Tag Archives: Matt Weiner

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Women Out of Love

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Two Women

by Matt Weiner

“Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.” It’s a fitting aphorism for the new Two Women, Chloé Robichaud’s remake of the original 1970 film that probes how much has really changed for women since the sexual revolution of the 1960s and 70s.

Florence (Karine Gonthier-Hyndman) and Violette (Laurence Leboeuf) have a lot in common. The two women live next to each other in a large Montreal apartment complex, share feelings of sexual frustration and a lack of desire with their current partners, and have to deal with mental health issues around new motherhood (for Violette) and depression (for Florence).

The two women bond with one another over their shared frustrations, a bond that deepens quickly when they both seek out casual affairs from relative strangers in the apartment complex. This breezy update, written by Catherine Léger, puts a modern spin on the original, with app-based encounters helping to supercharge the litany of cable guys, repairmen and delivery people who make up the anonymous casual sex for the women.

And these men (plus the occasional woman) are truly anonymous—they are credited by occupation only. This leads to some comic relief as the neighbors start to sense something going on with the revolving door of service workers going in and out of the women’s apartments. But it also adds a serious note to their sexual adventuring.

Florence and Violette reclaim these pornified archetypes for their own journeys of self-discovery, complete with intentionally awkward and turgid come-ons as the women make their desires known to the bemused workers. It helps that Gonthier-Hyndman and Leboeuf excel at giving the risqué romps emotional heft. We see both of their characters go from halting, even fumbling encounters to a fully realized confidence by the end of the film.

While the leading women are fantastic, the film is on shakier ground when it pulls back to ascribe some broader societal points about their sexual politics. Monogamy and mental health both factor into where the story winds up going, but Robichaud’s otherwise light comic touch winds up making these threads feel underbaked while also not given enough weight.

There’s a frank sweetness to the film that, along with the grounded performances, keeps the philosophical detours from ever derailing the movie’s charm, however. This is in no small part thanks to fully inhabited performances from the women’s partners, the tragicomic David (an excellent Mani Soleymanlou) and churlish Benoit (Félix Moati). We may have gone through enough waves of social change in the last 50 years to know that “having it all” is its own unrealistic myth for anyone in today’s world. But Two Women shows that, six decades on, that shouldn’t stop you from asking what you actually desire in your life, whether that’s fixing the cable or “fixing the cable.”

Outtakes

Hell’s Kitchen

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Salt Along the Tongue

by Matt Weiner

It should be a given that any good exorcism movie worth its, well, salt comes with a massive trigger warning for emetophobia – fear of vomiting. And that applies to the stylish and sensuous Salt Along the Tongue, sure. But the gripping new possession horror from writer-director Parish Malfitano spends more time reveling in the potent allure of food and its power to bring together cultures, families and more than a few primordial memories that have been buried far too long.

Awkward and shy Mattia (Laneikka Denne) has her insular life turned upside down when her mother Mina (Dina Panozzo) dies suddenly. While Mattia would prefer to stay with Mina’s pregnant partner Yuma (Mayu Iwasaki), the lack of a specified guardian forces her to move in with Mina’s estranged twin sister, Carol (also Panozzo).

The boisterous and self-assured Carol welcomes Mattia into her confident world. Carol stars in a cooking show that she films with her friends and partner. Mattia has inherited her family’s aptitude for cooking (if not her aunt’s camera-ready demeanor), and Carol swiftly thrusts Mattia onto the show. The all-female cast gives Mattia a safe sisterhood to assert her own identity while working through the trauma and grief of her mother’s passing.

Soon this trauma seems to take on a malevolent physical form. Carol suspects the work of the malocchio (evil eye), which the film tells us is a curse caused by envy or jealousy. But whether the culprit is Mattia, the work of Mina from beyond the grave or something else entirely is a mystery Carol needs to solve before the entity fully takes over Mattia and destroys Carol.

