Monthly Archives: February 2023

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Father Knows Best

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Daughter

by Rachel Willis

Father. Mother. Son. Daughter.

It’s the quintessential nuclear family. In writer/director Corey Deshon’s feature debut, the nuclear family develops into a taut examination of manipulation and control.

Trying to fill a family void, Father (Casper Van Dien) holds a young woman captive in the garage. He informs her that she (Vivien Ngô) will henceforth be known alternately as Daughter or Sister.

Revealing anything more would ruin the conflict that develops around Daughter’s anticipation of what might happen next. 

Van Dien unsettles as the patriarch of this family. His is one of the most disturbing portrayals in the film, as there’s an undercurrent of rage beneath the façade of loving dad. We know from the outset what he is capable of, but that doesn’t make watching any easier to bear.

And just what are Mother (Elyse Dinh) and Brother/Son (Ian Alexander) willing to do to preserve this facsimile of a “family?” When it comes to Daughter/Sister, each family member seems eager to manipulate others to suit their current needs.

As details are teased forth, there is clearly more to this family than what first appears. Father is the one in control, but how much of a hold does he have on this tenuous situation?

Setting the film almost entirely within the confines of the family home fosters a sense of isolation. Deshon creates constant confusion as to what exactly is going on outside. We’re given just enough information to keep us off-balance, a narrative decision that works brilliantly.

For the bulk of the film’s 95-minute runtime, the tension is unrelenting. Though one scene drags a bit, it’s brief so it doesn’t so much alleviate the tension as interrupt it.

For a first feature, this is a marvelously crafted work of psychological horror. Personally, I’m eager to see what Deshon does next.

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There Will Be Blood

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No Bears

by George Wolf

Even if you know nothing of acclaimed Iranian filmmaker Jafar Panahi, No Bears (Khers nist) should be an absorbing and compelling experience.

But when you consider that Panahi (This Is Not a Film, Taxi, Closed Curtain) not only shot the film in secret, but currently sits in a Tehran prison, and is barred from writing, directing, giving interviews or traveling outside Iran until 2030, his continued commitment to agitation through artistic expression grows immeasurably inspirational.

With No Bears, Panahi uses the parallel lives of two Iranian couples to comment on the struggles of that expression, and on the powerful forces that conspire to restrict free will.

Panahi plays himself, arriving at a small village near the Turkish border to set up a base where he can direct his latest film remotely, joining the set through internet connection. While two actors in his cast (Mina Kavani and Bakhtiyar Panjeei) are trying desperately to land fake passports and flee Iran, Panahi quickly becomes a person of interest in the village.

Word has spread that Panahi may have unwittingly snapped a photo of a young Iranian woman (Darya Alei) with a man (Amir Davari) other than the one who has “claimed” her. Villagers are demanding the photo as proof of a grave misdeed, while the woman in question fears the bloodshed that will come from the photo’s existence.

Despite numerous reassurances to Panahi about “honorable” intent, the pressure from the villagers only increases, much like the desperation of his actors looking to start a new life.

Panahi films in a style that is understandably guerilla, but stands in sharp contrast to the dense, and thrillingly complex storytelling at work. He is deftly calling out both the oppressors and the enablers, while he weighs the rippling effect of his own choices amid a deeply ingrained bureaucracy of fundamentalism and fear, superstition and gossip.

No Bears is a brave and bold blurring of fact and fiction, with Panahi embracing the gritty authenticity of the most urgent first person documentary and the layered storylines of a political page-turner. It may be his most daring project to date, accentuated by a defiant final shot that teeters on the line between ending and beginning.

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Meet the Parent

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Attachment

by Hope Madden

There are not nearly enough horror films based in Jewish folklore. Have you ever seen a dybbuk movie? You should. So far, I’ve seen three – Marcin Wrona’s beautiful 2016 haunting, Demon; Keith Thomas’s 2021 horror, The Vigil; and writer/director Gabriel Bier Gislason’s latest, Attachment.

