Almost 25 years ago, Pixar staked its claim as animation god with the buddy picture masterpiece Toy Story, where Tom Hanks and writer/director John Lasseter taught the world how to create a fully developed, nuanced and heartbreaking animated hero.
Woody and Buzz returned twice more over the next fifteen years, developing relationships, adding friends, enjoying adventures and life lessons all the while creating the single best trilogy in cinematic history.
And a lot of us wanted them to stop at 3. Is that partly because Toy Story 3 destroyed us? Yes! But also, it felt like a full story beautifully told and we didn’t want to see that completed arc tarnished for profit.
Toy Story 3 made an actual billion dollars.
Profit calls.
Right, so let’s drop in and see how the gang is doing. Woody (Tom Hanks in the role he was born to play) loves Bonnie, the youngster who inherited the ragtag group of toys when Andy left for college and we left the theater racked with sobs. But the cowboy just doesn’t feel the same sense of purpose.
Enter Forky (Tony Hale, who could not be better), a spork with googly eyes, hand-made and much-beloved friend to Bonnie. Forky longs for the trash, and Woody takes it upon himself to make sure Forky is always there for Bonnie. But when Bonnie’s family rents an RV for an end-of-summer road trip, Woody finds it tough to keep his eyes on the restless refuse—especially when a roadside carnival offers the chance to reconnect with old flame Bo Peep (Annie Potts).
Will Woody cast aside Forky, bestie Buzz (Tim Allen) and gang to rekindle something lost and taste some freedom?
Josh Cooley (who co-wrote Inside Out) makes his feature directorial debut with this installment. He also contributes, along with a pool of eight, to a story finalized by Pixar veteran Andrew Stanton (his credits include the three previous Toy Story films) and relative newcomer Stephany Folsom.
The talents all gel, combining the history and character so beautifully articulated over a quarter century with some really fresh and very funny ideas. Toy Story 4 offers more bust-a-gut laughs than the last three combined, and while it doesn’t pack the emotional wallop of TS3 (what does?!), it hits more of those notes than you might expect.
Between Forky’s confounded sense of self and Woody’s own existential crisis, TS4 swims some heady waters. These themes are brilliantly, quietly addressed in a number of conversations about loyalty, devotion and love.
This somewhat lonesome contemplation is more than balanced by the delightful hilarity of new characters Duke Caboom (Keanu Reeves) and Bunny and Ducky (Jordan Peele and Keegan-Michael Key, respectively).
And the creepy yet tender way villains Gabby Gabby (Christina Hendricks) and her posse of ventriloquist dolls are handled is as moving as it is funny.
Characteristic of this franchise, the peril is thrilling, the visuals glorious, the sight gags hilarious (keep an eye on those Combat Carls), and the life lessons far more emotionally compelling than what you’ll find in most films this summer. To its endless credit, TS4 finds new ideas to explore and fresh but organic ways to break our hearts.
We are beyond delighted to have been allowed to screen Jim Jarmusch’s new zombie classic The Dead Don’t Die two days in advance of its national opening. To honor this remarkable film and its amazing cast, we look at the best other horror movies that star these actors.
5. Zombieland (2009) – Bill Murray
Just when Shaun of the Dead convinced me that those Limey Brits had
created the best-ever zombie romantic comedy, it turns out they’d only created
the most British zom-rom-com. Writers Rhett Reese and Paul Wernick take the
tried-and-true zombiepocalypse premise and sprint with it in totally new and
awesome directions.
And the cameo. I cannot imagine a better one. I mean that. I’m not sure a
walk on by Jesus himself could have brought me more joy.
That’s not true. Plus, in zombie movie?! How awesome would that have been?!
Jesse Eisenberg anchors the film with an inspired narration and an endearing
dork characterization. But Woody Harrelson owns this film. His gun-toting,
Twinkie-loving, Willie Nelson-singing, Dale Earnhart-number-wearing redneck
ranks among the greatest horror heroes ever.
