Monthly Archives: January 2025

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More Room at the Top

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The Room Next Door

by Hope Madden

The films of Pedro Almodóvar often boast a mischievous wit that could, in other filmmakers’ hands, feel out of step with the source material. He seems able to infuse this magic into everything, no matter how serious or dire. Even his wonderful 2011 horror film The Skin I Live In possesses a whimsy that turns the bleakest moments into bold poetry.

The auteur’s latest, The Room Next Door, enters territory that pushes back against whimsy. The film follows the relationship between Martha (Tilda Swinton) and Ingrid (Julianne Moore), estranged friends who reconnect sometime after Martha’s cervical cancer diagnosis.

There are certain Almodóvar trademarks you can expect to find on full display. The Room Next Door is a movie about women, about intimate moments between women, about complicated relationships and enduring tenderness between women. It also boasts sumptuous color and vivid imagery evoking (sometimes quite intentionally) masterpieces of modern art. 

There is also, characteristically, more than a little melodrama. 

It is tough to imagine anything going amiss with that team of collaborators. This marks the first time the filmmaker has worked with Moore, and her first teaming with Swinton (who was showcased so gloriously in Almodóvar’s 2020 short, The Human Voice). The idea of spending a couple of beautifully framed hours with these three undisputed masters is endlessly appealing, no matter the subject. 

But the subject and how to grapple with it does keep the film from entirely succeeding. Act 1 becomes a stagey slog of exposition, full of contrivance to allow the entire backstory to be laid out. There’s also a clumsy b-story involving a former lover (John Turturro). Once the film begins to build a lovely atmosphere that lets its leads shine, these moments with Turturro feel like abrupt, unwanted distractions.

Jarring storylines is nothing new in the Spanish filmmaker’s canon, but perhaps the language barrier limited his ability to conjure the necessary magic to balance things. 

The Room Next Door is no failure, not at all. It offers a beautiful meditation on mature female relationships, loss, acceptance, and an incredibly smart philosophy on the fight against death. But with the boundless talent involved, it left me wanting more.

Fright Club

Fright Club: Frightful Homecomings

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They say you can’t go home again. Horror filmmakers are more apt to say that you shouldn’t. For our latest episode, we look at some of horror cinema’s most memorable homecomings.

5. Coming Home in the Dark (2021)

Making his feature debut with the road trip horror Coming Home in the Dark, James Ashcroft is carving out a very different style of Kiwi horror than the splatter comedy you may be expecting.

A family is enjoying some time alone in the countryside when approached by two armed drifters. A car passes without incident. Mandrake (Danielle Gillies, chilling) say, “Looking back on today’s events, I think this will be the moment you realized you should have done something.”

Riveting, tricky storytelling to the last shot keeps you on your toes.

4. Salem’s Lot (1979)

Novelist Ben Mears decides to focus his next book on that creepy old Marsten House from his hometown of Jerusalem’s Lot, Maine. At around the same time he arrives, townspeople start dying and disappearing. It could only be Ben, or the antique store owner Richard Straker, who bought the old Marsten hours in the first place.

Tobe Hooper’s miniseries version of the Stephen King novel is still the best retelling. So many individual images stand out: the kid at the window, the Count Orlock (original) style vampire, the always saucy James Mason.

3. Possum (2018)

Sean Harris is endlessly sympathetic in this tale of childhood trauma. Philip (Harris) has returned to his burned out, desolate childhood home after some unexplained professional humiliation. His profession? Puppeteer. The puppet itself seems to be a part of the overall problem.

I don’t know why the single creepiest puppet in history—a man-sized marionnette with a human face and spider’s body—could cause any trouble. Kids can be so delicate.

Writer/director Matthew Holness spins a smalltown mystery around the sad story of a grown man who is confused about what’s real and what isn’t. The melancholy story and Harris’s exceptional turn make Possum a tough one to forget.

2. The Orphanage (2007)
Laura (Belén Rueda) and her husband reopen the orphanage where she grew up, with the goal of running a house for children with special needs – children like her adopted son Simón, who is HIV positive. But Simón’s new imaginary friends worry Laura, and when he disappears it looks like she may be imagining things herself.

