For one of those hired assassin thrillers to work, it helps
to have a convincing lead who has chemistry with the bad guy. Martin Campbell’s
The Protégé delivers on both fronts.
And yes, in these films story often takes a backseat to fight choreography, writing rides shotgun to action. This also sounds a lot like Campbell’s latest, although it would be more forgivable if the action stood out enough that you could overlook the shortcomings in story.
Maggie Q is protégé assassin Anna, and while her inner conflict never breaks the surface, Q convinces as she moves bewigged from one set piece to the next. Anna’s mission this time is personal, natch, and her soft spot comes from her mentor, played by Samuel L. Jackson.
How is he? Well, he’s, you know, Sam Jackson. He’s exactly Sam
Jackson. That works in almost every other movie, and it works just as well
here.
But the real shining treasure in The Protégé is Michael
Keaton. His talent, charisma, easy charm and natural good humor elevate every
scene. Luckily, he’s in a lot of them, so he elevates most of the film.
Campbell (Casino Royale) stages capable though uninspired
action sequences. His script, by action veteran Richard Wenk (The Equalizer),
can’t tie character motivation to mystery elements to location or conflict.
Instead, it stitches together ideas from a smattering of other films with
little concern for coherence.
Perhaps this is why Campbell struggles so mightily with tone.
This thing swings back and forth between buddy picture and revenge fantasy,
international espionage thriller and romance. The bit that generally drives a
film like this—you know, when the steely lead finally faces their demons—feels
almost coincidental, leaving it no room to resonate.
The Protégé is not a terrible film. At worst it’s just a waste of your time.
While returning from his trip filming traveling preachers in India, Chris McDonell becomes enamored with some young girls hawking their wares on a beach in Goa. One precocious girl, in particular, catches his eye, and her name is Shilpa Poojar. At the time, Shilpa’s only nine years old, and she works full-time to help support her family.
Almost desperately McDonnell repeatedly asks her, “Do you
have a dream? Are you happy?” Shilpa shrugs several times before finally
admitting that she’d like to go to school, but she can’t afford it. Unable to
shake the idea that this young girl is working instead of getting an education,
McDonell sets out to change her fate.
McDonell has many paths he could follow in his telling of
Shilpa’s story, but he largely avoids any avenue except trying to convince her
to go to school. As he returns to India year after year, Shilpa’s interest in
school fluctuates. She’s the breadwinner for her family, and if she stops
earning an income her family won’t eat. It’s rare that you see a documentary so
heavily dependent on the director inserting themselves into the narrative, but
McDonell is determined to “save” Shilpa in the way he deems best.
As he is entangled with Shilpa’s family, McDonell grows
disheartened that there isn’t an easy win ahead of him. The girls he’s
desperate to help are businesswomen who easily out-barter him. He’s constantly
promising them gifts in exchange for their participation in the documentary,
and his proximity to the young girls sometimes feels uncomfortable. He never
acknowledges the obvious power imbalance between himself, a white adult man
with the promise of money, and the young Indian girls who are desperate to earn
their daily keep or otherwise be beaten. Once or twice, McDonell recognizes
that India is often a location for sex tourism, but he doesn’t delve.
McDonell never delves, in fact. He is desperate to make a
documentary about sending Shilpa to school, and that’s the documentary he makes
despite all odds. He never ends his mission, even when Shilpa is run out of her
shop on the beach because she is accused of having an inappropriate
relationship with McDonell.
“I come here to help, and instead I cause all of these
problems.” He worries out loud to her.
“This is called life, Chris.” She consoles him. “This is
India life.”
The documentary is worth watching just to meet the whip-smart, incredibly charismatic Shilpa, who carries on despite horrible circumstances. But her journey seems halted and messy through McDonell’s insistence that she receive his help the way he wants to give it. Cultural context is sidestepped and ignored. Her story ends with no update on her adult life. Does she still have dreams? Is she happy?
We are left with a multitude of unturned stones and unanswered questions. The only thing that is clear is that McDonell is proud of what he thinks he’s accomplished.
The Night House rests on a trusted horror foundation that’s adorned with several stylishly creepy fixtures. But it’s a terrific lead performance from Rebecca Hall that becomes the support beam preventing total collapse.
Hall plays Beth, a New York teacher still reeling from the recent death of her husband Owen (Evan Jonigkeit). As Beth drifts through her impressive lakefront house trying to adjust, new discoveries bring unexpected questions about her late husband’s outside interests.
Though Beth’s neighbor (Vondie Curtis-Hall, always a pleasure) and best friend (Sarah Goldberg) both warn her not to fill the void in her life with “something dark,” the dark keeps calling. The more Beth digs into things Owen left behind, the more signs point to an unsettling secret life, and to the possibility that Owen may not have entirely moved on.
