Tag Archives: Olivia Newman

Outtakes

Octopus’s Garden

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Remarkably Bright Creatures

by Hope Madden

It’s never not a joy to see Sally Field’s irrepressible smile onscreen
(2023’s 80 for Brady notwithstanding). The two-time Oscar winner is effortlessly likeable (as she clarified in one of those two acceptance speeches), and the older she gets, the easier she is to root for.

This week, the 80-year-old delightfully curmudgeons her way through Netflix’s smalltown dramedy Remarkably Bright Creatures. Field is Tova, who lives alone in a big, gorgeous old home in the Pacific Northwest and works nights cleaning the town’s aquarium. She doesn’t exactly need the work. But she likes her work buddies.

These include Marcellus, an aging octopus voiced by Alfred Molina. This is where director Olivia Newman’s take on Shelby Van Pelt’s novel can’t help but be a little syrupy. Marcellus narrates much of the film, explaining what he—with his superior intellect—sees in the one human he doesn’t disdain, the cleaning lady.

And then, “the juvenile” (Lewis Pullman) starts cleaning, and Marcellus doesn’t care for that one.

Newman (Where the Crawdads Sing), who co-writes the adaptation with John Whittington (Swapped), isn’t out to change cinema. Just charm you. The beautiful coastal backdrop, gaggle of well-meaning if quaintly unrealistic townies, and admirable performances ensure she does just that.

The film folds in enough side and sub-plots to keep it from ever being entirely predictable, but Newman’s direction is assured enough that it’s not overstuffed, either. Most of the minor characters feel underdrawn, certainly, but it’s the main trio—Tova, the Juvenile, Marcellus—who interest you, anyway.

Remarkably Bright Creatures understands the peace of an aquarium. I’m not sure it convinces that life outside the aquarium is that hectic. But Sally Field reminds you that sometimes people choose loneliness, and sometimes that choice suits them until it doesn’t.

Remarkably Bright Creatures is no masterpiece, but it’s a really good-looking film brimming with heart and elevated by the time and care of one of the industry’s all-time greatest.

New In Theaters

Marsh Mellow Girl

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Where the Crawdads Sing

by George Wolf

“I had to do life alone. People don’t stay.”

Well-placed within a novel, those words could have major impact. But when you tell it to a movie audience, the power of your visual medium is wasted. You’re not showing us anything, you’re reading to us.

And like so many of these stories of a special girl who hides in plain sight, the big screen version of the Delia Owens bestseller Where the Crawdads Sing employs voiceover narration too early and too often. That’s disappointing, because the film does have its moments.

Most of those moments come from Daisy Edgar-Jones, who stars as Kya Clark, the “Marsh Girl” of Barkley Cove, NC who’s on trial in the late 1960s for the murder of local rich boy Chase Andrews (Harris Dickinson).

Kya won’t agree to a plea deal, and throughout her defense from kindly lawyer Tom Milton (the always reliable David Strathairn), director Olivia Newman weaves in flashbacks of a reclusive young girl who grows up alone in the marshes, somehow emerging closer to Miss Carolina than Nell.

Overthinking it? Maybe, but seeing Beast of the Southern Wild screenwriter Lucy Alibar’s writing credit brings more attention to how often this self-reliance tale leans into fantasy. She and Newman sanitize the southern swamp song for convenience, replacing realistic grit with a makeover-in-waiting.

But if you haven’t read the book, there is a surprise or two in store, and a nuanced turn from Edgar-Jones (Fresh, TV’s Normal People and War of the Worlds) that stands out in a parade of broadly-brushed role players.

The lessons about classism and misogyny may be admirable, but they’re as obvious and as soft-peddled as the quick glimpses of racism and the idyllic marsh environment that’s somehow free of thunderstorms or bug bites.

Where the Crawdads Sing does Southern Gothic like Justin Beiber doing Delta blues. You’ll recognize the words and music, but any true feeling is bogged down by all the polish.