A scary movie can be elevated beyond measure by a masterful score and an artful camera. Because director Antonio Bayona keeps the score and all ambient noise to a minimum, allowing the quiet to fill the scenes, he develops a truly haunting atmosphere. His camera captures the eerie beauty of the stately orphanage, but does it in a way that always suggests someone is watching. The effect is never heavy handed, but effortlessly eerie.

One of the film’s great successes is its ability to take seriously both the logical, real world story line, and the supernatural one. Rueda carries the film with a restrained urgency – hysterical only when necessary, focused at all times, and absolutely committed to this character, who may or may not be seeing ghosts.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J7FD6tR6zOc

1. Halloween (1978)

The night he came home.

No film is more responsible for the explosion of teen slashers than John Carpenter’s babysitter butchering classic.

From the creepy opening piano notes to the disappearing body ending, this low budget surprise changed everything. Carpenter develops anxiety like nobody else, and plants it right in a wholesome Midwestern neighborhood. You don’t have to go camping or take a road trip or do anything at all – the boogeyman is right there at home.

Michael Myers – that hulking, unstoppable, blank menace – is scary. Pair that with the down-to-earth charm of lead Jamie Lee Curtis, who brought a little class and talent to the genre, and add the bellowing melodrama of horror veteran Donald Pleasance, and you’ve hit all the important notes. Just add John Carpenter’s spare score to ratchet up the anxiety. Perfect.

We also want to thank Derek Stewart for sharing his short film Possum with us! If you didn’t get to join us for Fright Club Live, give yourself the gift of his amazing animated short:

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Perspective

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Nickel Boys

by Hope Madden

You’ve never seen a film quite like RaMell Ross’s Nickel Boys. The filmmaker, with an inspired Jomo Fray behind the camera, delivers a visual poem of tragedy, resilience and American history.

Ross, along with Joslyn Barnes, adapts Colson Whitehead’s Pulitzer Prize winning novel, but brings such human and humane treatment that the nonfiction roots cannot be ignored. Whitehead wrote about the Dozier School for Boys—the same American institution that fueled Tananarive Due’s horror novel, Reformatory. But Ross does not mine the institution’s 110-year history of dehumanization, abuse and murder for horror. Instead, he shows us how powerful that evil was by allowing us to see it through the eyes of two best friends.

You might find point-of-view filmmaking in bursts in other films—Michael Myers watching his sister through the eye holes of his Halloween costume, for example. But Ross never deviates, never leaves the most intimate and personal perspective of the events unfolding. His camera represents either the view from Elwood’s (Ethan Herisse) own eyes, or his best friend Turner’s (Brandon Wilson).

Elwood’s a good kid, smart, kind, and devoted to his grandmother (Aunjanue Ellis-Taylor) and we see what he sees in lyrical bursts: a party in his childhood, his grandmother praying for him, successes and trials at school, an opportunity to begin college while he’s still in high school, the approach of white police officers, incarceration, the first small piece of kindness offered by a fellow teenage inmate.

And then, for the first time, we truly see Elwood because the camera becomes that one friend, Turner. This is not Turner’s first run-in with the law. He’s begrudgingly protective of the innocent Elwood. 

The perspective shift, the elements of Whitehead’s novel that made it seem too difficult to adapt, becomes Nickel Boys’ greatest strength. You cannot watch this film and distance yourself from the injustices or from the small joys. This remarkable subjective intimacy is what made Ross’s documentaries so magical and moving—you come away with a personal relationship with the film and its subject because you have born witness as the subject.

Wilson, Herisse and Ellis-Taylor guarantee that the style is more than gimmick, bringing their characters so tenderly to life that their story will devastate you. The story of a school that dehumanized and murdered Black young men for over 100 years should do that.

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The Agony of Defeat

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September 5

by George Wolf

The crew of a live TV broadcast in the 1970s battles mounting pressure and a ticking clock, tensions rising while a well-known outcome is reimagined.

Saturday Night?

No, you’ll find precious few laughs in September 5. But director/co-writer Tim Fehlman and a terrific cast deliver a taut, precise and impressively constructed look inside the crew that found themselves covering terrorism at the 1972 Summer Olympics in Germany.