Given the budget, the film’s horror draws from the atmospheric and thematic side over splashy scares. But this ends up being an asset under Malfitano’s direction. There’s a pervasive tension that echoes the film’s clear influences from both The Exorcist and Rosemary’s Baby, with the ratcheting unease and stomach-churning secrets providing more than enough shocks.

There are some threads that you wish Malfitano pulled on a little harder. The film sets up so much visually, including some clever doubling between Mina/Carol and Mattia, that the actual climax felt almost rushed and perfunctory. 

But Malfitano and the film’s stars do a lot with what they have. The food on display opens up a gateway to illicit desires and the past, with Proustian reverie giving way to demonic nightmares. There’s more than enough to chew on here.

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A Fish Called ChaO

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ChaO

by Matt Weiner

If you’re boycotting a certain mustachioed plumber this weekend because he went to space instead of the underwater levels, you’re in luck. You can have your own lushly drawn animated movie where an everyman hero goes on an adventure with a princess.

ChaO takes place in a futuristic version of Shanghai where humans and mermaids coexist, but it’s an uneasy peace. Engineer Stephan (Ōji Suzuka) has a plan to create a safe alternative to the screw propeller on ships, which would save ocean life from harm and even death.

Higher-ups at his shipping company are skeptical until mermaid royalty Princess ChaO (Anna Yamada) appears out of the blue to insist that she and Stephan get married. Nobody is more surprised by this than Stephan, despite ChaO’s mysterious assurances that Stephan swore to her they would be married some day.

While Stephan has doubts about the whirlwind romance, the pair are buoyed along by executives at the shipping company—who see a chance to mend relations with the mermaid king—and the nosy public, titillated by the intricacies and logistics of a human-mermaid relationship.

These broad strokes of a story from writer Hanasaki Kino don’t get much more detailed than that. It’s a literal “fish out of water” tale that throws in the odd car chase and robot fight to pad out the runtime. These elements don’t add anything to the underlying mystery of Stephan’s genuinely moving backstory, but the detours are also brief.

Thankfully when ChaO sticks to the budding romance between Stephan and the princess, the film gets back its sea legs. And the real draw is the gorgeous animation from director Yasuhiro Aoki and Studio 4ºC.

This is Aoki’s first feature film, but his decades of experience in the animation industry turn this slight tale into a distinctive visual feast. Every scene is stuffed with witty details and stunning backdrops. There’s a fluidity to the characters as well, both human and merman, that gives everyone a natural expression and constant motion that complements the thorny human-aquatic relations. For all the film’s erratic plotting and odd digressions—including an HR nightmare of an office subplot, parents beware—the animation is so singular and captivating that it makes up for everything else.

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A House Divided

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Kokuho

by Matt Weiner

A sprawling epic about the orphaned son of a yakuza boss and his single-minded dedication to becoming the greatest kabuki actor of his era is now Japan’s highest grossing live-action movie. After three hours of near total immersion in the kabuki world, it’s easy to see why.

Sang-il Lee’s adaptation of Shuichi Yoshida’s novel Kokuho kicks off with a gripping gangster showdown that leaves Kikuo (Ryo Yoshizawa) without a family or direction in life. An impromptu performance on that fateful night provides a lifeline to a different path when his innate acting talent is recognized by the revered kabuki actor Hanai Hanjiro II (Ken Watanabe).

Hanjiro offers the boy a home—along with a rigorous, even physically abusive apprenticeship—much to the chagrin of Hanjiro’s son, Shunsuke (Ryusei Yokohama). Where Kikuo has the otherworldly talent and dedication of an outsider, Shunsuke is cocky and lazy, his status protected by the conservative traditions of kabuki and family bloodlines.

