsworth Manor.
Hannah’s clear, almost criminal weaknesses in the areas of
ladylikeness bring the ghost of Lady Wadsworth back to the manor to teach
Hannah some etiquette. Or is there another reason for her spectral return?
The Longs plump up their very slight script with plenty of silliness. Justin portrays Hannah’s bashful history professor suitor Max, while Ryan Phillippe lampoons his early career roles with a funny entitled douchebag performance as Wadsworth heir, Tanner.
There’s also a fun Luis Guzmán cameo and a rare Patrick Duffy sighting.
But the film is at its best when Lynskey and Greer turn My Fair Lady into The Odd Couple. These veteran character actors riff off each other like old vaudeville partners, bringing joy to even the most superficial scenes.
There are plenty of those. Lady of the Manor often plays like an extended episode of Drunk History, only maybe not quite as funny. Everybody seems to be enjoying themselves, no one is challenged by the material, and an entirely pleasant if fairly predictable and only modestly funny time is had by all, viewers included.
Ever wondered what a mock music documentary directed by
David Lynch would feel like?
Bill Benz’s TheNowhere Inn is a hybrid of St. Vincent tour footage and a deconstruction of the concept of identity, written by real-life friends Annie Clark (St. Vincent) and Carrie Brownstein (Portlandia, Sleater-Kinney).
Ostensibly a music documentary of a St. Vincent tour put together by Annie and her best friend/director Carrie, the goal of the project is to show fans who Annie Clark really is and give Carrie a chance to dig herself out of a career rut.
Quickly, Carrie tires of Annie’s life off stage, which consists of Pilates, playing scrabble with bandmates on the bus, and searching around tour locations for farmers’ markets to purchase healthy road snacks. Carrie asks Annie to zhuzh it up a bit to make the film more interesting.
And the offended Annie delivers.
As Annie’s behind-the-scenes self merges with that of her stage persona, the film takes on a more ominous tone. It combines elements of a music video with comedy and thriller/horror. (And even amateur pornography in a fun little scene with Dakota Johnson playing an expensive lingerie-wearing fictional Dakota Johnson.) Ultimately, the movie becomes surrealist as it grapples with the nature of identity, friendship and authenticity.
The cinematography is often painterly with vibrant colors contrasted against velvety blacks. This is mixed with somewhat grainy “archival” footage, filmed St. Vincent performances, and reality TV-style confessional interview footage. The fact that we don’t get lost in all this is a win for the editing department.
Annie Clark shows an impressive acting range, from nerdy awkwardness to lonely vulnerability, aloof artist to menacing narcissist. She’s also got a sense of comedic timing that can keep up with the bone-dry Brownstein.
Although the thesis is somewhat belabored and some of the subplots don’t particularly go anywhere, The Nowhere Inn is an interesting place to find yourself.
Nicolas Cage referred to Sion Sono’s Prisoners of the
Ghostland as possibly the wildest film he’s ever been in.
Wilder than Wild at Heart?
Wilder than Mandy?
Wilder than – I mean, it’s a long list. We’re talking about
Nicolas Cage here. But Sono (Suicide Club, Antiporno, Tokyo Vampire Hotel,Why Don’t You Play in Hell, among others) is no slouch in the wild
department. So, it would seem that he and Cage make a suitable match.
Sono’s tale pits dastardly bank thief and all around nogoodnik Hero (Cage) against the clock, testicular bombs, and marauding trucker ghosts. Why? To return The Mayor’s (Bill Moseley) beloved granddaughter Bernice (Sofia Boutella) back to him.
If that sounds simple enough —and it probably does not— the film’s even more unusual than the synopsis suggests. Prisoners of the Ghostland delivers a samurai cyberpunk musical Western dystopian neo-noir with flourishes reminiscent of Mad Max and Mulan Rouge.
I wish that mashup worked better.
The Mayor rules Samurai Town, a garish din of debauchery,
color and indulgence. Here Sono delivers bold and bizarre visuals. He runs with
the idea that the samurai and the cowboy are essentially, cinematically, the
same beast.
Bernice is held in Ghostland, all ash and cinder populated
as much by mannequins as humans. Haunting imagery here as well, though less of
it unique, marrying Western to dystopic fantasy. Plus the Greek chorus.
Compared to Sono’s madcap antics, Cage is almost subdued. Does
he ride naked on a child’s bike? Grapple with toxic mutant monsters? Sing? He
does! It’s just that Sono’s vision is wilder still.
The filmmaker’s aesthetic is jarring, disjointed,
overwhelming, frenetic, sometimes stupid, other times glorious, and never less
than mad. The fact that he tries to tie it all together neatly at the end may
be Prisoners of the Ghostland’s biggest drawback.
The underlying story is of trafficked women taking control
of their lives and bodies, though the fact that Boutella is essentially
voiceless and in need of saving speaks louder about the film’s themes. She does
a solid job in a thankless role, as does everyone in the densely populated
ensemble.
It’s bananas It doesn’t entirely work – sometimes it doesn’t work at all — but it is a bold mess that commands attention.
Short films rarely get their due, and getting an audience is rarer still. Any opportunity to sit down with a set of shorts that made a splash in the festival circuit is an opportunity worth taking. If arterial spray and laughter are your thing, Hellarious is a chance worth taking.
The compilation contains seven short films, each a horror
comedy. There’s no framing device or theme, simply a collection of sometimes
bawdy, once in a long while sweet, mostly viscous horror. There are a lot of
fluids here.
Like an automatic door to hell, James Feeney’s Killer
Kart opens things. His creeping camera sets a fun tone for an absurd “ordinary
item” monster movie (a la Rubber). An inspired score by Daniel Hildreth,
Christine Rodriguez and Ray Bouchard matches the mayhem nicely.
Robert Boocheck’s charming Horrific—a tale of mutant
varmints, hula hoop porn and besotted tidy whities—lands laughs thanks to Mike
Nelson’s semi-heroic central performance. Likewise the Deathgasm-esque Death
Metal offers a highly enjoyable and sometimes morally questionable
bloodbath with the most delightful practical effects.
A sweet authenticity drives Bitten, Sarah K. Reimers’s
romantic, dog-loving upending of the werewolf tale. (Who’s a good boy? Iggy is!
Iggy’s a good boy!) If you can take your eyes off that adorable dog, you’ll
notice two tenderly funny performances by Francine Torres and Michael Curran.
Director Jason Tostevin, who also compiled the films, helms two of the shorts in the program, both co-written with Randall Greenland. ‘Til Death offers a post-mortem comeuppance tale boasting several strong performances. Born Again, though, is one of the compilation’s two highest points.
Six and a half minutes with the worst Satanists ever exposes you to a really beautifully filmed subversion of expectations. Slyly comical performances top to bottom entertain, but Greenland is a laugh riot in a starring role.
The collection’s second high peak comes thanks to Clarissa Jacobson and J.M. Logan’s sloppy concoction, Lunch Ladies. This is a delirious fantasy about underdogs rising to the challenge and making their dreams come true—becoming personal chefs to “the Depper,” Johnny Depp. Donna Pieroni and Mary Manofsky deliver consistent laughs in a film that almost makes a person want to love Johnny Depp again.
Variety, laughs, mayhem, blood spatter, romance, cheerleader pot pie—Hellarious is a tasty treat of bite sized horror.