Members of the militant group Black September infiltrated the Olympic Village, killed two members of the Israeli Olympic team, and took nine others hostage. You may know how it all ended. And while Spielberg’s 2005 Munich masterfully deconstructed Israel’s plan for revenge, Fehlman (The Colony) puts us beside the souls unexpectedly tasked with broadcasting terrorism to 900 million people.

The news crew was actually from the sports department, and led by legend-in-the-making Roone Arledge (Peter Sarsgaard). After a day covering another Mark Spitz gold medal, gunshots are heard outside. As events quickly grow dire, Arledge rebuffs any requests to step aside for more experienced reporters, leaning on ops director Marvin Bader (Ben Chaplin), producer Geoffrey Mason (John Magaro) and German translator Marianne Gebhardt (Leonie Benesch) to craft a broadcast plan that won’t impede any rescue effort.

Not one of these 95 minutes feels wasted – a necessity for a film steeped in souls with no time to spare. Fehlman weaves the tech details (Peter Jennings went live via telephone) and real archival footage in an impressively seamless fashion that fuels an authentic urgency that is relentless, apolitical and gripping.

And in a year of some f-ing great ensembles, the one here is right near the top. Sarsgaard, Chaplin and Magaro make an intense triumvirate of smarts, sweat and desperation, while Benesch (The White Ribbon, The Teacher’s Lounge) continues to be a master of understated gravity.

There are so many levels to these tragic hours in history, and Fehlman miraculously packs many of them into close, heartbreaking quarters. A tightly-wound account of one anxious search for the thrill of victory, September 5 is one of the year’s unforgettable thrillers.

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See What Happens When You Find a Stranger in the Alps

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Vermiglio

by Matt Weiner

Way up north in the Italian town of Vermiglio, everything feels more remote. As World War II lurches toward its end in Europe, the fighting is far away but the trauma of war haunts the town and its men of fighting age. But it’s the women who face the more implacable enemy, as a region—and an entire country—finds their traditional (and deeply patriarchal) ways of life coming into conflict with a modernity struggling to be born.

In Vermiglio, the new feature from writer-director Maura Delpero and Italy’s entry for this year’s Academy Awards, the lives of three women are forever changed when the town shelters Pietro (Giuseppe De Domenico), a deserter from Sicily.

The women are three of many children from local schoolteacher Cesare (Tommaso Ragno) and his wife Adele (Roberta Rovelli), who spends most of the movie either pregnant or newly with child. Adele’s life of tradition and respectability—and suffering—foretells what Cesare’s daughters might hope to get out of life. Or would have, had it not been for the destructive chaos of the war.

Lucia (Martina Scrinzi) is the oldest and expected to land a fine husband. Flavia (Anna Thaler), the youngest, is also a keen student, and so Cesare selects her as the only one he can afford to send away to boarding school. Then there is Ada (Rachele Potrich), wayward middle child among the tight-knit trio.

Delpero eases us into the languorous seasons of Vermiglio, both metaphorically and literally, with Cesare’s precious Vivaldi record of the Four Seasons as a constant companion on the soundtrack. So soothing are these lush mountain vistas, untouched by a war coming to a close anyway, that it’s a remarkable sleight of hand from Delpero when these rhythms fall apart and the women are left to pick up the pieces and create what lives they can when their options are so limited.

Whether it’s the scandal that erupts from Lucia’s entanglement with Pietro, the unfulfilled longing that Ada must confront, or Flavia’s budding sense that even her “advancement” is decided at the whims of their imperious father, Vermiglio is less about the consequences of actions and more about an uncanny (and very much contemporary) feeling of not even being in control to make those choices in the first place.

But along with the oppressiveness, Delpero offers a sense of something that, if not hope, is at least a reminder that the seasons do change. Her daring women can’t escape when they were born, but their fates aren’t fixed either.

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Greatest Show Monkey

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Better Man

by Hope Madden

A great deal about Better Man—Michael Gracey’s biopic of English pop star Robbie Williams—astonishes. Not always in a good way, but it’s tough not to admire a big swing.