I give you, a trip to a loud and well-lit amusement park is not a recommendation Max Brooks would make during the zombiepocalypse. Still, you’ve got to admit it’s a gloriously filmed piece of action horror cinema.
4. Only Lovers Left Alive (2013) – Tilda Swinton
The Dead Don’t Die is not Jim Jarmusch’s first foray into horror. In 2013, the visionary writer/director concocted a delicious black comedy, oozing with sharp wit and hipster attitude.
Great
lead performances don’t hurt, either, and Jarmusch gets them from Tom
Hilddleston and Tilda Swinton as Adam and Eve (perfect!), a vampire couple
rekindling their centuries-old romance against the picturesque backdrop
of…Detroit.
Not
since the David Bowie/Catherine Deneuve pairing in The Hunger has there
been such perfectly vampiric casting. Swinton and Hiddleston, already two of
the most consistently excellent actors around, deliver cooly detached,
underplayed performances, wearing the world- weariness of their characters in
uniquely contrasting ways.
There is substance to accent all the style. The film moseys toward its perfect finale, casually waxing Goth philosophic about soul mates and finding your joy.
3. Suspiria (2018) – Tilda Swinton
It is 1977 in “a divided Berlin,” when American Susie Bannion
(Dakota Johnson, nicely moving the character from naivete to complexity)
arrives for an audition with a world-renowned dance company run by Madame Blanc
(Tilda Swinton, mesmerizing).
This “cover version” (The Tilda’s phrase, and valid) of Argento’s
original lifts the veil on the academy elders early, via the diaries of
Patricia (Chloe Moretz), a dancer who tells psychotherapist Dr. Josef Kiemperer
(also The Tilda, under impressive makeup) wild tales of witches and their
shocking plans.
Guadagnino continues to be a master film craftsman. Much as he draped Call
Me by Your Name in waves of dreamy romance, here he establishes a
consistent mood of nightmarish goth.
But even when this new Suspiria is tipping its hat to Argento, Guadagnino leaves no doubt he is making his own confident statement. Women move in strong solidarity both onstage and off, dancing with a hypnotic power capable of deadly results. In fact, most of the male characters here are mere playthings under the spell of powerful women, which takes a deliciously ironic swipe at witch lore.
2. American Psycho (2000) – Chloe Sevigny
A giddy hatchet to the head of the abiding culture of the Eighties, American
Psycho represents the sleekest, most confident black comedy – perhaps
ever. Director Mary Harron trimmed Bret Easton Ellis’s novel, giving it
unerring focus. More importantly, the film soars due to Christian Bale’s
utterly astonishing performance as narcissist, psychopath, and Huey Lewis fan
Patrick Bateman.
There’s an elegant exaggeration to the satire afoot. Bateman is a slick,
sleek Wall Street toady, pompous one minute because of his smart business cards
and quick entrance into posh NYC eateries, cowed the next when a colleague
whips out better cards and shorter wait times. For all his quest for status and
perfection, he is a cog indistinguishable from everyone who surrounds him. The
more glamour and flash on the outside, the more pronounced the abyss on the
inside. What else can he do but turn to bloody, merciless slaughter? It’s a cry
for help, really.
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. Whether it’s Chloe Sevigny’s tenderness as
Bateman’s smitten secretary or Cara Seymour’s world wearied vulnerability, the
cast draws a real sense of empathy and dread that complicate the levity. We do
not want to see these people harmed, and as hammy as it seems, you may almost
call out to them: Look behind you!
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.
1. Get Out (2017) – Caleb Landry Jones
Opening with a brilliant prologue that wraps a nice vibe of homage around
the cold realities of “walking while black,” writer/director Jordan
Peele uses tension, humor and a few solid frights to call out blatant
prejudice, casual racism and cultural appropriation.
