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Summertime Blues

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In the Summers

by Rachel Willis

Divided into four parts, over four summers, writer/director Alessandra Lacorazza Samudio’s debut film, In the Summers, is a touching, sometimes painful, story of a father spending time with his two daughters – carving out a relationship in the few months he has with them each year.

Vicente (René Pérez Joglar) is excited to welcome his two young daughters to his home their first summer together. The girls are wary, but the youngest daughter, Eva, (played at this age by Luciana Quinonez) is more easily enchanted by her father than her older sister, Violeta (Dreya Castillo). An act of rebellion from Violeta reveals Vicente’s temper in a heated phone call with the girls’ mother.

Though Act 1 is short, it establishes the tumultuous relationship between the girls and their father. It’s clear Vicente loves his children, but he is unsure how to form a loving bond.

Joglar excels at bringing this tenuous relationship with his daughters to life. As the one constant across the three acts (as the girls are played by different actors each summer), he establishes himself as someone loving at times, but ferocious at others.

Each of the actors playing Eva and Violeta across the summers are excellent at articulating the relationship between father and daughters. It works that different actress play the girls/young women at different stages, not only due to the passing of time, but because each summer, they’re new people to their father. This wonderfully conveys the struggle of trying to build a foundation for a relationship with so much time apart.

The film excels in its ability to evoke deep, complicated emotions within families. Simple details, such as the state of the house, augment the story. Though we’re only given snippets of time with these characters, each moment adds depth to the overall picture.

The setting of Las Cruces, New Mexico adds atmosphere to the film. The beauty and desolation together mirror the family dynamic.

The movie has a few weaker scenes, but despite this, they still get across what they need to, exemplifying the changing dynamics between the characters. Just like any relationship, the film isn’t perfect, but it comes close in its portrayal of family trying its hardest to survive.

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Lock, Stockholm, and Two Empty Barrels

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Stockholm Bloodbath

by Daniel Baldwin

In 1520, Danish King Christian II (aka “Christian the Tyrant”) decided that he just had to have the crown of Sweden and would do anything necessary to snatch it for himself. Up to and including committing a barbaric mass execution that is commonly referred to as the titular “Stockholm Bloodbath”. If that sounds dark, brutal, and deathly serious, it’s because it very much was. Stockholm Bloodbath, however, is anything but serious.

Pitched more in line with bloody historical satires like Quentin Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds, Jalmari Helander’s Sisu, or even Guy Ritchie’s The Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare, Mikael Hafstrom’s Stockholm Bloodbath attempts to take this violent slice of Swedish history and fashion a wild, zany exploitation film around it. Unfortunately, unlike those cinematic gems, Hafstrom’s work here falls short on almost every level. It’s not that Hafstrom lacks the talent to do it. The man has previously given us perfectly entertaining films like 1408 and Escape Plan. But there’s just too much off about these proceedings for that to matter.

To its credit, the film does have a good cast filled with the likes of Sophie Cookson, Claes Bang, Emily Beecham, and Ulrich Thomsen, all of whom do their best with what they are given amidst the cacophony of odd filmmaking decisions. The script is a tonal rollercoaster in the worst of ways, pitching from serious to slap-happy from scene to scene. The pacing of the edit is no better, with some sequences dragging at a snail’s pace and others blazing by faster than needed. Such cinematic hyperactivity can be an asset if you have a pitch-perfect script and a crackerjack edit. The aforementioned Tarantino and Ritchie have fashioned entire careers out of this. This has neither a masterful screenplay nor expert editing and instead feels like The Swedish Chef himself might have been at the helm for some scenes.

One can see the movie that everyone involved wanted to make, but the end result just doesn’t pass muster. Perhaps it might play better in its home country, as despite being an English-language film, it is indeed a Swedish production. For this writer, however, what should be a biting piece of violence-filled historical satire just ends up being a bad history lesson told by a chaotic storyteller who doesn’t quite know who their intended audience is or how they even want to tell their tale.

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Have You Seen This Mollusk?

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Memoir of a Snail

by Hope Madden

Adam Elliot is an artist of singular vision. His stop-motion plasticine adventures discard whimsy in favor of almost Dickensian storylines told with eccentricity, dark humor, heartbreak and grit.

Memoir of a Snail trails Grace Pudel (voiced by Succession’s Sarah Snook). Grace is a twin, an orphan, an introvert, and a lover of snails. And as she ages, each one of these labels takes up a deeper, more complicated, more pathological space in her life. The one reliable bright spot is her best friend Pinky (Jacki Weaver), the town oddball (and that’s saying something).

The film begins near its end, as Grace shares her life story with Sylvia, her favorite snail. It’s not a particularly happy tale—in fact, it’s marked by genuine tragedy and haunted with loneliness—but there are moments of joy, and Snook delivers every clever, bittersweet line perfectly.

