Learn a bit about the genesis of A24’s Sing Sing, and you’d be tempted to view it as some sort of social experiment, a project where success is defined just by completing the assignment.
But to see the film is to witness a filmmaking vision brought to transcendent life by director/co-writer Greg Kwedar, and a tremendous ensemble cast that features many formerly incarcerated members of the Rehabilitation Through the Arts (RTA) program at Sing Sing maximum security prison.
Inspired by a 2005 article in Esquire magazine, the film brings us inside the RTA theatre troupe led by drama teacher Brent Buell (Paul Raci, Oscar nominee for Sound of Metal). Buell’s star pupil is John “Divine G” Whitfield (Colman Domingo), who is serving a 25 years-to-life sentence for manslaughter.
Via another endlessly sympathetic and award-worthy performance from Domingo, Whitfield comes to personify the soul-stirring effects of the RTA. As he meticulously prepares for one clemency hearing to the next, Whitfield throws himself into the work of the RTA troupe, and to mentoring a restless new member.
Clarence “Divine Eye” Maclin (Maclin, playing himself in a debut of undeniable power) has his violent guard up at all times, but Whitfield slowly starts chipping away at the anger that consumes him. He urges Maclin to commit, “trust the process,” and allow himself to feel human again.
Whitfield also counsels Maclin on his own quest for parole, creating a compelling dual B story that adds even more resonance to a deeply emotional journey. Colman, Maclin and the stellar supporting players (including former inmate Sean Dino Johnson and Domingo’s longtime creative partner Sean San Jose) fill every scene with a raw authenticity that can be as heartbreaking as it is hopeful.
The film’s surface-level message of healing through the arts is well-played and well-earned, but a more universal subtext is never far from the spotlight. Sing Sing soars from the way it invests in the need for expression and inspiration, and in the very souls who found a path to redemption by stepping onstage.
A sumptuous candlelit romp through 17th century Europe, The Bohemian will reward those already familiar with the classical opera and life story of Czech composer Josef Mysliveček, but may leave the uninitiated a little lost.
Writer/director Petr Václav (Skokan) begins near the end. Mysliveček (Vojtěch Dyk) is at a pawn shop, trying to scrape together funds. He’s turning his sword in, so you know things are bad. He’s wearing a mask to disguise a face disfigured by syphilis, the wages earned by a life of hedonism in an age before antibiotics.
From there it’s a series of flashbacks following a young unknown Josef as he nurtures his talents, meets the right people, has love affairs, contracts a devastating STI and is generally completely upstaged by a child prodigy (Mozart, duh).
The movie contrasts the ethereal beauty of the music with the ugliness of the society that gave rise to it. Art patrons are presented as morally degenerate, uneducated, often violent monsters. The artists (and pretty much every female character) are at their mercy.
The story flashes back and forth, not spending much time on any particular character. The outfits are ornate, the hair and makeup so spectacular that it makes it a bit difficult to follow who is who throughout the film, especially if you aren’t particularly familiar with the era.
Visually and aurally, it’s an outstanding film. Many actors do their own vocal work, Simona Saturova dubs in for the film’s prima donna La Gabrielli. But, it lacks a strong narrative through line and the necessary historical exposition that would make this operatic biopic really sing.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger? Not according to these filmmakers. The lingering dread, the confusion and horror, the madness! So much great horror has sprung from that fear of losing your mind. In fact, there are so many great options that we got a little crazy.
We want to thank our special guest Scott Woods as well as our partner Ginger Nuts of Horror for this mad, mad episode!
5. Vampire’s Kiss (1988)
Sure, Nicolas Cage is a whore, a has-been, and his wigs embarrass us all. But back before The Rock (the film that turned him), Cage was always willing to behave in a strangely effeminate manner, and perhaps even eat a bug. He made some great movies that way.
Peter Lowe (pronounced with such relish by Cage) believes he’s been bitten by a vampire (Jennifer Beals) during a one night stand. It turns out, he’s actually just insane. The bite becomes his excuse to indulge his self-obsessed, soulless, predatory nature for the balance of the running time.
Cage gives a masterful comic performance in Vampire’s Kiss as a narcissistic literary editor who descends into madness. The actor is hilarious, demented, his physical performance outstanding. The way he uses his gangly mess of limbs and hulking shoulders inspires darkly, campy comic awe. And the plastic teeth are awesome.
Peter may believe he abuses his wholesome editorial assistant Alva (Maria Conchita Alonso) with sinister panache because he’s slowly turning into a demon, but we know better.