When Kikuo’s fortunes rise as Hanjiro’s favorite heir, a confrontation with Shunsuke seems inevitable. And so it is, but in ways that end up being far more complex, moving and unexpected than the pair’s rivalry first suggests. The story (adapted by Satoko Okudera) has the length and breathing room to pack in its fair share of rises and falls, but a deftness is always there to defuse the melodrama in favor of a slow burn that the rivals carry with them across decades.

Kokuho is after a more spiritual catharsis, made all the more potent with the demanding strictures of kabuki that fill almost all the time spent with the stage actors. Lee provides only glimpses of a rapidly modernizing country beyond the walls of the stage. And yet the weight of these changes is felt all around, as patrons come and go, living legends die and families grapple with what this artistic pursuit means and whether or not it’s worth it.

Watanabe is born to his role, with an uncanny ability to summon warmth, fear and regret with the briefest of expressions. His sons, both chosen and adopted, are locked into a replay of the sins of the father, and Yoshizawa and Yokohama play off each other to heartbreaking effect.

Kokuho devotes extensive time to the kabuki performances themselves, not just the rehearsals. The art direction from Yohei Taneda is a stunning highlight of the film, and goes a long way toward explaining even to an audience unfamiliar with kabuki why Kikuo believes the sacrifice to be worth it in the name of art. And that is the question being asked, by Kikuo and those whose lives he alters for better and worse. What if we’ve misunderstood the Faustian bargain all these years? Maybe the devil can have our best interests at heart too, if it means achieving the sublime for even a moment.

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Celluloid Atlas

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Resurrection

by Matt Weiner

Chinese filmmaker Bi Gan set the bar high for himself with his second feature, the surreal sensation Long Day’s Journey into Night that capped off a dreamy neo-noir with an hour-long single take in 3D.

With his new film Resurrection, it’s clear that Bi’s ambition and technical skill have only grown. Resurrection trades the languorous pace of his first two films for short chapters that meticulously pay homage to distinct filmmaking genres. There’s the opening silent film with its eye-popping production design and nods to Expressionism and early greats like Méliès and Griffith, but if that’s not your taste just give it 20 minutes. Each section gives way to the next, including mid-century noir, a Buddhist parable and even a Y2K vampire love story.

The story (from Bi, with a screenplay by the director and Zhai Xiaohui) loosely unites the wide-ranging chapters—but emphasis on loosely. Jackson Yee plays a Deliriant, a dissident dreamer in a speculative future where “the secret to eternal life is to no longer dream.” These Deliriants must be hunted down by “Other One” (Shu Qi, who also narrates throughout the film).

This is explained at breakneck speed in the opening silent film cards, but don’t worry. The cinematic metaphors tend not to be subtle in each of the chapters, with story taking a backseat to Bi’s dazzling visuals. After the Other One tracks down the Deliriant in the opening chapter, the rest of Resurrection is a projection of his dying dreams across time.

The final chapter is the one with “that shot” – one of Bi’s now-trademark long takes that follows a whirlwind romance between the Deliriant (now a street tough named Apollo) and a vampire singer (Li Gengxi) through Chongqing’s foggy nighttime streets. It’s Before Sunset with vampires plus Bi’s stunning use of light, darkness and color coming together perfectly, and the cinematography is such an achievement on its own that the long take is almost superfluous.

It’s a neat encapsulation of what can be equal parts beguiling and frustrating about Resurrection. There’s a deft bit of poetry on ending with the vampire vignette, as the two lovers seek to find something real, something even more sublime than immortality. (And cinema is also something we find meaning in with each another, but only in fleeting darkness before the lights come up.)

And it also draws attention to its own artifice in ways that might be intentional but, over the course of a 150-minute movie, threaten to overshadow the emotion of an already threadbare story. Bi has the immaculate craft to look back at diverse eras of filmmaking, but the burning question in today’s climate is forward-looking: Can film as an art survive? Can we be at peace with the idea that art is not a cure for suffering but rather a place to find our shared humanity? It’s a little corny or maybe it’s a little deep, or both depending on your tolerance. But the questions are worth asking. Especially from a master technician who is practically demanding that you see this on a big screen, with a hushed crowd of strangers, all in agreement that there is still something essential about the power of stories through moving images on a screen.