The voice cast shines, top to bottom. Kodi Smit-McPhee, Nick Cave and Eric Bana deliver the perfect vocal personalities to do justice to the endearingly odd inhabitants of Elliot’s charmingly homely little world.

Elliot’s writing is as impressive as his stop-action artistry. Memoir of a Snail delivers poignant insights and clever gags, astonishing depth of character and well-observed idiosyncrasies.

There’s a real sweetness to the film, and the grimmest possible story turns are delivered with a unique blend of tenderness and bleak humor that’s tough to describe. It’s a tone Elliot’s mastered as evidenced by his Oscar winning 2004 short Harvie Krumpet and brilliant 2009 feature Mary and Max.

Elliot treasures time spent with characters ignored and disregarded in their own worlds. His narratives don’t condescend or judge, and the characters are so wonderfully warts-and-all compelling that you hate to see your time with them come to an end.

Adam Elliot’s world is a darker, drearier spot than the neighborhoods populated by Aardman’s characters. (Sidenote: There’s a new Wallace & Gromit movie this year! Woo hoo!!!) His films are not as silly, their homes not as brightly lit, their cheese selections more limited. But the world Elliot creates—this ranch home on a small street in Canberra, Australia, crammed to bursting with ceramic snails, randy novels, Guinea pigs, and longing—is the flip side of the same plasticine coin. It’s ingenious, moving, hilarious and required viewing.

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For the Women’s House

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Paint Me a Road Out of Here

by Hope Madden

In the spring of this year, the world lost a fearless, vivid and deeply American voice when Faith Ringgold died at 93.

The artist, author and activist who made sure New York understood that art was political shared her talent in 1971 to inspire the women incarcerated on Rikers Island.  Her painting “For the Women’s House” depicted, in glorious color and bold images, what their future could be, answering the request from one inmate to “paint me a road out of here.”

Director Catherine Gund catches up with that painting 50 years later, creating a parallel between “For the Women’s House” and those incarcerated women with her documentary Paint Me a Road Out of Here.

Ringgold wanted the women incarcerated on Rikers to be able to see a future for themselves without Rikers, without prison, without cages. Gund wants viewers to see a future without mass incarceration.

Gund fills out the narrative with the perspective of a newer voice in the activism and art worlds, Mary Enoch Elizabeth Baxter. In many ways, Baxter carries the torch Ringgold lit. But Baxter lived a life much closer to those of the women in Rikers, and the clarity of that insider’s view defines her art and powerfully influences Gund’s film.

The spine of the movie is the painting’s journey from Rikers to freedom. Like those imprisoned on the island off NY, “For the Women’s House” was subject to inexplicable, bureaucratic, sanctioned carelessness and cruelty that seemed meant specifically to damage it, hide it. The masterpiece worth millions was at one point painted white.

Gund surrounds the fight to free the painting and bring it home to the Brooklyn Museum with archival footage of Ringgold over the years, uncovering her struggle to find recognition. We also witness Baxter’s similar challenges, from helping incarcerated women to create their own inspirational murals to finding her own success in the contemporary art world.

The full picture is one of hope in art, of power in challenging institutions, and of women demanding freedom.

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Anywhere But

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Here

by Hope Madden

At what point did Robert Zemeckis stop making movies and start executing gimmicks? I suppose all of his films have begun with a gimmick—as so many movies must. What if a kid goes back in time and accidentally keeps his parents from meeting? But at some point, the gimmick—often mistaken for artistic experimentation—overtook the story. Was it Polar Express? Was that the tipping point?

Here sees Zemeckis pointing his unmoving camera toward one single spot for one hour and 44 minutes.

That sounds like a stage play, doesn’t it? It’s actually Zemeckis and Eric Roth’s adaptation of Richard McGuire’s graphic novel. Zemeckis breathes some cinema into the static experience with artful cutaways to overlap time with place and spin the story of thousands of years of history taking place in this one single spot.

The bulk of that time is spent in a living room, camera pointed toward the picture window out of which we see the house that once belonged to Benjamin Franklin’s illegitimate son, of all things.

Though we travel back and forth through time, we sit mainly with one family. Al (Paul Bettany) and Rose (Kelly Reilly) buy the place with what Al received from the GI Bill after his stint in WWII. One moment they’re perching their baby Ricky for a Christmas photo, the next it’s Ricky and his baby sister by the tree, then a baby brother, and so time flies until finally Ricky brings home his high school sweetheart, Margaret.

High school Ricky and Margaret are played by Tom Hanks and Robin Wright (for all those who pined for a Forrest/Jenny reunion). They do not look like high school kids, and their voices are even less convincing.

As Zemeckis takes us forward and back through time, the fact that both leads always look like middle aged people does cause some confusion. But the two veteran actors are reliably great, as is Reilly and sometimes Bettany.