When white Rose (Alison Williams) takes her black boyfriend Chris (Daniel
Kaluuya) home to meet the fam, she assures him race will not be a problem. How
can she be sure? Because her Dad (Bradley Whitford) would have voted for
Obama’s third term “if he could.” It’s the first of many B.S. alerts
for Peele, and they only get more satisfying.
Rose’s family is overly polite at first, but then mom Missy (Catherine
Keener) starts acting evasive and brother Jeremy (Caleb Landry Jones) gets a
bit threatening, while the gardener and the maid (both black – whaaat?) appear
straight outta Stepford.
Peele is clearly a horror fan, and he gives knowing winks to many genre
cliches (the jump scare, the dream) while anchoring his entire film in the
upending of the “final girl.” This isn’t a young white coed trying to
solve a mystery and save herself, it’s a young man of color, challenging the
audience to enjoy the ride but understand why switching these roles in a horror
film is a social critique in itself.
Get Out is an audacious first feature for Jordan Peele, a film that never stops entertaining as it consistently pays off the bets it is unafraid to make.
Big week! So many movies! Some of them are even great. This week we break down Men in Black: International, Shaft, Late Night, The Dead Don’t Die, Halston plus everything worth your time in home entertainment.
Indie god and native Ohioan Jim Jarmusch made a zombie
movie.
If you don’t know the filmmaker (Down by Law, Ghost Dog, Only Lovers Left Alive, Patersonand so many more jewels), you might only have noticed this cast and wondered what would have drawn Bill Murray, Adam Driver, Tilda Swinton, Chloe Sevigny, Steve Buscemi, Rosie Perez, RZA, Caleb Landry Jones, Danny Glover, Tom Waits, Iggy Pop and Selena Gomez to a zombie movie.
It’s because Jim Jarmusch made it.
Jarmusch is an auteur of peculiar vision, and his latest, The Dead Don’t Die, with its insanely magnificent cast and its remarkably marketable concept, is the first ever in his nearly 30 years behind the camera to receive a national release.
Not everybody is going to love it, but it will attain cult
status faster than any other Jarmusch film, and that’s saying something.
He sets his zombie epidemic in Centerville, Pennsylvania (Romero
territory). It’s a small town with just a trio of local police, a gas station/comic
book store, one motel (run by Larry Fassenden, first-time Jarmusch actor,
longtime horror staple), one diner, and one funeral home, the Ever After.
Newscaster Posie Juarez (Rosie Perez – nice!) informs of the unusual animal behavior, discusses the “polar fracking” issue that’s sent the earth off its rotation, and notes that the recent deaths appear to be caused by a wild animal. Maybe multiple wild animals.
The film never loses its deadpan humor or its sleepy, small town
pace, which is one of its greatest charms. Another is the string of in-jokes
that horror fans will revisit with countless re-viewings.
But let’s be honest, the cast is the thing. Murray and
Driver’s onscreen chemistry is a joy. In fact, Murray’s onscreen chemistry with
everyone—Sevigny, Swinton, Glover, even Carol Kane, who’s dead the entire film—delivers
the tender heart of the movie.
Driver out-deadpans everyone in the film with comedic delivery I honestly did not know he could muster. Landry Jones also shines, as does The Tilda. (Why can’t she be in every movie?)
And as the film moseys toward its finale, which Driver’s Officer Ronnie Paterson believes won’t end well, you realize this is probably not the hardest Jim Jarmusch and crew have ever worked. Not that the revelation diminishes the fun one iota.
Though it’s tempting to see this narrative as some kind of metaphor for our current global political dystopia, in fairness, it’s more of a mildly cynical love letter to horror and populist entertainment.
Mainly, it’s a low-key laugh riot, an in-joke that feels inclusive and the most quotable movie of the year.
Someone somewhere at some recent point in history must have said, “What we need is another Men in Black movie.”
Someone else surely disagreed, suggesting that they’d beaten
that dead alien long enough.