The thing about dybbuk stories is that I’ve never seen one go well for anyone. Fun!

On the surface – and even just below – Attachment is an astute observation on being new to the family, particularly in a situation where the relationship itself is probably not that welcome. All families are weird, but they are weird in such individual ways. Gislason picks that scab effectively, as does his cast.

Josephine Park is Maja, a Danish actress best known – really, only known – for playing Santa’s Elf in a long-defunct TV series. She literally runs into Leah (Ellie Kendrick) at a bookstore. Leah is in from London doing some research, the two fall quickly in love, and after Leah is injured during a seizure, Maja offers to return with her to London and her mother’s care.

There is something quietly astute about the way Gislason sets up the dynamic: the willfully oblivious love interest, the domineering parent (Sofie Gråbøl) unwilling to be gracious, and the insecure new love unsure how to make herself fit into the family. All of it feels authentic, even if the stakes and weirdness are clearly ratcheted up a few notches.

Attachment delivers slow-burn horror that repays close attention but never falls to gimmickry. Yes, the situation is absurd, but everyone behaves in a way that is rooted in real-world expectations and experiences.

When the film changes its point of view, you realize where its compassion really lies. Attachment is a nightmare about parenting, about releasing your everything – your beautiful, tender baby – into a vast and brutal world. At the center of the entire nightmare is love, of course, because there is no real horror unless love is at stake. It’s that knowledge that makes the film hurt.

Hug your mom.

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Skin Deep

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Woman of the Photographs

by Brandon Thomas

Vanity has been a part of human existence for ages. The standards of beauty come and go with the passage of time, but no matter where we are in history, people have sought to look attractive. In Woman of the Photographs, director Takeshi Kushida offers a compelling statement on the broad spectrum of beauty, and how either end of it can be equally damaging. 

Kai (Hideki Nagai) is a Japanese photographer who spends most of his days taking standard portraits and then endlessly photoshopping them for his vain clients. Only on the side does Kai get to dabble in a more artistic expression of his photography. While taking photos of insects in the forest, Kai stumbles upon Kyoko (Itsuki Otaki), an Instagram influencer who has just fallen from a tree trying to get the perfect photo. It’s not your standard meet-cute, and Kyoko certainly isn’t your standard model. After inviting herself for a ride home with Kai, Kyoko slowly integrates herself into Kai’s daily life. What starts as a symbiotically awkward relationship slowly morphs into something more sinister as both Kai and Kyoko become obsessed with a more destructive form of beauty. 

What makes Woman of the Photographs so interesting is how delicately it dances around being a horror film. The first half of the movie feels more akin to a quirky indie drama than it does something in the genre realm. As Kai and Kyoko’s relationship deepens later in the film, the tendrils of horror finally make their appearance, calling to mind something close to Cronenberg-lite. 

The body horror in Woman of the Photographs isn’t as pronounced as that of David Cronenberg. No, Kushida’s desire seems to be to purposefully hold back on the excessive gore and instead force the audience to think about standards of beauty when it comes to surface-level imperfections. The horror emphasis is less on Kyoko’s wound itself and more the obsessiveness with which Kai and Kyoko marvel upon it. 

There’s also a fascinating commentary on the state of modern Japan and the isolation many of its citizens feel. While not exactly suffering from hikikomori (the Japanese phenomenon of extreme isolation), Kai’s relationship with other people is often felt only through the viewfinder of a camera. On the opposite end is Kyoko, whose only connection with others – outside of Kai – is through her Instagram page where she obsesses over each and every shot of herself that she posts. 
Woman of the Photographs slowly unravels from a quirky first act to a much more sinister final half. For those with the patience, the methodical descent into Japanese body horror will be well worth the investment.

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Mama Mia

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Baby Ruby

by Rachel Willis

Becoming a new mother is a joy. The sleepless nights, constant crying, bleeding heavily from your vagina for weeks, having a new human you’ve been entrusted to keep alive in your house.