The rest of the ensemble doesn’t fare as well, often because the dialogue is so forced and stilted. Most scenes do little more than ensure that we recognize the important historical moments we’re witnessing: Covid lockdown, the Revolutionary War, the Beatles on Ed Sullivan, the comet that killed the dinosaurs (I swear to God). It’s like Zemeckis took the worst part of Forrest Gump and shoehorned it into this movie.

Like nearly everything the filmmaker has made in the last two decades (at least), Here feels hollow and slight, an experiment in technological execution rather than artistic experimentation.

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Forget & Forgive

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Absolution

by Daniel Baldwin

Sixteen years ago, a then-52-year-old Liam Neeson starred in the action-thriller Taken and his career completely changed. While he’s still made a few notable dramas since, the bulk of his work post-2008 has been in the action realm. This resulted in plenty of gems, particularly in his work with filmmakers Jaume Collet-Serra and Joe Carnahan. But it has also resulted in many duds over the last five years. The once-dependable aging action king began pumping out dreck like Honest Thief, Blacklight, and The Ice Road.

Lucky for us, Absolution is a big step back in the right direction. This film sees Neeson reteaming with his Cold Pursuit director Hans Petter Moland for a crime drama that leans very heavily on the drama side of the equation. This time ‘round, Neeson plays an aging gangster who is having a rough go of things. His memory isn’t what it used to be – sometimes to the point where he forgets where his house is – and that’s not a healthy problem to have when you work for a Boston mob boss (Ron Perlman), even if he is your longtime friend. This issue is further compounded by the fact that Neeson’s stuck babysitting Perlman’s son (Daniel Diemer), who is as entitled as he is inept.

With his mental faculties on the wane, our antihero decides its high-time to rekindle some sort of relationship with his daughter (Frankie Shaw) and grandson (Terrence Pulliam), while also striking up a romance with a local woman (Yolanda Ross). He’s a bad, broken man nearing the end of the road, trying to find a measure of goodness and forgiveness to cling to before he leaves this world behind. There’s a deep sorrow at the core of Neeson’s performance, showcased not only in his interactions with his limited number of loved ones, but also in a series of surrealist dreams about his own father (Josh Drennen).

This isn’t new territory. Toss a rock at the filmographies of earlier aging action heroes like Charles Bronson and Clint Eastwood and you will find at least a few similar films. It isn’t even new ground for Neeson, whose 2022 film Memory saw the actor as an assassin dealing with memory issues.

What sets Absolution apart is Hans Petter Moland. Moreso than Cold Pursuit or even Out Stealing Horses, Moland charges at it all head on with his penchant for lush, pensive visuals and aforementioned surrealism, turning an airport novel tale into something a bit more. This results in Neeson’s best genre flick since The Marksman and his best performance since Scorsese’s Silence.

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Brighton Beach Memoir

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Anora

by Matt Weiner

Sean Baker doesn’t shy away from seamy subcultures, and the worthiness of people trying to get by outside of conformity. Yet it hasn’t been until his Palme d’Or winner Anora that he has found one group without any redeeming qualities. This shocking and depraved group of people is, in this case, the jet-setting global elite.

Anora “Ani” Mikheeva (Mikey Madison) is no stranger to high rollers at her luxe Manhattan strip club. But there’s wealthy, and then there’s wealthy. When a party of Russians ask for a dancer who speaks their language, Ani becomes an object of desire to Ivan “Vanya” Zakharov (Mark Eydelshteyn, pitch perfect as a manic boychild whose naivete can turn on a dime from charming to something nearing sociopathic disinterest).

Vanya has taken up residence in his Russian oligarch parents’ Brighton Beach mansion. He is in America to study, but spends his days playing video games and his nights partying into oblivion—anything to avoid being sent back to Russia to join the family business. His relationship with Ani quickly escalates, from sex work outside the club to becoming an exclusive escort to an impromptu Vegas marriage.

This being a Baker fairytale, Ani’s whirlwind rags-to-riches marriage is only the beginning of her Cinderella story. What follows is a comically grotesque odyssey through the Russian-dominant Brighton Beach, as Vanya eludes his new bride and a superb supporting cast of family fixers and toughs sent to get the marriage annulled before more shame is brought on the Zakharov family.

With the callow Vanya on the run, Baker instead focuses on the chaos and damage (both physical and emotional) left in his wake. And while this is a deserved star turn for Madison, who is electric and enthralling, she is just one of the victims of Vanya’s selfishness.

She joins—or rather is dragooned into—the evening’s hunt for Vanya by a trio of Russian and Armenian strongmen, led by the beleaguered Orthodox priest Toros (Karren Karagulian, a Baker mainstay in his best role yet).