“We’ll change it up,” this imaginary and somehow sad
conversation continued. “Hire a new director, new writers, new actors, take it
international. It’ll be—”
“Great?!”
“—mediocre.”
And there you have it. F. Gary Gray (Straight Outta Compton) directs an entirely new batch of humans in black as they don sunglasses, erase memories and suss out an alien conspiracy in their ranks, this time on European soil.
Tessa Thompson shines, as is her way, starring as Molly, a tenacious nerd who’s tracked down this mystery organization in hopes of a shot at joining. Head of the US division, Agent O (Emma Thompson—no relation that we know of, but how cool would that be?!) reluctantly gives her a shot.
As expected, all scenes between the Thompsons spark. And, as T. Thom has proven twice already, she shares solid onscreen chemistry with Chris Hemsworth, here portraying her new partner, H.
Gizmo-riffic adventures follow, although it’s pretty soft. There are a couple of fun sight gags, especially one with a hammer. Kumail Nanjiani pops off a few drolly comical lines as this go-round’s cute little alien sidekick, Pawnie.
Then the three are off to Marrakesh, then a fortress island, back to London, a desert, and London again all in pursuit of answers about a tiny little device and the evil twins looking for it. But the storyline was never really the MIB selling point, it was the relationship between the partners.
Thompson and Hemsworth seem like fine choices, having shown both chemistry and comedic spark in Thor: Ragnarok. But Thompson’s early, geeky charm is given little opportunity to show itself once she dons the black suit, and Hemsworth—fun enough as he, once again, basically mocks his own persona—has even less opportunity.
Writers Matt Holloway and Art Marcum don’t articulate enough in the way of plot or character arc and Gray’s listless direction leaves us with a Summer popcorn muncher that coasts rather than thrills.
Just weeks ago, Long Shot gave us an in-the-moment, proudly raunchy comedy with brains and big laughs. Audiences largely balked.
Late Night also offers plenty of insightful funny business, but trades the hard R-rating for a more agreeable sell, one that will hopefully translate into selling more tickets.
Mindy Kaling’s debut screenplay may be ultimately eager to please, but it’s also a sharp and solidly funny takedown of the challenge in navigating a social landscape in motion.
Kaling also stars as Molly, a factory worker who’s main outside interest is comedy. Though her only standup experience is cracking them up over the intercom at work, Molly lands an interview for a writing gig at her favorite late night talk show.
Her timing is perfect. Comic legend Katherine Newbury (a pitch-perfect, absolutely Oscar-worthy Emma Thompson) has ordered some diversity be added to her all male, all pale writing staff, so Molly gets the gig.
Katherine may have been the first woman to enter the late night wars, but her act has grown stale and complacent. Icon or no, Katherine faces an overthrow attempt from a network president (Amy Ryan) with eyes on an obnoxiously edgy comedian (Ike Barinholtz as Kaling’s barely-veiled swipe at Daniel Tosh) as new host.
Can Molly’s fresh comedic takes save her hero’s job?
Credit Kaling and director Nisha Ganatra for answering that question without sacrificing the bigger points at work.
From slut shaming and #metoo to diversity, office politics and the shifting sands of comedic relevance, Kaling’s script is brimming with writing-what-you-know confidence, even when it’s coasting on roads most traveled.
But still, in those most predictable moments, Thompson’s deliciously droll timing meshes irresistibly with Kaling’s wide-eyed enthusiasm. They both get able support from a uniformly solid ensemble, and the biggest question mark about Late Night becomes that R rating.
The convenient layups the film settles for in act 3 seem like an understandable trade-off for a greater chance at mainstream appeal. So why not trim a few of those F-bombs to get a PG-13?
Late Night deserves plenty of eyeballs. For F@#! sake, let’s hope it gets them.