Did I say joy? I meant horror show.

Writer/director Bess Wohl has turned new parenthood, particularly motherhood, into a tense, sometimes funny, horror movie with Baby Ruby.

New parents Jo and Spencer (Noémie Merlant and Kit Harington) have a lot to be thankful for when they bring new daughter Ruby home. Jo is a very successful blogger who is eager to prove her mettle as a new mom.

However, problems start right away. It’s unclear, to both Jo and the audience, if certain horrific events are real or dreams. Jo begins losing time. Ruby never stops crying.

There’s a certain amount of confusion and plenty of red herrings peppered through the film. Though it seems obvious what plagues Jo, the filmmakers want you off-balance. Is husband, Spencer, supportive – or is that smile vaguely sinister? Is someone whispering to Ruby through the baby monitor? Is Ruby angry with Jo?

These are the things that rattle Jo’s confidence. On top of her struggles with Ruby, all the other new moms make it look easy. Jo is introduced to several new moms at a local café. They’re all perfectly coifed in summer dresses, and their babies must sleep long enough for them to do their makeup. In comparison, Jo feels even more like a failure.

There’s a certain subtle humor to the film, even as it works to rachet up the tension.

Because of the desire to keep the audience guessing, there are a few moments when it feels like Wohl is trying too hard to scare you. Some of the horror works well, some segments are too heavy-handed. There is a dog and a dog-related low blow.

No offense to the parents of the babies playing Ruby, but they’re perfectly cast as they’re both adorable and a little creepy. Part of you wants to reach out and pick her up, while the other part is a bit put off by that weird little face.

The film nails several aspects of what makes being a new parent feel like a nightmare. It’s not surprising that many parents look back at those early days with hindsight and laugh. Otherwise, we might all feel like we’ve lived through a horror movie.

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Gridiron Grannies

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80 for Brady

by George Wolf

You’ve seen those close-ups on a movie character pouring out their feelings, right? The ones where the camera pulls back to reveal that the person being spoken to has fallen asleep and missed every word?

If that’s still funny to you, 80 for Brady will deliver some laughs. If not, there’s at least the charm of seeing four legendary ladies coming together for some big screen hi-jinx.

Inspired by the real-life “Over 80 for Brady” fan club, the film follows elderly besties off to see Tom Brady and the New England Patriots take on the Atlanta Falcons back in Super Bowl 51.

Maura (Rita Moreno) is a widow living in a senior center. Betty (Sally Field) is “only 75” and a former M.I.T mathematician, Lou (Lily Tomlin) is a cancer survivor and Trish (Jane Fonda) is a divorcee who writes erotic Rob Gronkowski fan fiction (on one book cover: “football all isn’t the only game of inches!”)

But when Lou gets a new message to call her doctor, she calls an audible instead. Fearing this might be her last chance to see Brady win a title, Lou springs for four Super Bowl tickets, and the gang heads off to Houston.

Thankfully, the film centers on their time actually at the big game. But while this isn’t technically a road movie, writers Emily Halpern and Sarah Jenkins fill it with all the same type of very loosely connected skits that often make that genre so tiresome.

Betty enters a spicy wing-eating contest. Lou throws a football for prizes. They all get invited to a pre-game bash and accidentally take drugs. They get in the coach’s box. And of course there is a dance number. Even the promising cameos from Rob Corddry and Alex Moffat, as a pair of Masshole superfans with a call-in show, come up empty.

It’s all such lazy, old-fish-in-younger-waters humor that’s only mildly amusing at best, which is surprising considering Halpern and Jenkins penned the sly and very funny Booksmart in 2019. They are done no favors by the sitcom-ready treatment from first-time feature director Kyle Marvin, with artificial stadium segments rendered all the more amateurish next to the bounty of actual game film provided by the NFL.

Isn’t it just great to see these icons together, though, in anything? Sure it is, and by the time Brady himself (also a producer here) makes an appearance that manages a nod to his own mother’s cancer battle, you can’t deny the warm fuzzy footballs taking flight.