4. In the Mouth of Madness (1994)
Sutter Cane may be awfully close to Stephen King, but John Carpenter’s cosmic horror is even more preoccupied by Lovecraft. The great Sam Neill leads a fun cast in a tale of madness as created by the written world.
Neill is an insurance investigator out to prove that vanished author Sutter Cane is a phony. He just needs to get to Hobb’s End and prove it. There’s a scene with a bicyclist on a country road that boasts of Carpenter’s genre magic, as madness and mayhem collude to keep Neill where he is, at least until he can serve a greater purpose.
What if those horror novels you read became reality? What if that sketchy writer with the maybe-too-vivid imagination was not just got to his own page, but god for real? This movie tackles that ripe premise while ladling love for both of the horror novelists who made New England the creepiest section of America.
3. Black Swan (2010)
Based on the ballet Swan Lake, which itself is inspired by German folktales The White Duck and The Stolen Veil, Black Swan takes a dark turn.
The potent female counterpoint to Darren Aronofsky’s 2008 gem The Wrestler, Black Swan dances on masochism and self-destruction in pursuit of a masculine ideal.
Natalie Portman won the Oscar for a haunting performance—haunting as much for the physical toll the film appeared to take on the sinewy, hallowed out body as for the mind-bending horror.
Every performance shrieks with the nagging echo of the damage done by this quest to fulfill the unreasonable demands of the male gaze: Barbara Hershey’s plastic and needy mother; Winona Ryder’s picture of self-destruction; Mila Kunis’s dangerous manipulator; Vincent Cassel’s other dangerous manipulator.
The mind-bending descent into madness and death may be the most honest look at ballet we’ve ever seen at the movies.
2. The Shining (1980)
The hypnotic, innocent sound of Danny Torrance’s Big Wheel against the weirdly phallic patterns of the hotel carpet tells so much – about the size of the place, about the monotony of the existence, about hidden perversity. The sound is so lulling that its abrupt ceasing becomes a signal of spookiness afoot.
It’s having an effect on Jack.
As patriarch Jack Torrance, Jack Nicholson outdoes himself. His early, veiled contempt blossoms into pure homicidal mania, and there’s something so wonderful about watching Nicholson slowly lose his mind. Between writer’s block, isolation, ghosts, alcohol withdrawal, midlife crisis, and “a momentary loss of muscular coordination,” the playfully sadistic creature lurking inside this husband and father emerges.
What image stays with you most? The two creepy little girls? The blood pouring out of the elevator? The impressive afro in the velvet painting above Scatman Crothers’s bed? That freaky guy in the bear suit? Whatever the answer, thanks be to Kubrick’s deviant yet tidy imagination.
1. The Lighthouse (2019)
Robert Eggars has gone to sea. The Lighthouse strands you, along with two wickies, on the unforgiving island home of one lonely 1890s New England lighthouse.
Salty sea dog Thomas Wake (Willem Dafoe) keeps the light, mind ye. He also handles among the most impressive briny soliloquies delivered on screen in a lifetime. Joining him as second is one Ephraim Winslow (Robert Pattinson)—aimless, prone to self-abuse, disinclined to appreciate a man’s cooking. Both enjoy a bit of drink.
This is thrilling cinema. Let it in, and it will consume you to the point of nearly missing the deft gothic storytelling at work. The film is other-worldly, surreal, meticulous and consistently creepy.
And we’ll tell you what The Lighthouse is not. It is not a film ye will soon forget.
You’ll notice some form of the word “shark” has not been worked in to the title, which is your first clue that The Last Breath wants to be taken more seriously than much of the sharksploitation fare.
It’s still a shark movie, just one that tries to be a little more based in reality.
Tries. A little.
Noah (Jack Parr) works at a dive shop in the Caribbean that’s owned by the deep-in-debt Levi (Julian Sands, in his last role). The two have recently discovered the wreck of the USS Charlotte, which went down thanks to an enemy torpedo during WWII.
So Noah has some exciting news to share with his college friends, who have just come in for a reunion party. One of the group, Brett (Alexander Arnold) is a rich douche, and he offers Noah and Levi big money to hold off reporting the find for one day, so they can all be the first to dive the Charlotte.
As a certified scuba diver who has gone on a few wreck dives, I can tell you that this is suicidal idiocy. But I get the lure of the premise for writers Andrew Prendergast and Nick Saltrese. It sets up a saltwater take on The Descent, where monsters are waiting in unexplored territory.