Director David Bruckner (The Ritual, The Signal) and screenwriters Ben Collins and Luke Piotrowski (Super Dark Times) each have resumes showing impressive results within limited budgets. Stepping up a bit in class, their metaphor for the fog of grief and depression is familiar but well-crafted, with soft-pedaled jump scares and effectively spooky visuals.
Bruckner fuels the standard what’s real/what’s-in-her-head questions with some nifty camera tricks that make the house come eerily alive with forced perspectives and Dali-esque illusions.
As solid as the film’s construction may be, it falls on Hall to make sure the reveals waiting in the third act land with more emotion than silliness.
She’s more than up to the task. Early on, Beth’s sustained grief, and her indignation toward everyone who’s not Owen, carries an authenticity that gets us squarely behind Beth’s personal journey. And that pays dividends once the film relies on our belief in what Beth believes. Thanks to Hall, we end up buying in.
Looking ahead to 2022, Bruckner, Collins and Piotkowski will team up again for the Hellraiser reboot. That means that while there’s enough in The Night House to satisfy horror fans today, there’s also plenty here to get us hopeful about the future.
Bella Thorne is the best thing about writer/director Janell
Shirtcliff’s zany thriller Habit. When is that ever a good sign?
Thorne plays Mads, a Jesus-loving Texan transplanted to
Hollywood’s underbelly to be with her two hometown besties Evie (co-writer Libby
Mintz) and Addy (Andreja Pejic). Mads really loves Jesus. Like in an entirely
unwholesome way.
But that’s the least of her problems after Evie’s one night
stand makes off with all the drugs and money the girls are holding for Eric
(Gavin Rossdale).
This movie tries so hard to be Tarantino by way of John
Waters and it fails so absolutely that it gets credit for commitment. What it
lacks is inspiration—Shirtcliff’s odyssey requires that we be shocked by Mads’s
behavior, surprised by the stilted lunacy of her pursuers, and weirdly drawn into
her unseemly world.
The fact that none of it feels especially wild, or that the
pursuers lack originality and panache, takes a backseat to the film’s lacking
cinematic quality. Individual scenes have no structure – they drag, most of
them missing purpose, punchline or punch.
Nothing feels especially taboo, and that’s a problem because
without any real “wild” in these antics, you find yourself paying attention to
the writing or, worse still, the acting. Rossdale has a tough time developing a
character, partly because there’s no telling whether to like or dislike Eric.
Shirtcliff and Mintz have no idea what to do with the real villains, Queenie (Josie Ho) and Tuff (Jamie Hince). The filmmakers dress them up like something out of Pee-wee’s Playhouse, but their villainy is sloppy and suspect.
Habit plays like a film made by people who really liked David Lynch’s Wild at Heart, Tony Scott’s True Romance, and everything John Waters ever made, but had no real idea what they liked about it. The result is a mishmash of borrowed ideas, none of them interesting enough to merit the label subversive.
Harder even than finding a cryptid these days might be getting to see a new animated feature meant for adults. Cryptozoo, the latest from comic book artist Dash Shaw and animator Jane Samborski, is compelling proof of how vital it is that we still do—rare as these sightings get.
Not that there’s anything wrong with the many excellent animated options we do get, all with the requisite PG+ jokes to keep parents occupied and weepy climaxes that make you realize a matinee out with the family has turned into at least three future therapy sessions for a child 20 years into the future. But it’s refreshing to get a chance to see lushly textured, hand-drawn animal work go toward interrogating society just a little more than something like “stereotypes are bad.”
Cryptozoo kicks off as an Indiana Jones-style
adventure with a mythical twist. Lauren Grey (Lake Bell), trained veterinarian
and globetrotting cryptid hunter, tracks down these strange creatures and
offers them a place in a protected zoo where they can safely interact with the
public as well as their own kind.
Not all cryptids are humanoid, though—you try explaining
“Jurassic Park but with sasquatch” to a kraken—and so the zoo’s population is a
mix of humanely captured exhibits and fully sentient magical creatures who just
want to live and love and go about their daily lives without fear of
persecution or worse from their human neighbors.
The “worse” comes in the form of Nicholas (Thomas Jay Ryan),
a mercenary ex-military tracker who hunts down cryptids to sell to governments
as living weapons. When Nicholas and Lauren go after the same beast (a
dream-eating baku), Lauren must partner up with Phoebe (Angeliki Papoulia),
whose point of view on coexistence as a gorgon leads Lauren to slowly question
her lifelong pursuit and recoil from the stinging indictment of liberalism and capitalism.
If that sounds like a drag, Shaw’s script—and especially the meticulous drawings and whimsical details on each cryptid—keep it buoyant. The result is an ambitious animated feature where the medium fits the message. This is a bestiary with real bite, mapping out a world where good intentions can still come to a bad end, and that can be the most important moral to learn.