Hey, remember back in ’06 when director Brett Ratner and writer Simon Kinberg crashed the X-Men franchise into oblivion by telling the story of how the perpetually boring Jean Grey was really the most powerful of all mutants, plus maybe she was bad, and not even the love of two good mutants and the misguided belief of Dr. Charles Xavier could save her?
You don’t?! Because it was so bad it tanked the promising series until director Matthew Vaughn revived it five years later with Ashley Miller’s clever time warp, X-Men: First Class. Then there was another good one, then a terrible one—basically, we’re back on that downside of this cycle.
So why not put some polish on that old turd about Jean Grey, and this time give it the overly ominous title Dark Phoenix?
Some elements are the same: Jean’s powers are beyond anyone’s control and there’s a dark power that’s overtaking her. But this go-round, writer Kinberg also makes his feature debut behind the camera, spinning a yarn with more aliens, more girl power and less Wolverine.
The writing is just as bad, though.
How bad? Exposition and inner monologues continually jockey for position, with lines bad enough to choke even the bona fide talent of Jessica Chastain, who joins the fray as alien leader Vuk.
Sophie Turner returns as Jean – the role she took on in 2016’s abysmal X-Men: Apocalypse – with little more charisma than she wielded three years ago. James McAvoy, Michael Fassbender and Jennifer Lawrence all also return because, one assumes, contracts are contracts.
There’s really no excuse for a film with this cast to fail, but Kinberg’s story weaves and bobs with no real anchor, all the veterans repeat the same old conflict/guilt/resolution spirals and the newbies simply lack the charisma to draw attention away from the weakly choreographed set pieces.
Okay, some of the mutant vs. alien throwdown on a moving train has zip, but it’s too little, too late.
By then the attempts to make us care about a character that’s always been lacking in investment – for us and these X superfriends – have pulled up lame.
To paraphrase social historian Regina George: Stop trying to make Jean Grey happen, she isn’t going to happen.
Illumination, the animation giant behind all things Minion, returns to their blandly entertaining dog franchise for the blandly entertaining sequel The Secret Life of Pets 2.
In the 2016 original, Louis C.K. voiced a neurotic terrier named Max who needed to loosen up a little once his beloved owner brought home a huge, lovable Newfie mix (in a NYC apartment?!). And while life lessons were the name of the game, the real gimmick was to take the Toy Story approach to house pets, giving us a glimpse into what they’re up to when we’re not around.
Because we really don’t want to associate him with children anymore, C.K.’s been replaced by Patton Oswalt, whose Max has all new reasons for anxiety. There’s a new baby, whose presence suddenly reinforces all those fears about the big, scary world.
In a move that’s as disjointed as it is interesting,
returning writer Brian Lynch sends Max, Newfie Duke (Eric Stonestreet) and
family on a trip to the country, creating one of three separate episodes that
will eventually intersect. Well, crash into each other, anyway.
The main story deals
with trying to alpha Max up a bit with some problematically “masculine”
training by way of farm dog Rooster (Harrison Ford), who, among other things,
disregards therapy as weakness.
Basically, Lynch and director Chris Renaud think we’re all a
little too precious (the clear message of the original) and what they’d like to
do with their sequel is beat us about the head and neck with that idea.
Meanwhile, back in NYC, Pomeranian Gidget (Jenny Slate) and
Chloe the cat (Lake Bell – the film’s deadpan bright spot) train to retrieve a
chew toy from a crazy cat lady’s feline-overrun apartment. And separately,
Snowball the bunny (Kevin Hart), believing himself to be a super hero,
befriends Shih Tzu Daisy (Tiffany Haddish), and together they save a baby tiger
from an evil Russian circus.
For real.
That last bit gets seriously weird, I have no idea what they
feed this baby tiger the whole time, and on average, the actual lessons learned
are troublingly old school (read: conservative).
Teaching boys that pretending they’re not afraid so they can
take charge of every situation = literally every single problem on earth right
now. So let’s stop doing that.
Otherwise, though, Illumination offers yet another blandly entertaining, cute time waster.