And of course, these divers must be equipped with full face diving masks and integrated microphones so that we can see more of the actors’ faces and the characters can speak to each other underwater. Yes, I’m again picking nits on these tourist dive shops offering such expensive equipment, but the bigger problem is the inane dialog and forced exposition that follows.
Director Joachim Hedén, a veteran of diving adventure films, does exhibit a fine command of underwater space and framing, creating a decent amount of tension with visual checks on remaining air supply or a frayed guideline. But while the footage of lurking great whites may integrate sufficiently, the shark attacks themselves offer less than thrilling CGI effects.
On the sharkin’ scale, this is indeed a step up from the ‘nados and the Megs. But if you’re waiting to hear The Last Breath belongs among the rare air of The Shallows or Open Water…
Perhaps it’s impossible to create a folk horror film that feels truly fresh. Maybe freshness is at odds with the very idea of folk horror. What director Daniel Kokotajlo, adapting Andrew Michael Hurley’s novel Starve Acre, manages in lieu of freshness is an enigmatic slow burn enlivened by memorable performances.
Richard (Matt Smith), Jules (Morfydd Clark) and their young son Owen (Arthur Shaw) are settling in. They’ve recently moved into Richard’s childhood home out in the bleak and foggy British countryside circa 1970-something. The fresh air will do Owen good, surely. I mean, nothing maleficent ever happens in situations like these. What could go wrong in a place called Starve Acre?
Unless Richard’s late father—and maybe rugged old neighbor Gordon (Sean Gilder, stellar)—dabbled in child abuse and the occult. Or the old tree trunk that Richard obsessively digs around is some kind of gateway. But what are the odds?
So much of Kokotajlo’s film pulls from existing genre fare: unhappy couple, new home with an ugly past, familial tragedy, father numbs himself with work while mother loses grip on reality.
But a handful of intriguing scenes and conversations, as well as an entire ensemble of strong performances, ensures that the creeping storyline captures and keeps your attention.
Little Arthur Shaw is a heartbreaker, so be prepared. Kokotajlo sidesteps overt gruesomeness to leave an impression that’s even more menacing. Gilder’s a solid salt-of-the-earth presence, offset admirably by Erin Richards. As Jules’s sister Harrie, she’s civility-meets-hardiness and her character feels deeply human and relatable.
But it’s Smith and Clark (the latter who was so astonishing in Rose Glass’s 2019 genre masterpiece, Saint Maud) who carry the film. Both deliver characteristically flawed but tender performances, each commanding the screen without an ounce of showiness.
Careful writing, some fine genre direction and misdirection, and these compelling performances help Starve Acre rise above its spooky familiarity. It’s not enough for Kokotajlo to leave you lying awake and hoping for dawn, but you won’t regret watching.
The prospect of a new Deadpool & Wolverine teamup brings plenty of fan excitement, and one looming question.
What about Logan? They really gonna do him like that, and undo Wolverine’s deeply emotional sendoff with some dream sequence gag or something?
Don’t look away, you’re in a safe zone here. There’ll be no spoilers (and there’s plenty of surprises to spoil, so navigate your media carefully), but rest assured that the Deadpool franchise is built on self-awareness. And what this third installment cooks up is a foul-mouthed, carnage-laden and often hilarious blast of fan service and Friars Club roast that’s set to ludicrous speed.
It also has plenty to say about the new Honda Odyssey. See, Wade Wilson/Deadpool (Ryan Reynolds) is selling cars, sporting a “hair system” and pining for Vanessa (Morena Baccarin) when the mysterious Mr. Paradox (Matthew Macfadyen) gives Wade a chance to finally attain something he craves: to matter.
Remember, we’re in Marvel “multiverse” territory now, so while Paradox is keeping tabs on multiple timelines, all Deadpool needs to know is who can help him save the one holding people he really cares about.
Bet you can guess who can help, but doesn’t want to.
Director Shawn Levy, co-writing with Reynolds and Rhett Rheese, keeps up a nearly constant stream of bloodshed and banter, always staying one step ahead of us on the mockery scale. Disney and the MCU are frequent targets, but extended exposition, past films, previous spouses and more will all be skewered via precise timing from Reynolds and the muscle-flexing wrath of Hugh Jackman’s furious straight man.
This pair of timeline bandits is as much of an R-rated delight as you’re probably expecting, but Levy makes sure these two don’t just talk the talk. The action is stylishly well-staged, heavy on 80s needle drops (cha-ching Huey Lewis!) and often relentless, with D & W mostly battling each other until they come mask to face with the all-powerful Cassandra Nova (Emma Corin).