But as a comedy worthy of this Hall of Fame starting lineup, 80 for Brady feels like a personal foul.

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Inconvenient Truth

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Remember This

by Hope Madden

“What can we do that we are not already doing? Do we have a duty, a responsibility as individuals, to do something? Anything? And how do we know what to do?”

These words from Jan Karski, reluctant World War II hero and Holocaust witness, transcend the specific horrors Karski struggled with. They mean as much today as they did decades ago, and that’s just one reason Derek Goldman and Jeff Hutchens’s film Remember This strikes such a chord.

The other reason is David Strathairn. In a stirring performance, Strathairn brings Karski to life and he does it essentially on his own. Remember This is a one-man-show, a filmed stage play written by Goldman and colleague Clark Young, but co-directed by longtime cinematographer Hutchens (who also serves as DP). The combination brings a cinematic quality to the intimacy of the stage. But again, all of this is just support work, helping Strathairn compel your undivided, often teary attention for the full runtime.

The writing here is crisp and urgent and Strathairn delivers it beautifully. There’s nothing showy in his performance, and the unassuming delivery often lands harder than it would have with more drama.

Remembering attending mass and doing as his mother told him as a boy, “I was a good boy.” Recalling his pride to serve Poland and his befuddlement at the blitzkrieg: “Poland lost the war in 20 minutes.”

The poignant understatement serves an important purpose, because there’s no hint of exaggeration or drama or self-indulgence as the actor shares Karski’s recollections of the war, of the death camp, of his inability to persuade the leaders of the Allied forces that their immediate intervention was the only thing standing between Polish Jews and complete annihilation.

“Governments have no soul.”

Hutchens’s camera is subtle but its fluidity in orchestration with lighting, Roc Lee’s sound design, and Strathairn’s movement keep the film from ever feeling stagnant or stage bound. The final result is surprisingly unsentimental, Lee’s subtle score never overwhelming the delicate performance.

Strathairn talks, a broken figure filmed in stark, lovely black and white, and we learn what apathy and inaction can cause. It’s a heartbreaking lesson worth remembering.

“My faith tells me that the second original sin has been committed by humanity through commission or omission or self-imposed ignorance or insensitivity, self-interest, hypocrisy, heartless rationalization, or outright denial. This sin will haunt humanity to the end of time. It haunts me now. And I want it to be so.”

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Campaign Promises

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Little Dixie

by George Wolf

By now, we’ve moved past the “it’s nice to see longtime supporting player Frank Grillo in the lead” phase, haven’t we? He’s established himself as a charismatic actor more than capable of carrying a film.

And while he’s still a reliably galvanizing presence in Little Dixie, the movie itself struggles to carve out its own identity as it vacillates between a generic crime narrative and some seedy sexual underbellies.

Grillo stars as Doc, a no-nonsense intermediary between Texas Gov. Richard Jeffs (Eric Dane) and a ruthless Mexican cartel run by Lalo Prado (Maurice Compte). But when the Gov. goes rogue and ignores the truce that Doc has brokered, Lalo’s bloodthirsty brother Cuco (Beau Knapp) crosses the border looking for payback – and his search starts with Doc’s daughter (Sofia Bryant).

So yes, expect plenty of “If you touch her I swear to God I’ll….,” but also writer/director John Swab’s penchant for hard turns.

This time Swab goes searching for subversion inside a Sicario-like setup, an approach similar to how he attacked truck stop horror in the recent Candy Land. But while that film managed to uncover something surprisingly human amid all the brutality, the persistent posturing and lurid details in Little Dixie do little to raise the resonance of characters or choices – and in at least one instance end up bordering on blood-soaked parody.

But the attempt to firebomb expectations almost works, more evidence that Swab may just need a little more seasoning to find his uniquely compelling voice. Until then, Little Dixie stands as a cluster of eyebrow-raising campaign promises drowned out by a standard stump speech.