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Why Can’t We Be Friends?

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Love, Brooklyn

by Matt Weiner

The early 2000s and its attendant malaise were fertile ground for the Judd Apatow manchild, romcom fixtures who enjoyed their blithe aimlessness between 9/11 and the Great Recession. Now as more films grapple with Covid—directly or, more often, by conspicuously dancing around the lacunas left behind in cities—Rachael Abigail Holder’s debut feature Love, Brooklyn points the way toward a new archetype: the mid-life coming of age crisis.

Roger (André Holland) is a writer and New Yorker in vintage Sex and the City mold. That is, he keeps landing the last media jobs on the planet that allow him to live in a nice apartment without a roommate while doing almost no writing (let alone research or reporting).

But no matter. There’s the ticking clock of Roger’s looming deadline for a new piece about the changing city, but that’s just a convenient device for Roger to bounce back and forth between his modern love triangle. Roger is casually dating Nicole (DeWanda Wise), a massage therapist raising a daughter and still processing the death of her husband. But he still maintains an uncomfortably close relationship with his ex-girlfriend Casey (Nicole Beharie), an art gallery owner facing mounting pressure to sell her space to larger developers.

Roger’s casual relationships have served him well, but it becomes clear to everyone else involved (and, at last, to him as well) that it’s time to commit to a solid future rather than hold onto the past—and that goes as much for his notions of the city as it does the people in it.

Holland, who was electric in The Knick, is more subdued as the indecisive Roger. There’s no quiet rage here, only the quiet resignation that comes with looking up one day and realizing everything and everyone else around you has changed. Gentrification is the more visible issue that his social circle grapples with, but it’s the atomization post-Covid that is the unspoken elephant in the room.

But then, so much goes unspoken in this mostly gentle slice of city life. The otherwise complex and emotional love triangle gets overly tidy when it’s time to wrap up the more existential loose ends—complete with classic SATC column voiceover to drive the metaphors home. Screenwriter Paul Zimmerman treats the three leads with such empathy and maturity that it’s a shame there’s so little time given to interrogate the changes and forces that the film alludes to.

What we do get, however, are sumptuous shots of Brooklyn, as seen through the eyes of those who love it. The characters may be conflicted on what the future holds for a city constantly in flux, but Holder and cinematographer Martim Vian make a strong visual case that community, not just love, is what we need to keep the soul of a city intact.

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The Jupiter Project

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Boys Go to Jupiter

by Matt Weiner

There’s not a lot that makes logical sense in the off-season and off-kilter beach town of Boys Go to Jupiter. But there’s a visceral and of-the-moment emotional reality that washes over the town’s inhabitants in the weirdly funny, sometimes haunting and genuinely moving world cooked up in animator Julian Glander’s feature film debut.

Math genius and high school dropout Billy 5000 (Jack Corbett) has been cobbling together whatever work he can find to save up enough money to get his own apartment. When he discovers a payment glitch in food delivery app Grubster, he takes on as many gig deliveries as he can handle in a mad dash to save up what he needs to cash out.

These deliveries take him all over his suburban town during the winter months, when tourists are gone and the local economy that powers everyone through the boom months can run on a simmer. That is, a mostly quiet town except for Dolphin Groves, the foreboding juice conglomerate run by the mysterious Dr. Dolphin (Janeane Garofalo).

A chance food drop-off to Dr. Dolphin’s daughter Rozebud (Miya Folick) suddenly equips Billy with the political language to articulate his social and economic ennui. (That Rozebud can hold her radical views while also being heir to the Dolphin Groves fortune is not lost on Billy, even though the difference in their relative safety nets is mostly ignored by the oblivious Rozebud.) This is also when Billy notices he has picked up a hitchhiker in his Grubster bag in the form of Donut, a… well, doughnut-shaped creature that has bonded with Billy as a father figure and protector.