The Souvenir rests at the hypnotic intersection of art and inspiration, an almost shockingly self-aware narrative from filmmaker Joanna Hogg that dares you to label its high level of artistry as pretense.
It is an ode to her craft and her experience, reflecting on both through an autobiographical tale of hard lessons learned.
Julie (Honor Swinton Byrne – Tilda’s daughter) is a young film school student with a privileged background and a cautiously supportive mother (played, of course, by Tilda, who’s customarily splendid). It is the early 1980s, and Julie has high aspirations for projects that will mine truths she has yet to experience.
That changes when she begins a relationship with Anthony (Tom Burke) a complicated older man who preys on Julie’s naivete.
Hogg lays the relationship bare, literally opening her diaries and projects for a portrait of the artist on her own unapologetic terms.
While other cast members had scripted dialog, Byrne worked improvisationally from Hogg’s own journal, with Julie’s student films also closely resembling those in the director’s past.
In her first major role, Byrne is tremendously effective (which, given her lineage, should not be that surprising). In her hands, Julie’s arc is at turns predictable, foolish and frustrating, yet always sympathetic and achingly real.
The intimacy of Hogg’s reflection on a toxic relationship is worthy on its own, but her story’s added resonance comes from its unconventional structure, and the brilliantly organic way Julie’s thoughts on filmmaking tell you why that has to be.
The Souvenir is finely crafted as a different kind of gain from pain, one that benefits both filmmaker and audience. It is artful and cinematic in its love for art and cinema, honest and forgiving in its acceptance, and beautifully appreciative for how life shapes us.
So, Elton John won’t be singing in the movie about Elton John?
Seems weird, until you see how well Rocketman incorporates decades of indelible music into one vastly entertaining portrait of the iconic rock star who stands second only to Elvis in career solo hits.
Driven by a wonderfully layered performance from Taron Egerton – who also handles his vocal duties just fine – the film eschews the standard biopic playbook for a splendid rock and roll fantasy.
Kudos to writer Lee Hall and director Dexter Fletcher for knowing we’ve seen this rise/drugs/fall arc before, and knowing how to pool their talents for an ambitious take.
Hall wrote Billy Elliot and Fletcher is fresh off co-directing Bohemian Rhapsody. Their vision draws from both to land somewhere between the enigmatic Dylan biopic I’m Not There and the effervescent ABBA glitter bomb Mamma Mia.
Narratively grounded in Elton’s first visit to rehab, Rocketman cherry-picks the hits for resplendent musical set pieces that accompany the blossoming of a shy English youngster named Reginald Kenneth Dwight into the flamboyant global superstar known as Elton Hercules John.
Wounded by an uninterested father (Steven Mackintosh) and an adversarial mother (Bryce Dallas Howard – never better) Reggie sought acceptance through his musical talent. A happenstance introduction to lyricist Bernie Taupin (a quietly effective Jamie Bell) brought unexpected success and then, the obligatory wretched excess.
Even without Fletcher’s involvement, comparisons to Bohemian Rhapsody (now the most successful music biopic to date) were inevitable, but Rocketman leaves the stage as a vastly superior film.
While the close-to-the-safety-vest nature of Queen’s trajectory rendered every artistic license ripe for scrutiny, Rocketman‘s R-rated frankness and fantastical tapestries leave ample room for crowd-pleasing maneuvers.
Of course the kickers-clad schoolboy didn’t pound out “The Bitch is Back” on his living room piano, the aspiring songwriter didn’t sing “Sad Songs” at a 1960s audition, and the overnight sensation didn’t “Crocodile Rock” at his legendary 1970 stint at The Troubadour.
But in the world of Rocketman, anything is possible. And even with all the eccentric flights of fancy, the film holds true to an ultimately touching honesty about the life story it’s telling.
And, oh yeah, the songs are still pretty great, too (no matter who’s singing them).