For much of their night together, Baker pulls off a risky balance between outright comedy and what is, essentially, the kidnapping of a sex worker by three large, powerfully connected men. None of this would work without Baker’s characteristic empathy for everyone. And it certainly wouldn’t feel so easy-going were it not for the relationship between Ani and the silent strongman Igor, played by Yura Borisov with a standout turn that nearly rivals Madison’s.

Baker’s most memorable characters are often wrestling with the American dream, and Baker himself seems like a Rorschach test for your own baggage: both pointed critic and secret optimist. Even at his most hopeful, though, there’s always a catch. Save the very few who can buy their way to hedonic bliss, carving your own real-life fairytale ending won’t look like it does in a Disney movie.

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Soul Salvage

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Emilia Pérez

by George Wolf

I’ll tell ya what, this year in movies is heading toward the finish line with some mighty ambitious swings.

In just the last few weeks, Francis Ford Coppola’s Megalopolis and Todd Phillips’s Joker: Folie à Deux brought grand, messy visions to the big screen. Such commitment is easy to appreciate, which made the results even more frustrating.

Jacques Audiard’s Emilia Pérez offers similar vision and commitment, but has more success finding the humanity and resonance to make it memorable.

And plenty polarizing too, no doubt.

Audiard, the French filmmaker known for simmering, intense dramas such as A Prophet and Rust and Bone, delivers his first Spanish language project as a transgender musical crime thriller that beats the odds. This brash clash of styles could easily bury the chance for true joy or heartbreak, but these characters will not be denied.

The always welcome Zoe Saldana is instantly sympathetic as Rita, an overworked and underpaid attorney in Mexico City who get a surprising offer from a frightening new client. Feared cartel boss Manitas Del Monte (Karla Sofía Gascón) needs Rita’s help to retire from his business, fake his death, and start a new life as Emilia Perez – the woman he has always dreamed of becoming.

Del Monte’s wife Jessi (Selena Gomez, terrifically against type) and their two young children are more obstacles for Rita to navigate. Emilia still wants them in her life, but doesn’t want them told of her life change.

After a long career as Juan Carlos Gascón, this is Karla’s first film since transitioning, and she plays the dual roles with wonderful clarity. Del Monte is sinister and mysterious, while Emilia glows from the freedom to “love myself as I am.” With Rita’s continued assistance, Emilia dedicates her life to changing her soul, and helping to solve the thousands of missing persons casualties from her former line of work.

Audiard – who also co-wrote the script and several of the original soundtrack tunes – doesn’t seem much concerned with balancing the film’s many tones. Instead, he throws melodrama, romance, lust, humor, noir, and camp at us with unapologetic zest and life-affirming music. These musical set pieces are uniquely well-staged and evocative, adding to the intoxicating nature of the film’s pull.

Gascón, Saldana and Gomez craft a fascinating triangle – one thrown into chaos with the arrival of Jessi’s boyfriend Gustavo (Edgar Ramirez), and their plan to get what Jessi feels she’s long deserved.

If you’re thinking this all sounds like a super-sized telenovela, I get it. And honestly, there’s a decent chance Audiard’s new fondness for the overt won’t let you see Emilia Perez as anything else.

But there is more here. As Emilia herself says, “I lack singing.” Give the film room enough to blend its many voices, and you’ll find some surprisingly touching, blood-soaked harmony.

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Long Way Home

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Black Cab

by Hope Madden

It’s a classic ghost story, complete with a creepy old car, winding English road and a figure in white. But who could be afraid to get in this friendly cab with affable old Nick Frost behind the wheel?

Frost plays Ian, and his fare for the night is a bickering couple: Anne (Synnøve Karlsen) and Patrick (Luke Norris). Ann doesn’t really want Patrick in the cab at all. Honestly, neither does Ian.

Writer Virginia Gilbert takes a very old timey tale—the most haunted road in England, a weeping mother who hitches a ride—and gives it some teeth. This old spook isn’t here just to relive the same ancient trauma across the centuries. She wants something. And Ian aims to give it to her.

Watching Frost (Shaun of the Dead) oscillate between jovial and deranged is a bit of fun. He complicates the character, layering desperation with menace, suggesting the film could take a psychological rather than supernatural road at any moment.

Norris manages to find some depth in the cad character, but even when he’s a one-note narcissistic gaslighter, he does it well. Karlsen struggles with a character lacking in dimension. There are flashes during heated moments with Norris, as one character clings more tightly and the other sees more clearly, but those instances are fleeting. She spends most of the film in a nameless state of unhappiness, an emotion that does not evolve as her circumstances change.

Director Bruce Goodison is at his finest when his three characters are confined to the cab, moving relentlessly away from the bright lights of the city, the squeak and slap of the windshield wipers their road tunes. But a needless side trip to an abandoned motel, coupled with unimpressive CGI creature effects, keep Black Cab from ever really grabbing hold.