Williams narrates his own story, and though that’s his voice—cracking wise, soliloquizing and dropping profanities in equal measure—that’s not his face. The musician, whose tale is told from grade school to present day, appears onscreen as a chimpanzee. He’s a biped who dresses the part; CGI built on the work of Williams, Jonno Davies, Carter J. Murphy, and Asmara Feik as well as a host of dancer stand-ins for each age range. But from the opening voice over to “the end,” the only time you see Robbie Williams is in historical snapshots over closing credits.

Why? A metaphor, that Williams is everybody’s monkey but not his own man? Or a gimmick to draw attention away from the otherwise standard biopic beats that make up the film?

A bit of both.

At issue is that Williams’s biographical information so closely resembles, well, every other famous person’s? That can’t be correct, but it certainly reminds one of (if movies are ever to be trusted) Elton John’s, Johnny Cash’s, Amy Winehouse’s, Dewey Cox’s: problematic father figure whose love is conditional, drug and alcohol abuse, a loved one taken for granted until it’s too late, undiagnosed depression, questionable romantic choices.

Gracey distracts from formula with a CGI primate, although he might have been just as successful relying on his own impressive instincts for staging a musical number. The longtime music video veteran, whose The Greatest Showman remains inexplicably popular, wows with inspired choreography/editing/CGI work in song after song.

Strong support work from Alison Steadman, Steve Pemberton, Kate Mulvaney, Damon Herriman and Raechelle Banno keep the film feeling human. Indeed, Better Man is at times deeply touching.

But it’s long. And it feels every second of that two hours and fifteen minutes. Much of the film could easily have been pruned. There’s no doubt Williams, in his depression and drugged out stupor, did betray each one of the people we spend screentime with, but we didn’t need to see all of them. It was an indulgence by way of apology, admirable but cinematically tedious.

Still, the climax is a heartbreaking, exceptionally cinematic moment: schmaltzy, earned, boisterous and moving. Does it go on one moment too far? Yes, it does. But it was great while it lasted.

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New to the Yabba?

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Birdeater

by Hope Madden

Birdeater gets off to a slow but promising start. Louie (Mackenzie Fearnley) and Irene (Shabana Azeez) have an unusual relationship. To give more details than that would be to eliminate some of the film’s surprise, so I won’t. Co-writers/co-directors Jack Clark and Jim Weir have a plan for unveiling information as it is most provocative, and I’ll leave it to them to provoke you.

Irene is anxious about the couple’s upcoming wedding. Louis is anxious about Irene’s anxiety about the wedding. So, he invites her along on his “box party” — the Australian term for bachelor party.

What follows is an unrelentingly awkward, fairly twisted tale of sexual politics, blow up dolls, drunkenness, ketamine, big cat tranquilizers, bonfires, and the nature of consent.

It seems important to point out the Wake in Fright movie poster hanging in best man Dylan’s (Ben Hunter) apartment. Like Ted Kotcheff’s unhinged 1971 Outback classic, Birdeater seeks to upset you as it digs into Australian ideas of masculinity. On the whole, it succeeds in that aim—not to the scarring degree of Wake in Fright, but success nonetheless.

Louie’s BFFs Dylan—the boisterous, manly troublemaker—and Charlie (Jack Bannister), the Christian whose brought his also-Christian girlfriend (Clementine Anderson), have plans for the event. But Louie has his own plans and he does not want anything to mess with that.

Birdeater’s greatest success is investment in character. These people feel authentic, which is amazing given their behavior. Their relationships feel truthful and you find yourself invested more in what happens to the side characters than the bride and groom.

Louie’s plans and his mates’ come to a head, which is where Birdeater explodes into messy, fascinating, unrelated pieces. The surface story of bachelor party debauchery—of traditional masculinity run amuck—and the underlying and far more distressing story of male/female relationships sometimes reflect something insightful. Just as often, they feel slapped together nonsensically, or held together with contrived opportunities for exposition.

Recently, Halina Reijn tackled prickly ideas of female sexuality, power, and gender politics with Babygirl. It explored one woman’s seemingly misogynistic choices, but by remaining true to the protagonist’s point of view, the film itself exposes something else.