Billy’s awakening is also where the film’s loose “day-in-the-life” snapshots cohere into a more pointed—and subversive—tale from Glander. The bubbly 3D animation belies the pitch-black observations and asides from the town’s residents. It never gets old hearing Glander’s sharp social critiques come from the mouths of his demented, underemployed Playmobil figures come to life.

And it’s not all treatises and lectures. Boys Go to Jupiter exists comfortably in a world where alien slugs reflect on how hard it is to be a single parent and major events become impromptu musical numbers with lyrics like “Spaghetti meal has captured my heart.” It’s weirdness as an act of resistance, and by the end of the film it only feels like a slightly heightened reality compared to our own hyper-capitalist nightmare. Have a grubby day, indeed.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CGebWTi6APE

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You’ll Never Go in the Onsen Again

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Hotspring Sharkattack

by Matt Weiner

Japan’s beloved onsen (natural hot springs) are the site of grisly shark attacks in the town of Atsumi. A weary police chief butts heads with the town mayor hellbent on welcoming as many tourists as possible, even as the body count rises and outside shark experts and influencers alike converge on the town to solve the mystery (or profit from it on social media).

Sound familiar? While writer and director Morihito Inoue localizes the story to his home country, the main beats are so load-bearing that Hotspring Sharkattack is less a Jaws homage and more of an extended parody.

Chief Denbei Tsuka (Kiyobumi Kaneko) daydreams about his impending retirement from the Atsumi police. Billed as “the Monaco of the East,” the scenic town is a tourist draw for their many onsen. And the number of sightseers is about to grow exponentially with the opening of a towering new spa resort, a project that feckless town mayor Kanichi Mangan (Takuya Fujimura) deems too big to fail no matter how many bodies start to pile up.

The police suspect these aren’t typical shark attacks, but it’s not until marine biologist Mayumi Kose (Yuu Nakanishi) arrives to help investigate that they figure out what these special sharks are up to. It involves cartilage, pipes and some scientific handwaving… but it’s also not important. It’s all exactly as silly as you want from a movie called Hotspring Sharkattack.

The actors treat these ridiculous monologues with just the right level of dignity to sell the lines. The bigger issue is that, between the film’s brisk runtime and over-reliance on early PlayStation special effects, Hotspring Sharkattack comes dangerously close to looking like a late-night Syfy throwaway. And not one of the better ones.

Thankfully, by the time Mangan and Kose team up—with a little help from a silent, mostly shirtless guardian with godlike powers nicknamed Macho, because why not?—Inoue has reached deeper into his bag of low-budget tricks. The CGI sharks are still there, but so too are whimsical practical effects and miniatures. These moments of delight are a much better fit with the film’s tone, and it’s unfortunate that just about the only element not borrowed from Jaws is the understanding that you don’t need to show all your special effects if they aren’t working well.

Inoue’s earnest love of the source material and infectious humor go a long way toward pulling the film back from the direct-to-cable edge. But there’s a fine line between a B-movie that earns its status and a movie that is simply bad. And much like a cartilaginous predator that has learned to strike from any puddle of water (spoiler, if that’s the sort of thing you’re concerned about when it comes to a mutant shark attack movie), the movie never fully escapes that threat.

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The Talented Monsieur Jérémie

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Misericordia

by Matt Weiner

It’s a familiar story in the sleepy French town of Saint-Martial. Traditional ways of life are being upended, like getting your fresh bread from the village baker instead of a large supermarket chain. Or spending the afternoon on the farm knocking back shots of milky pastis. Or seeking absolution from the local priest and becoming entwined in a psychosexual conspiracy that effortlessly weaves together morality, sex, violence and a laugh-out-loud penis sight gag.

… Make that a familiar noir thriller until Misericordia director and writer Alain Guiraudie puts his own assured stamp on it.