They’re powerful, beautiful, but not necessarily benevolent. Horror filmmakers have made great use of the heavenly hosts. Sometimes they arrive to protect us. Sometimes they don’t. Here are our five favorite horror films to bring heaven to earth.
5. The Exorcist III (1990)
Yes, this movie made the list based on a single scene. But that scene is so good! Fabio is an angel, wings and all. Patrick Ewing is the angel of death! There’s a quick glimpse of a young Samuel L. Jackson, and George C. Scott chooses a strangely upbeat delivery for the line, “I’m so sorry you were murdered, Thomas. I miss you.”
It’s a dream sequence, a foreboding scene in which Kinderman (Scott) meanders through a holding station between life and afterlife. The piece is weird, a bit gruesome and gorgeous. Its tone and look differ wildly from the rest of the film, but incredible nonetheless.
4. He Never Died (2015)
With a funny shuffle step and a blank stare, Henry Rollins announces Jack, anti-hero of the noir/horror mash-up He Never Died, as an odd sort.
Jack, you see, has kind of always been here. The “here” in question at the moment is a dodgy one-bedroom, walking distance from the diner where he eats and the church where he plays bingo. An exciting existence, no doubt, but this mindlessness is disturbed by a series of events: an unexpected visit, a needed ally with an unfortunate bookie run-in, and a possible love connection with a waitress.
From the word go, He Never Died teems with deadpan humor and unexpected irony. Casting Rollins in the lead, for instance, suggests something the film actively avoids: energy. The star never seethes, and even his rare hollers are muted, less full of anger than primal necessity.
3. The Prophecy (1995)
Writer/director Gregory Widen’s fascinating story about a war in heaven over God’s spoiled little meat puppets was a wild, innovative concept with a breathtaking cast: Christopher Walken, Virginia Madsen, Viggo Mortensen, Eric Stoltz, Elias Koteas, Adam Goldberg, Amanda Plummer.
So, is it on Widen that the movie is kind of terrible?
Terrible in an incredibly fun and watchable way, though. Somehow the unusually talent-stacked cast doesn’t feel wasted as much as it does weirdly placed.
There is no question this film belongs to Christopher Walken as the angel Gabriel. (Why are filmmakers so willing to believe Gabe will turn evil?) His natural weirdness and uncanny comic timing make the film more memorable than it deserves to be, but when it comes to sinister, Viggo Mortensen cuts quite a figure as Lucifer. Don’t forget, he was an angel, too.
2. Frailty (2001)
Back in 1980, Bill “We’re toast! Game over!” Paxton directed the short music video Fish Heads. Triumph enough, you say? Correct. But in 2001 he took a stab at directing the quietly disturbing supernatural thriller Frailty, with equally excellent results.
Paxton stars as a widowed, bucolic country dad awakened one night by an angel – or a bright light shining off the angel on top of a trophy on his ramshackle bedroom bookcase. Whichever – he understands now that he and his sons have been called by God to kill demons.
Dread mounts as Paxton drags out the ambiguity over whether this man is insane, and his therefore good-hearted but wrong-headed behavior profoundly damaging his boys. Or could he really be chosen, and his sons likewise marked by God?
Brent Hanley’s sly screenplay evokes such nostalgic familiarity – down to a Dukes of Hazzard reference – and Paxton’s direction makes you feel entirely comfortable in these common surroundings. Then the two of them upend everything – repeatedly – until it’s as if they’ve challenged your expectations, biases, and your own childhood to boot.
1. A Dark Song (2016)
Writer/director Liam Gavin also begins his story by dropping us breathless and drowning in a mother’s grief. Sophia (Catherine Walker) will do anything at all just to hear her 6-year-old son’s voice again. She will readily commit to whatever pain, discomfort or horror required of her by the occultist (Steve Oram) who will perform the ritual to make it happen.
Anything except the forgiveness ritual.
What Gavin and his small but committed cast create is a shattering but wonderful character study. Walker never stoops to sentimentality, which is likely what makes the climax of the film so heartbreaking and wonderful.
The jury may still be out on the level of acting chops passed from Denzel to John David Washington, but Beckett proves once again JDW can handle a physically taxing role as well as anybody in the business.
He’s taxed early and often as the titular man on the run in Netflix’s Beckett, a moderately satisfying throwback to political thrillers of the 1970s.
While on a “get far, far away from it all” vacation in the mountains of Greece with girlfriend April (Alicia Vikander), Beckett loses control of their car on a steep curve. Crashing through the door of a remote home below, Beckett catches a glimpse of something he’s not meant to, and the threats on his life soon begin.
The local police tell Beckett that April is dead, but they won’t let him see her body, which is the least lethal reason he quickly realizes these cops can’t be trusted. The U.S. embassy in Athens is hours away even by car, but Beckett sets out on foot to beg, borrow and fight his way to safety – and the answer to why he’s a marked man.