Birdeater paints itself into a corner it can’t figure out how to escape, primarily because, though the male characters throughout the film wonder at Irene’s choices, the men writing and directing the film don’t seem to understand them. Instead, we spend 90 minutes inside a male perspective as they guess at (and, indeed, create) female motivations. This leads inevitably to a climax that can’t help but be unsatisfying.

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Life of Illusion

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All We Imagine As Light

by George Wolf

“It’s like this place isn’t real. You could just vanish into thin air and no one would ever know.”

“We would know.”

With All We Imagine As Light, writer/director Payal Kapadia creates a triumphant portrait of friendship and Indian womanhood. In her narrative feature debut, Kapadia unveils a wonderful voice, one full of clarity and grace, with an assured command of how to reach us through her characters.

Kani Kusruti is gently spellbinding as Prabha, a nurse in Mumbai who has not heard from her husband in over a year. After their arranged marriage, he has been working extensively in Germany, and when his unexpected gift to Prabha arrives in the mail, it only punctures her guarded routine.

Prabha’s roommate is Anu (Divya Prabha), a younger nurse who is resisting her parents’ desire for an arranged marriage by taking up with Shiaz (Hridhu Haroon). While the other nurses whisper about her “boy,” Anu and Shiaz look forward to finding a place to become intimate.

While Prabha advises Anu to be more responsible, the lesson is underscored by Prabha’s attempts to help Parvaty (Chhaya Kadam), who works as a cook in the hospital, stay in her chawl (tenement apartment). Parvaty’s husband has suddenly passed away, and now a developer wants to evict her to make way for a skyscraper.

As the lives of the three women intersect, Kapadia illustrates the struggle of Indian women to balance tradition with the desire to control their own destinies. And whenPrabha and Anu join Parvaty on a trip back to her village, separate events will push all three women closer to changing their lives.

There is a poetic nature to Kapadia’s storytelling. With only the most gentle of nudges, Kapadia speaks for the scores of Indian women who come to Mumbai for the promise of a better life in the city, only to be disillusioned. All We Imagine As Light draws its power from how clearly it sees them, and how real it makes them feel.

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Final Curtain

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The Last Showgirl

by George Wolf

They may be a universe of genres apart, but Coralie Fargeat’s The Substance and Gia Coppola’s The Last Showgirl breathe plenty of the same air, both on the screen and on the red carpet.

Like fellow 90s icon Demi Moore, Pamela Anderson squeezes every dramatic ounce from the role of her lifetime, reigniting her career with a performance steeped in the personal experience of hard truths her character is suddenly forced to confront.

Anderson is Shelly, a longtime showgirl at the Le Razzle Dazzle revue in Las Vegas. Shelly finds purpose in the garish glamour of feathers, sequins and skin, and in her small circle of backstage friends. Dismissing the labels of just another “nudie show,” Shelly will not be denied the dignity she brings to each performance.

But after a three-decade run, the show’s producers announce plans to shut it down, leaving cast and crew to ponder what comes next. The question hits hardest for Shelly, who will soon be left to navigate Las Vegas without the leverage of youthful beauty.

And as the days tick down to that final curtain, Shelly is also juggling a strained relationship with her daughter Hannah (Billie Lourd), mother figure advances from young cast member Jodie (Kiernan Shipka), and a complicated past with Eddie (Dave Bautista), the show’s stage manager.

In her feature debut, screenwriter Kate Gersten provides important moments of authenticity that are doubtlessly rooted in her research time spent with real showgirls in Vegas. Coppola (Palo Alto, Mainstream) showcases it all with subtlety and respect, letting each character-driven moment (including a priceless cameo from Jamie Lee Curtis) personify a longing to savor something that is already gone.

But like Moore’s desperate Elisabeth in The Substance, it is Anderson herself who provides this film’s most authentic layer. She has lived a life celebrated for her face and body, but often mocked when she tried to offer anything else. That hard-won wisdom grounds Anderson’s performance, and makes Shelly’s steadfast defense of her chosen art form anything but laughable.

Coppola’s camera comes in close, and Anderson does not flinch, letting every line on her face tell a story. She hits enough levels of honesty to prove just as vital to her film as Moore is to hers, bringing a clear-eyed engagement that gives The Last Showgirl its – yes I’ll say it – substance, and her career its own reason to be re-born.