Jérémie (Félix Kysyl) returns home from Toulouse to attend the funeral of his former boss, Jean-Pierre. The widow Martine (Catherine Frot) knows how close the two were, and Jérémie stays with her as he entertains the idea of taking over the local bakery with Jean-Pierre gone.

Martine’s hot-headed son Vincent (Jean-Baptiste Durand) resents how quickly Jérémie insinuates himself back into the village, and especially his apparent closeness with Martine. Jérémie and Vincent have an uneasy familiarity. And as Jérémie overstays his welcome, the menacing play-fighting between the two spills into a vicious confrontation in the woods. Jérémie, overtaken by a burst of passionate violence, murders Vincent and hides the body—but not without being seen by the village priest (Jacques Develay).

All this setup feels like the start of a light noir in the countryside, but Guiraudie delights in blowing up all expectations. What unfolds after the murder is an unnerving philosophical cover-up, where the lonely priest plays both confessor and emotional blackmailer to the unraveling Jérémie. In this stylized version of Saint-Martial, sexual identities run together as fluidly as Jérémie’s collapsing alibis, something the gendarmes have begun investigating with a persistence that is equal parts dogged and inept.

Guiraudie’s existential detours as Jérémie and his perhaps too-forgiving priest are serious, but Misericordia is also unexpectedly funny. From Jérémie’s fickle and deadpan sexual escapades across town to Develay’s arch attitudes toward crime and punishment, there’s more than a little twisted homage not only to the thriller side of Hitchcock but also to the ink-black sense of humor.

Jérémie’s desires, seemingly like those of everyone else in Saint-Martial, are unknowable to all but his conscience and God. It’s just the sort of moral predicament that calls for a good priest… if only Jérémie knew one in town he could trust.

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The Crew Is Good

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The Quiet Ones

by Matt Weiner

Chicago. Miami. Los Angeles… Copenhagen?

The city might not spring to mind as a cinematic crime capital. But The Quiet Ones from director Frederik Louis Hviid is here to rectify that with a taut retelling of the largest heist in Danish history.

In both direction and tone, with a suitably lean script by Anders Frithiof August, The Quiet Ones brings the spirit of Michael Mann to Scandinavia. Kasper (Gustav Giese) is a boxer who is too much of a loser to even be a contender. (He can’t even rise to “coulda been the guy the contenders knock out on the way to better matches.”)

He yearns to be something more, and Giese lends the stoic Kasper enough ambiguity that it’s never fully clear if he wants to succeed more for his family or himself. Although part of that also stems from the script having little time for motivation or character development that extends beyond criminal shorthand and quick tropes.

Kasper has ties to the criminal underworld through his brother-in-law, and gets tapped by a ruthless killer (Reda Kateb) to help plan the daring robbery of a cash-handling business that holds tens of millions of international currency in a nondescript warehouse.

There is little that exists in the world of The Quiet Ones outside of the planning and execution of the heist, but then that’s not the movie it wants to be. Instead, Hviid delivers a series of gripping, highly effective action sequences. Long takes and inspired framing never shy away from brutality, especially the heart-pounding opening that sets the tone for what to expect from the robbers.

The film excels at what it’s there to deliver, but has much less in the way of compelling connective tissue for anything else. And that’s even more so for the cops side of the cops and robbers equation.

Maria (Amanda Collin, the only person called on to flash even more pained silent grimaces than Kasper) is a security guard at the warehouse that gets robbed. As an aspiring police officer, her singular focus puts her on a collision course with the thieves. But there’s just not enough time with most characters, and the inevitable confrontation comes across as overdetermined rather than climactic.

There’s also the financial crisis of 2007-2008 that hovers over the heist through news reports and imbues the film with some occasional social commentary that the script itself doesn’t have time to get to. But this is ultimately a heist movie. The Quiet Ones and its crew are there to do one job, and they do it well.