As capably as Washington handles the action, he’s never quite able to get Beckett’s frantic paranoia to a level that rings true. And once he gets help from a determined activist (Vicky Krieps), the bad guys become easier to spot and the lack of overall intensity brings a sluggish feel.
Director/co-writer Ferdinando Cito Filomarino delivers some picturesque and well-staged set pieces, but the political conspiracy that’s brewing underneath wears thin despite worthy intentions. The point about how easily anyone can become a marginalized pawn in the game becomes a bit frayed, lost in workmanlike global thriller threads.
CODA is the type of welcome reminder we get every so often that lets us know a formulaic story isn’t an inherently bad thing. Fill the formula with characters that feel real enough to care about, and even a predictable journey can be a touching ride.
Writer/director Sian Heder delivers an engaging crowd-pleaser with CODA, titled after the acronym for Child Of Deaf Adults. That child is Gloucester, Mass. high school senior Ruby Rossi (Emilia Jones from Netflix’s Locke and Key – just terrific), who’s the only hearing person in her household of Mom Jackie (Marlee Matlin), Dad Frank (Troy Kotsur) and brother Leo (Daniel Durant).
The Rossi family business is fishing, but Ruby’s real passion is for singing – even though she’s too shy to let people know it. On a whim, she follows her crush Miles (Ferdia Walsh-Peelo) to choir class, where the demanding “Mr. V.” (Eugenio Derbez) sees a true talent buried under nerves. Find your voice, Mr. V. tells Ruby, and you could earn a music scholarship.
Find your voice. Heder comes right out and says it – about a character who literally has the only speaking voice in her family. And in an instant, CODA acknowledges all of the ingredients for another manipulative YA special fest, and then sets about swatting them away through thoughtful writing, smart pacing and wonderful performances all around.
Events are often a tad convenient, but the stakes and the people weighing them always feel authentic. Ruby and her friends talk about sex and drugs. Jackie is a (gasp) proudly sexy and sexual middle-aged woman who also has poignant concerns about raising a hearing child. Frank is a loving family man looking for ways to keep his boat in the water, while Leo fights to prove he’s not helpless, and to push Ruby toward her dream.
And, of course, the title also works as a reference to the end of Ruby’s childhood as she moves to take more control of her own life.
So yes, expect first love, a big moment at the choir concert and a happy ending, but the trip to where we know we’re going is funny and warm thanks to the winning cast and Heder’s earnest command of tone. The spots where she removes all sound to shift the perspective are well-placed and never cloying, adding to the film’s list of sweetly resonant moments.
There aren’t many verses in CODA‘s coming-of-age composition that we haven’t heard before. But these hits benefit from an endlessly heartfelt new arrangement, leaving a setlist that’s familiar, but well worth cueing up again.
At a time in history where fascism, neo-Nazism, nationalism,
antisemitism and white supremacy flourish out in the open, it seems natural
that our collective conscious directs its attention to the rise of the Nazi
party.
And at the same time, doesn’t one more documentary about
Hitler just add to his legend?
Filmmakers Petra Epperlein and Michael Tucker (Gunner Palace) grapple with that conundrum in their latest, The Meaning of Hitler.
Their primary aim is to look at how it happened in the first place to see how it might be stopped this go-round without romanticizing Hitler himself. But that had a lot to do with how he became the cult of personality he was, and why he continues to fascinate entitled, angry people.
“The Nazi ideals were acted out by people who were
absolutely normal.”
Historian Yehuda Bauer, a 95-year-old who knows firsthand,
shares this insight. And while much of what Epperlein and Tucker cover feels
well-worn, this one bit of information gives the film upsetting relevance.
That’s why it’s happening again. Hitler was little more than
a spoiled, profoundly selfish, childish man who wanted what he wanted. What he
wanted was evil, but he found that an awful lot of people were OK with that as
long as they believed they would also be allowed to take whatever it is they
wanted.
That sounds familiar, but thankfully the film’s main point is not simply to draw obvious parallels with another vane and repugnant manchild. Their central problem is how to expose a fascist’s need to be mythologized without mythologizing the fascist.
They find freshness and relevance, partly in the transparency of their thought processes. It’s often as though we’re privy to the actual construction of the film: images of Epperlein in the scene with a clapboard or boom mic, the sound of Tucker asking the subject a question.
Part of what makes this approach work is the way it
deconstructs the propaganda that Hitler used to pretend he was more than a
failed artist and spoiled child. Inviting us behind the curtain, Epperlein and
Tucker puncture the gaudy theatricality that makes weak men look like something
they’re not.
These filmmakers are making a documentary about Hitler specifically to point out that it’s time we end our fascination with fascism.