Nova rules “the Void,” a thrilling dystopian Hellscape that’s home to plenty of jokes about Mad Max and a priceless array of cameos. More and more famous faces drop in to join the fight, enough to leave the fanboys and girls cheering, laughing, and tipping their caps to pop culture callbacks and one very well-played superhero sleight of hand.
Yes, it’s overlong (but you will want to stay through the credits) and sometimes clearly impressed with its own cleverness, but Deadpool & Wolverine is also committed to its promise of adult, crowd-pleasing fun.
Is Twisters 100% scientifically realistic? Well, taming tornadoes from inside souped up pickups seems likelier than following up the beautiful, Oscar nominated drama Minari with this movie. But if director Lee Isaac Chung can do that, anything is possible.
Chung’s film, written by Mark L. Smith (The Revenant) and Joseph Kosinski (Tom Cruise’s favorite director, who also wrote the Cruse vehicle Oblivion), follows a new generation of storm chasers.
One team—scientists, PhDs with beta tech in their trunks and data collection on their minds—is led by Javi (Anthony Ramos). And yes, his crew carries degrees from MIT, NASA, ETC. But he can’t do it without Kate (Daisy Edgar-Jones).
Team two is a more raucous bunch. Hot YouTuber Tyler Owens (Glen Powell) and his fly-by-the-seat-of-your-truck crew don’t need no stinking degrees. But maybe they also need Kate, who balances Team One’s academic expertise with Team Two’s organic know-how.
Kate doesn’t really need either team, which is one mark in the plus column for a film that doesn’t find a lot of ways to break new ground. It does wait a full hour before putting Powell in a white tee shirt in the rain, though, so at least it exerts a little restraint.
It’s fun, though. Is it big dumb fun? Well, I mean, there may be actual science afoot. I wouldn’t know.
Powell’s as effortlessly charismatic as ever, and it continues to be impossible to root against Ramos, who’s conflict and tenderness almost force you to care what happens. Edgar-Jones cuts a fine presence as hero, and the unexpected turns Twisters takes are welcome.
Yes, most of them are expected, but genuinely solid performances from the leads as well as the full ensemble elevate the script. The writing is better than the plot demands, to be entirely fair, but you don’t go to Twisters for the writing.
The action is arresting. Yes, a couple of set pieces look like MGM Studios attractions, but others—the opening sequence, in particular—impress. But Chung is looking for more than action. He gives his film the very throwback vibe of an 80s style blockbuster. It may be an effort to—as one character literally says—“get everyone into the movie theater” but it might work.
Back in 2021, writer/director Damian Mc Carthy cast a spook house spell, rattling chains and all, with his pithy survival story Caveat. He’s back, and with him another claustrophobic but gorgeous supernatural tale of familial grievance.
Carolyn Bracken is Darcy, twin sister of the recently slain Dani (also Bracken). Darcy is a little touched—she still runs the curiosity/antique shop her mother left her and still holds on to the giant wooden man a witch gave her parents for their wedding. Darcy is also blind, so when she arrives at her brother-in-law’s home—the very spot where Dani came to her bloody end—Ted (Gwilym Lee) and his new live-in girlfriend (Caroline Menton) don’t know how to politely ask her to leave. And to take her giant wooden friend with her.
Oddity stitches together a handful of common enough ideas with a few real surprises. More importantly, Mc Carthy hands this tapestry of folklore and soap opera to a nimble cast and a gifted cinematographer. Together this team casts a spell too fun to break.
Mc Carthy’s framing inside and around the house where Dani died is gorgeous, surfaces of buttery caramel colors that shine and echo with the clicks of heels or rattle of ghosts. And when we’re not in this haunted space we’re in the age-old horror stomping grounds of a mental asylum—filmed rigidly and hopelessly, as if to suggest that the science of men is cruel and ugly.
But that beautiful, buttery home—Darcy and the wooden man have claimed that and they have no fear of men and science.
Both Lee and Menton deliver solid performances, while Steve Wall and Tadhg Murphy are flip sides of a terrifying coin. But Bracken owns Oddity—at first the warm and engaging Dani, authentic enough to make you mourn her, and then the elegantly spooky Darcy. Bracken, who was so terrifying and feral in Kate Dolan’s 2022 horror You Are Not My Mother, frightens in a very different way here.
At times Oddity suffers from a throwback sensibility—like an old Tales from the Darkside episode. But there’s no denying Mc Carthy’s talent for creating an atmosphere where anything can happen.
